by Susan Cooper
“Reaching to the sunrise,” Will said.
“That’s right!” Bran looked at him quickly, in a kind of grateful relief. “It does, it turns to the east, Will. It—pulls, like.” He pointed the sword high towards the glow in the cloud cover behind which the newly risen sun shone.
“The sword knows why it was made,” Will said. He looked deeply tired, Jane thought: drained, as though strength had run out of him—whereas Bran seemed full of new life, vibrant as a taut wire.
The world brightened and filled with sudden colour as the sun shone out for a moment through a gap in the cloud. The sword gleamed.
“Sheathe it, Bran!” Will said suddenly.
Bran nodded, as if the same quick wariness had struck his own mind, and they watched in astonishment as he seemed to mime the raising and thrusting of the sword into an imaginary scabbard on an imaginary sword belt at his side. But as he thrust the sword down, it disappeared.
Jane, staring with her mouth open, found Bran looking at her. “Ah, Jenny,” he said softly. “You can’t see it now?”
She shook her head.
“So no other … ordinary person will either, I suppose,” Simon said.
Barney said, “What about the Dark?”
Jane saw both Bran and Will glance up instinctively, warily, out at the sea. She turned, but saw only the golden bar and the white waves, and the blue sea creeping closer in over the long sands. She thought, what’s been happening to them?
As if in answer Will said, “There’s too much to tell. But it’s like a race, now.”
“To the east?” Bran said.
“To the east, where the sword leads us. A race against the rising.”
Simon said simply, “What d’you want us to do?”
Will’s straight brown hair was falling over his eyes; his round face was intent, concentrated, as if he were listening and speaking at the same time, repeating some inner voice. “Go back,” he said, “and you will find things … arranged so that other people will not get in the way. And you must do what is arranged.”
“By Great-Uncle Merry?” Barney said hopefully.
“Yes,” Will said.
The sunlight died again, the wind whispered. Far out at sea the clouds were thicker, darker now, massing.
“There’s a storm-front building,” Simon said.
“Not building,” Bran said. “Built, and on its way.”
“One thing,” Will said. “This now is the hardest time of all, because anything may happen. You have seen the Dark at work, you three. You know that although it may not destroy you, it can put you in the way of destroying yourself. So—your own judgment is all that can keep you on the track.” He was looking at all three of them anxiously.
Simon said, “We know.”
The wind was growing stronger; it began to tug at them again, lashing their legs and faces with sand. The clouds were solid over the place where the sun had disappeared, the light as cold and grey now as when Jane had first come down to the beach.
Sand whirled up in strange clouds from the dunes, flurrying, swirling, and suddenly there was a sound out of the gold-brown mist, a muffled thudding like the sound of a heart beating, but diffused all round them so they could not tell where it began. Jane saw Will’s head go up stiff and alert, and Bran too turn in search like a questing dog; suddenly the two of them were standing back to back, covering each direction, watchful and protective. The thudding grew louder, closer, and Bran suddenly swept his arm up holding the sword Eirias, bright with a light of its own. But in the same moment the muffled sound was a thunder all around them, close, close, and out of the whirling sand came a white-robed figure galloping on a tall white horse. The White Rider sent his horse on one thundering pass beside them, the white hood hiding his face, white robe swirling, and at the last instant as they flinched away he leaned swiftly sideways from the saddle, sent Simon sprawling on the sand with one swinging blow, snatched Barney up into his grip, and disappeared.
The wind blew, the sand scurried and leapt, and there was no longer anyone there.
“Barney!” Jane’s voice cracked. “Barney! Will—where is he?”
Will’s face was twisted with concern and an intent listening; he looked at her once, blindly, as if not sure who she was. Waving back over the dunes he said hoarsely, “Go back—we will find him.” Then he was standing with Bran, each of them with one hand on the hilt of the crystal sword, Bran glancing sideways at him as if waiting for instruction; and Will said, “Turn,” and without letting go of the sword they disappeared in the blink of an eye as if they had never been there. All that Jane and Simon had was the dark ghost that is left inside the eye by a vanished bright light, for in the last moment they had seen blue-white flame blaze up and down the length of the sword.
“They’ll bring him back,” Simon said huskily.
“Oh Simon! What can we do?”
“Nothing. Hope. Do what Will told us. Aaah!” Simon ducked his head, blinking. “This damn sand!” And as if in retort the wind dropped suddenly down to nothing, and the whirling sand fell to the beach, to lie in utter stillness, with no sign at all of its manic blowing except the telltale little escarpment of sand sloping back from every exposed shell or pebble on the beach.
In silence they tramped back together toward the dunes.
Nothing took shape in Barney’s mind but the whirling sense of speed, and then a dim growing awareness of restraint, of his hands tied before him, and a bandage over his eyes. Then rough hands were moving him, prodding him forward to stumble over stony ground. Once he fell, and cried out as his knee hit a rock; voices spoke impatiently in a strange guttural tongue, but after that a guiding hand was slipped beneath his arm.
He heard military-sounding commands, and the walking grew smoother; doors opened and closed, and then he was stopped and the covering pulled from his eyes. And Barney, blinking, found himself being studied by a weather-beaten dark-bearded face with bright dark eyes: wise eyes, deepset, that reminded him of Merriman. The man was leaning against a heavy wooden table; he wore trousers and jerkin of leather over a thick woollen shirt. Still gazing at Barney, eyes flicking from his face to his clothes and back again, he said something curtly in the guttural speech.
“I don’t understand,” Barney said.
The man’s face hardened a little. “English indeed,” he said. “The voice to match the hair. Have they reached such a pass that they must use children now as spies?”
Barney said nothing, since he felt he was spying indeed, peeping out of the corners of his eyes to discover where he might be. It was a low, dark room with wooden walls and floor and beamed roof; through a window he glimpsed outer walls of grey stone. Men who seemed to be soldiers stood grouped around; they wore only a kind of leathern armour over rough clothes, but each had a knife at his belt, and some carried bows as tall as themselves. They were looking at him with hostility, some with open hatred. Barney shivered suddenly, in fear, at the sight of one man’s hand playing restlessly with his knife. He looked up desperately at the dark-eyed man.
“I’m not a spy, truly. I don’t even know where I am. I was kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” The man frowned, uncomprehending.
“Stolen. Carried off.”
The dark eyes grew colder. “Stolen, to be brought to my stronghold, in the one part of Wales where no Englishman even of my allies dares set foot? The Marcher Lords are foolish, and do many stupid things in their rivalries, but none is quite as stupid as that. Try again, boy, if you wish to save your life. I can see no reason yet why I should not listen to my men, who are anxious to hang you by the neck in the next five minutes, outside that door.”
Barney’s throat was dry; he could scarcely swallow. He said again, whispering, “I am not a spy.”
From the shadows behind the leader the man with the knife said something roughly, contemptuously, but another laid a hand on his arm and stepped forward, speaking a few soft words: an old man, with a heavily wrinkled brown face and w
isping white hair and beard. He was looking closely at Barney.
Suddenly another soldier came hurrying into the room and spoke rapidly in the guttural tongue; the bearded leader let out an angry exclamation. He said a few brief words to the old man, nodding in Barney’s direction, then swung preoccupied out of the room with men close around him. Only two soldiers remained, guarding the door.
“And where were you stolen from, boy?” The old man’s voice was soft and lisping, with a heavy accent.
Barney said miserably, “From—from a long way away.”
Bright eyes watched him sceptically through the wrinkles. “I am Iolo Goch, bard to the Prince, and I know him well, boy. He has had bad news, and it will not help his mood. When he comes back I advise you to tell him the truth.”
“The Prince?” Barney said.
The old man looked at him coldly, as if Barney were questioning the title. “Owain Glyndwr,” he said with chilly pride. “Prince, indeed. Owain ap Gruffydd, Lord of Glyndyvrdwy and Sycharth, Yscoed and Gwynyoneth, and now in this great rebellion proclaimed Prince of Wales. And all Wales is with him against the English, and Henry Plantagenet cannot catch him, nor hold even his English castles here or the towns they are pleased to call English burghs. All Wales is rising.” A lilt came into his voice, as if he were singing. “And the farmers have sold their cattle to buy arms, and the mothers have sent their sons to the mountains, to join Owain. The Welshmen who work in England have come home, bringing English weapons with them, and the Welsh scholars at Oxford and Cambridge have left their books, to join Owain. And we are winning. Wales has a leader again. And Englishmen will no longer own Welsh lands and despise and rule us from Westminster, for Owain ap Gruffydd will lead us to set ourselves free!”
Barney listened helplessly to the passion in the frail voice, his uneasiness growing. He felt very lonely and small.
The door crashed open, and Glyndwr was there again among his men, scowling, silent. He glanced from Barney to Iolo Goch; the old man shrugged.
“Listen to me now, boy,” said Glyndwr, his dark-bearded face grim. “There is a comet in the sky these nights, to show my coming triumph, and on that sign I shall ride. Nothing shall stop me. Nothing—least of all the thought of tearing apart a spy from King Henry who refuses to tell his sending.” His voice rose a little, quivering with control. “I have just heard that a new English army is camped the other side of Welshpool. You have one minute remaining to tell me who sent you into Wales, and whether that army knows I am here.”
Only one thought sang through the fear loud in Barney’s head now: He may belong to the Dark, don’t talk, don’t tell him who you are….
He said, choking, “No.”
The man shrugged. “Very well. I have sent to speak once more with the one who brought you to me. The light-voiced one from Tywyn, with the white horse. And after that—”
He broke off, staring at the door, and as Barney turned his head the whirling seemed to be back, the speed and the turning, turning….
… and turning, turning, Will and Bran, each holding the gleaming crystal sword, found themselves suddenly still now. A heavy wooden door before them burst open, and inside in a low-roofed dark room they saw a group of armed men. One stood separate, a dark bearded man with an air of authority, and before him was Barney standing very small and tight-faced. Several of the men lunged forward in shouting confusion, and the bearded one snapped one sharp word and they fell back instantly like startled dogs, swift but reluctant, looking at their leader with an astonishment that was almost suspicion.
Will’s senses as an Old One were vibrating like a harpstring. He stared at the man with the beard, and the man stared back for a moment and then gradually the grim lines of his face were relaxing, changing, becoming a smile. An unspoken greeting in the Old Speech came into Will’s mind, and aloud the man said, in halting English, “You are come to a wild time, Sign-seeker. But welcome, if my men do not take you for another English informer such as we have here.”
“Will,” Barney said huskily, “he keeps telling me I’m a spy and they want to kill me. Do you know him?”
Will said slowly, “Greetings, Owain Glyndwr.”
“The greatest Welshman of all.” Bran was gazing in awe at the bearded man. “The only one ever to unite Wales against the English, through all the quarrelling and feuding.”
Glyndwr was looking at him with narrowed eyes. “But you … you….” He glanced uncertainly at Will’s blank expressionless face, and shook his head crossly. “Ah no, nonsense. No place for dreams in my head, with the last and hardest battle waiting us. And the bloody English coming up like ants in spring.” He turned to Will, waving a hand at Barney. “Is the boy with you, Old One?”
“Yes,” Will said.
“That explains much,” Glyndwr said. “But not his stupidity in failing to tell me so.”
Barney said defensively, “How was I to know you weren’t part of the Dark?”
The Welshman put back his head with a curt incredulous laugh, but then straightened, looking with something like respect. “Well. True. Not badly done. Sais bach. Take him now, Sign-seeker.” He reached out once strong arm and propelled Barney backwards as if he had been a toy. “And go about your purposes in my land in peace, and I will give you any support you need.”
“There will be great need,” Will said grimly, “if it is not already too late.” He pointed to the sword that Bran was already holding out before him, in wonder and alarm; the blade was flickering again with blue light, as it had done at the destruction of the Lost Land, as it had done at the rushing descent of the Dark that had carried Barney away.
Glyndwr said abruptly, “The Dark. But this is my stronghold—there can be none of the Dark here.”
“There are many,” said a soft voice at the door. “And by right, since you let the first of them in.”
“Diawl!” Glyndwr sprang upright, instinct pulling a dagger from his belt; for in the doorway, between two armed men frozen helplessly out of movement, stood the White Rider, a robed figure with eyes and teeth gleaming out of the shadows of the white hood.
“You sent for me, Owain of Gwynedd,” the Rider said.
“Sent for you?”
“The light-voiced one from Tywyn, with the white horse,” said the White Rider mockingly. “Whom your men welcomed so warmly for the gift of a spying English boy.” The voice hardened. “And who claims in return now another boy, of more significance, and with him the sword he carries.”
“You have no claim over me,” Bran said with contempt. “The sword brings me into my power and out of your reach, in this time or any other.”
Owain Glyndwr looked at Bran, at Will, and back at Bran: at the white hair and the pale face with its tawny eyes, and the sword-blade flickering with blue flame.
“The sword is two-edged,” the White Rider said.
Bran said, “The sword belongs to the Light.”
“The sword belongs to no one. It is in the possession of the Light only. Its power is the power of the Old Magic that made it.”
“Made it at the command of the Light,” Will said.
“And yet also the tomb of every hope,” said the Rider softly, masked still by the white hood. “Do you not remember, Old One? It was written. And there was no word as to whose hopes should be entombed.”
“But they shall be your own!” Owain Glyndwr said suddenly, and he snapped some words in Welsh to his men and sprang towards the back wall of the room, reaching for something. Soldiers flung themselves at the white-robed form of the Rider. None managed to touch him; they fell sideways, backwards, colliding with some hard invisible wall, and the Rider lunged forward at Bran. But Bran swept the sword Eirias to and fro before him as if writing in the air, and the sword left a sheet of blue flame hanging and the Rider fell back with a shriek. Even as he moved he seemed to change, to multiply as if suddenly there were a crowd with him; but Owain was calling, urgently and Will dared not wait to see, but followed the rest through a doorw
ay they had not seen before.
Then leather-clad Welsh soldiers were pushing them on to the backs of a string of sturdy grey mountain ponies, and past slate cliffs and stone walls and through green lanes they trotted swiftly and silently where Owain led. The roar and confusion of the Dark rose behind them, and with it the clash of swords and the song of arrows from long bows, and voices shouting in English as well as Welsh. Will said nothing, but he knew that another battle as well as their own was beginning there, the reason for the Dark’s choice of this time for their new hostaging, and that Owain was not in the place where he must have ached to be.
Only when they reached a mountain path where the land rose very steeply, and Owain motioned them to dismount and to follow him on foot, did Will look openly back—and saw smoke rising from the grey roofs they had left, and flame leaping.
Owain said, bitterly, “The Norman rides always on the back of the Dark, as the Saxon did, and the Dane.”
Barney said unhappily, “And I’m all those things mixed up, I suppose. Norman and Anglo-Saxon and Dane.”
“In what century?” Glyndwr said, pausing to stare ahead up the mountain.
“The twentieth,” Barney said.
The Welshman stopped very still for a moment. He looked at Will. Will nodded.
“Iesu mawr,” Glyndwr said; then he smiled. “If the Circle spreads that far forward, it is not so bad to find failure here, for a time. Until the last summoning of the Circle, outside all Time.” He looked down at Barney. “No worry about your race, boy. Time changes the nature of them all, in the end.”
Bran said from above them, urgently, “The Dark is coming!” In his hand Eirias was burning a brighter blue.
Owain looked down the mountain the way they had come, and his mouth tightened. Will turned too, and gasped; a sheet of white flame was moving steadily towards them up through the bracken, without sound or heat, remorseless in its pursuit of those it sought to destroy. A troop of Glyndwr’s soldiers stood directly in its path.