He shook his head. "Nay, that is not it; I was thinking that she has been now fourteen years on that isle with one of the mighty among the Sidhe. If this is the measure of her now—to craft a talisman to thwart the magic of the Marbh-draoi himself—what must she be like when she comes into the fullness of her power?"
"Well, whatever she may be like, she will still be our Guenna." But I was caught by the thought as he had been: Fourteen years learning the teachings of the Sidhe! What Morgan must know by now, what she must be by now capable of doing… And yet it was the 'fourteen years' part of it that held me most in wonder: It seemed hardly possible that it had been so long; and yet, as I ran back over those thousands of days—these the years of wandering, these the years at the first Llwynarth, these the months of our abiding here—I knew that it was so, and sighed for time passing. Morgan was now a young woman of twenty-four springs, I might not even recognize her when next I did see her—whenever that might be; Arthur and I had ourselves passed our fortieth year this last Wolf-moon and Badger-moon.
And yet to Morgan's companion in Collimare those fourteen years would be no more than a week's-end at the most, for who knew to what strange slow clock or calendar the mortal forms of the Sidhe did make temporal answer? For a moment I let my mind run: The Hail, that tall fierce feathered eagle-race who dwell on Galathay, live to see their own millennium and more, and they are the longest-lived folk that so far is known. But in Keltia it has ever been believed, though of course none can say for certain—or at least none has ever said, which is not quite the same thing—that the lifespans of the Shining Folk may surpass those of the Hail ten times over, maybe longer still; indeed there are those who hold that the Sidhe do never die.
And, thinking on all this timelessness, I knew suddenly that time had come for me to move on…
"I shall not be here past the summer Sunstanding," I said abruptly, and Arthur's glance shot at once to meet mine.
But he seemed to have known already, and to understand my reasons, for instead of the protest I had expected to hear, all he said was, "And after all that great lamenting and cajolery you sent up to come here with me?"
"Say rather, after the seven years I have spent with you and the rest! But you know as well as I that I must be gone, I can tell it. Time it is I took up my petty place, and if they were here to say so, Elphin and Merlynn and Uthyr and Ygrawn would all agree. Any road, have we not ever planned it so? You yourself, if I recall correctly, once did say that I can serve you best from a place in some well-connected household."
"I did," said Arthur ruefully. "Though now I repent me of it, since it means I shall not have you by me when I need your company the sorest…"
"Well, we cannot have it all ways. I cannot take a petty place to spy for you and yet remain in Llwynarth. Perhaps I should try to enter Owein's service," I added, only half in jest. "There is naught like robbing an orchard when you have need of apples—
"Do not even think it! Well, though I am loath to lose you, braud, you are in the right as to the rest of it; and to have you in your petty place will be of more help to me than five Fian battalions. But, gods, Talynno, how I shall miss you."
I felt tears sting my eyes, and looked hastily away. Yet though I knew already how very much I myself should miss him, I knew too that my feeling was by no means the same as his: For the loneliness that was to wrap Arthur round for the rest of his life, even in the midst of Companions and campaigns and the crown that would come, had settled down already upon him. Partly it was that terrible solitude that distances princes from the day of their birth; yet Arthur had not been born a prince, but only come to it later and unlooked-for, and still this remove had been part of him for as long as I had known him, and most like even before.
It was never coldness nor aloofness, never once that: He had a warm feeling for folk, whether in the general or each by each, and this reserve of his did not seem to hinder him reaching past it to touch folk's minds and souls and hearts. Never was that gift to fail him: He was ever able to touch others, but only rarely was he able to let them touch him, much though he did wish it. Instead, that remove kept him from entering fully into such small everyday joys as most folk take for given; perhaps this was what he had sought to escape by wedding Gwenwynbar—perhaps he may even have found it, a little, for a time… But, though it is a hard saying, and a harder knowing for us who loved him, and for him hardest of all in the doing and enduring, Arthur was not made for private happinesses; and though he knew it as well as any, every now and again the very human longing to be as others were, and have what others had, would break through both resolve and reserve; as it did now.
"Oh, you shall soon be far too busy even to think of me save as another intelligencer." I had shaded my voice to unconcern with all the skill of my craft, but I was as moved as he at the thought of our parting yet again. For most of our lives we had been closer to each other as fosterns than either had been to his own blood relations, how should we not sorrow now to be once more apart? But I sought to do as he had already succeeded in doing, and moved past it.
"I shall go to Bargodion first, I think," I said then, "for a month or two of retreat—and to get in some practice time, the which I have been sadly neglectful of here amongst the heroes! Merlynn will be there, I have heard, and I have not seen our old badger for too long a time."
"You will find him the same as ever," said Arthur with a laugh. "Sometimes I wonder if he has not after all learned from his lady the unchangeful long-living of the Sidhe."
But for all my sudden decision, it was near another sixmonth before I managed to extricate myself from Llwynarth and set out as I had planned. No sooner had I fixed on a day for departing when some difficulty arose with the Hanes that only I could deal with, or then it was one of the Companions needing my help as master mapper to plot a new raiding route, or if not that there was ever and again some task that needed taking from Arthur's shoulders; and none of these chores could be refused, even had I wished to, and I did not.
If naught else, though, at the least the delay meant that I should leave Llwynarth's master with an easier heart than might have otherwise been the case: He had been sunk in gloom for some weeks following our venture to Caer Dathyl, and not unnaturally, for it was all to do with Gwenwynbar. He never said so to me, and so I presumed never to anyone else either, but I knew well enough how he had felt to see her there with Owein, and with child. And when word came about two months later that she had borne a son—a strapping lad by all accounts, tall and well-made, with chestnut-red hair—Arthur's silence was more thunderously eloquent than ever.
We had of course discussed the matter amongst ourselves, most privily—we the Companions—and most of us held with Kei's philosophical judgment: "If it is Owein's," he had said, "no great matter. If it is Arthur's, we will all know soon enough." I had my own ideas on the subject, but took care to remind myself that Gwenwynbar had red hair, and Owein's was not far off that same hue, and both of them were tall above the average; and therefore naught was to be proved by that road.
Arthur himself recovered from his dubhachas—the word is untranslatable, it means a savage evil humor of blackest despair, impossible to counter and almost as hard to conquer—defeating it by some strength he found within himself; though it would not have surprised me greatly to learn that Morgan's crystal, that had confounded Edeyrn, had made shift here to comfort Arthur, or at least to clear his mind and mood of the dark and dazeful mists.
However he had done it, long before I left Llwynarth he was back again his old self, and saw me off with unfeigned good cheer and unconcealed envy and many messages for Merlynn and our other Druid preceptors; and for my part, though still reluctant to leave him, I was also glad that I could do so with so relieved a conscience.
My intent in going to Bargodion was not only as I had told Arthur and the others—to rest, to contemplate, to retune my fingers to the harp, to see Merlynn—but to meet another need I had had for some time now. I had never forgotten tha
t Birogue of the Sidhe had spoken my mother's name as a friend, and though she had refused at that time to enlighten me, perhaps at Bargodion I might find answers from another source. But when I spoke of it to Merlynn, for once the sorcerer seemed loath to answer.
"I understand your need, Talyn," he said at last. "To know of Birogue, and how she came to be your mother's friend and how Medeni died. But if Birogue did not tell you, then I may not. At least, not yet; it may be the right time has not yet come for that telling. But you will know, one day, that I promise. Your mother would not have wished you to remain in ignorance of the truth—and I promise too that there is nothing about it that would be better left unknown—and your mother's friend will honor that wish. The Sidhe do keep their promises—though sometimes it may take longer for them to do so than other folk are willing to wait, still they have excellent reasons for delaying, and we can be sure of that, at least."
But I was sure of nothing just then, and of that least of all. It seemed the height of vain hoping, that I should have thought Merlynn would tell me what even my sister Tegau could not tell me, nor any other of my sibs. But then I recalled that never in my life had Merlynn spoken aught but the truth to me—whether he spoke as Merlynn or as Ailithir—never but the truth, be it howsoever hard to bear, and I was a little comforted.
Though I failed in my endeavor to learn what I would know, much else at Bargodion was more to my liking that time. The actual school had moved elsewhere long since—like Tinnavardan, moving for safety's sake—but the old location was still maintained as a kind of supercollege for the Pheryllt, those Druids above Druids. Renamed Dinas Affaraon—a name it still bears, and perhaps ever will—it housed fewer than fifty just then, which suited me very well indeed.
There was time for the harp there, time for refinements of the Hanes, time to debate magical theory with the lords of magic and time merely to sit and stare, and sometimes it was that which was most productive of all.
But however much I had been enjoying my stay, and however much more I had needed the respite—between Gwenwynbar, Gweniver, Arthur and the omnipresent though ever-absent Owein, I had felt pulled to pieces of late, like a strawcross when the harvest festival is past—I knew better than any other that I had been long enough in preparation and in indiligence both together; and that it was time indeed to move on, to that place which Arthur and I had so long since foreseen for me.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-six
So I set out from Bargodion much as I had left there for the first time, so many years ago now; but this time I went alone.
Travelling slowly and in easy stages, I went down along the edges of the black glass plains that lie to the south of Bargodion's knifeback ridge, and came after some days to the border of the ancient volcanic desolation. Even now, centuries after those times of fire, if you stand there you will see for yourself that strange boundary, where the devastation of the exploding chain of craters finally ceased and the living lands survived. Though not unscathed, to be sure: There are rifts still in these marcher-lands so deep and narrow that snow falling to the bottom in winter oft will remain unmelted until the height of summer following, so deep are the rifts cut by the great earth faults and so high uplifted are the lands.
It was a country of great harshness and greater beauty: I would look up as I slogged southward to see towering, sharp-edged cliffs, carved out long ago by vanished glaciers grinding by, hanging above me like knives in the clouds. I was leaving the burnt lands behind, with their sleeping fires and mutterings below, moving now into a country of honey-colored sandstone hills and wide-mouthed valleys.
Summer was over—I had tarried longer than I intended at Bargodion, and once again I was on the road in autumn—and I could watch the white cranes heading south with me, long curving strings across the sky, their flight mirrored in the shallow salt lakes that lie all through that region; but as I passed nearer I saw that the rippling lines upon the water were no reflections but strands of salt froth, blown into arcs by the freshening wind.
I was headed into the heartland of the enemy: Against all counsels of those whose counsels ordinarily mattered most to me, I was going down to Caer Dathyl itself, where Owein Rheged held sway for the Marbh-draoi over all the world of Gwynedd, and where once before I had rashly ventured. I did not know why or indeed by what—or by whom—my steps were so directed; but every sense I possessed, as Druid or bard or believer in dan, had united to lead me this way, and far from me to think to turn to another road. I had gone once to Caer Dathyl, and come safe away again, and those senses urging me there now told me in no faint voice that I should do no less this time.
So it was that on a snowy afternoon between Samhain and the feast of Midwinter I came to the maenor of Pyrs Vechan, lord of the district of Ruabon in the Deer Hills, and one of Owein's chiefest lackeys. Perhaps the half-forgotten memory of that ferret-faced equerry we had had for tablemate, that never-to-be-forgotten night at Caer Dathyl, had prompted me to turn my steps toward Ruabon, or perhaps there was some other reason; but there it was I went, and there sought shelter.
I could not fault my welcome: They must have hungered greatly for bards in this backhill district, if even such a patchcloak wanderer as myself was greeted with courtesies more suited to a visiting prince. In one respect only was my treatment somewhat lacking: I was given to sit at the top of the cross-table below the high dais where the ranking lords and ladies would sup. This was not in accord with strictly correct practice, which should have given me place at the high board itself, and indeed may well have been honest ignorance; but I was in truth better pleased that I should be seated so, for my placing allowed me a clear view of the hall and those who sat within, both above and below the horn. Our former fellow-diner, the kern-equerry, was nowhere to be seen, and I allowed myself to relax a little; not that I had been qualmful to begin with, and that too was strange.
I was hungry, and it was some little time before I managed to lift my face from plate and mether and look round at the company. First of all my gaze went to the dais, where sat the lord of Ruabon among his honored guests.
Pyrs Vechan was a minor chieftain, of the same rank as my father, and Gorlas, and many others; influential for no great merit of his own, but for that he ruled a strategic duchas—Ruabon, remote as it was, protected the passes through the Deer Hills, guarding Caer Dathyl to the north. And there lay the difference: Unlike my father and Gorlas and those others, Pyrs had taken Owein's coin, he was a bought dog of Edeyrn; the like of which many had perished rather than themselves become.
The guest-seat beside the pig-faced Pyrs was empty, and I assumed that there was no visitor of rank this most inclement evening. I never learn: No sooner had I assumed so, and begun to relax in earnest, and devote myself to my mether, than the doors of the hall swung open and a party of latecomers strode arrogantly in. They separated as they did so, a few going to the high table where Pyrs was gabbling and gesturing in abject hospitality, the rest to the lower benches with us commoners.
And I hid my choke of surprised dismay behind the wide wooden shield of my mether, for the late-come guest in the snow-damp cloak, now taking the seat of honor as if by right born, was none other than Owein Rheged himself.
It was plainly a surprise flying visit, for all round me I heard only muttered astonishment mingled with consternation and indeed speculative comment, that the lord of the planet should turn up for the nightmeal unheralded and unannounced in the hall of a minor vassal; and I confess the thought went through me like an arrow that somehow Owein knew I was here, knew who I was and had come a-purpose to trap me.
Quick as that thought died, though, killed by cold reason, another had formed, born of the calm inevitability of dan itself, and I suddenly knew what I was going to do, what I had been led here to accomplish. Arthur would either kiss me or kill me when he learned of it, but I was going to do it all the same.
So I waited in patience until the meal was done with—Owein's late arrival scarce delaying
it, for he ate almost as an afterthought, swiftly and sparingly, with a minimum of talk to his tablemates or indeed to his host—and then, in that relaxed, easy pause that comes when the meal is ended and the board cleared, when folk sit back to finish methers at leisure and talk in comfort, I rose in my place and caught Pyrs's eye. Standing forth before the high table, I touched my harp-satchel, in the ancient gesture of a travelling bard craving leave of the lord of the hall to chaunt. Before Pyrs could order it, the entire room had quieted in delight; and I thought as I had thought before how hungry the folk here seemed for what a bard could bring them.
Owein, who had been talking quietly to Pyrs and a soldierly-looking sort who I guessed must be his lieutenant, now glanced down to where I stood. For the first time since that night in Caer Dathyl I felt his eyes on me, and under that curiously light-filled glance my skin began to chill, though it did not seem that he recognized or remembered me.
He was perhaps seventy years old at that time, still a young man as my people reckon such things—when one's lifespan can reach the double-century, one's youth lasts rather longer as well. A handsome man too, in appearance more Scotan than Kymro, with reddish hair and blue eyes, and a terrifying air of latent power that hung round him like a cloak or a cloud. With eyes that Merlynn had trained, though, I perceived at once that the power was by no means his own, but only borrowed as the cloak may be borrowed—lent him by Edeyrn, and, presumably, subject to its proper owner once again reclaiming it.
Well, I thought, this time Edeyrn is not here, and I am, and so we shall see what we may see … I bowed deeply in answer to his nod of acknowledgment and permission, unslinging my harp from my shoulder and taking it from the worn leather satchel. All round me the hall settled down into anticipatory silence, eager and ready to hear. I fitted Frame of Harmony—its betraying name-runes and Glyndour armorials long since covered over—in my lap and gave them of my best.
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