‘My liege would have audience with you in the chief house, if you are able, Gwion son of Gwreang.’ Gilmore was more specific about who he was addressing.
Morda gave a grunt of resentment and folded his arms in quiet protest and offence.
‘Stay as you are,’ the Lady countered the soldier’s order. ‘A concussion is not to be taken lightly.’
‘Thanks to your wondrous attention, Lady Tegid, I have only a wee headache.’ Gwion struggled up to standing – he’d never met royalty before. For the last eight years many had wondered if there were any Cymry nobles left. ‘Pardon my rural ignorance, but who is your liege, Gilmore?’
‘Owain, son of Einion ap Cunedda and King of Rhos.’
Gwion did not know of this king, but his father Einion ap Cunedda was among those kings stolen from the Cymry on the night of the Long Knives. Thus this young king was one of the Sons of the legend he’d heard about, that was for certain.
‘He was the noble who finished the Saxon in the glen,’ Creirwy enlightened Gwion.
No wonder the lad had had the countenance of a seasoned warlord; he had been carrying the mantle of king since the night of the Long Knives, for the better part of a decade.
‘I should be honoured to meet with such a legend.’ Gwion doubted the young king was the Arth, but he was surely an associate, with many a tale to tell.
‘Legend?’ Gilmore queried his meaning.
‘Is your liege not one of the Sons of the Long Knives?’
‘Shh!’ The King’s representative urged him to whisper. ‘Such things are better known and not uttered.’
Gwion nodded in understanding.
‘But yes . . .’ His mood became more solemn. ‘King Owain is one of the many young Cymry princes forced to kingship before their time.’
Gwion planned to refrain from asking the question that he so longed to voice, but since the topic had been raised, the moment proved too opportune. ‘Is it true that the Sons dispatched the traitor Gwtheyrn?’
Gilmore’s eyes boggled at the forthright query. ‘Once better acquainted, perhaps such stories will roll from my tongue.’ He forced a grin and led off. ‘Follow me.’ He exited the roundhouse.
‘Aren’t you the little treasure,’ the blind man said snidely as Gwion made a move to depart.
‘I shall learn what news and return with a full report.’ Gwion could understand the older man’s resentment.
‘Bring mead,’ Morda grouched.
‘I shall. Anything for you, Lady Tegid?’
‘I can tend my own needs,’ she assured him, ‘and Morda’s. When a king shows favour, Gwion, do not hesitate to seize the opportunity.’
‘Will you be—’
‘I am not going anywhere.’ She made a shooing motion with her hands.
‘Gwion!’ Gilmore’s summons spurred him forth.
‘I shall see you both after.’ Gwion slipped beneath the roundhouse door flap, considering how easily the Lady Tegid had preempted his thought just now – could she have some sort of supernatural talent in that regard? From what the Lady had said about her name and how her mother’s kin regarded her, it seemed likely that Creirwy was born in the middle kingdoms and was not of the Fey as her mother was – at least not completely.
Outside the small infirmary Gwion beheld a huge army, spread beneath a tree-covered hillside not far from his village. The Afon Banwy flowed through here, providing water to drink and a place to bathe.
It appeared many of the fighters had yet to take advantage of the facilities as they were still covered in the bloody stench of their enemies. But upon longer observation Gwion was shocked to realise that those still bloodied sat absent of emotion, conversation and feast – their focus was solely on the sharpening of their tools of slaughter. These men were the cauldron-born of Keridwen, hungry only for war. If the Saxons had truly fled, then why had the walking dead not returned to their final repose as the witch had claimed they would? The troops still living sat apart from their fallen allies, evidently fearful of both their vacant combrogi and their enemies – now turned to the cause of the Cymry. The atmosphere in the wake of this battle was anything but jubilant; the air was heavy with discontent, uncertainty and mistrust.
All alone, on a spot by the river bank, was the demon warrior who had ambushed Gwion before the battle. ‘Who is that?’ He pointed the man out to Gilmore as he kept pace with him.
‘His name is Morvran ab Tegid,’ Gilmore lowered his voice to advise.
‘He is relative to the Lady Tegid?’ Gwion squeaked as the notion near choked him.
‘He is the Lady’s brother.’
‘Brother!’ That explained why Keridwen had been offended by Gwion’s use of the term ‘monster’ to describe the man.
‘Difficult to believe, I know,’ Gilmore agreed. ‘The men refer to him as Avagddu . . . very quietly, of course.’
‘Utter darkness?’ Gwion considered the name’s meaning even less fair than the term he’d used.
‘All the men fear him as he was born in the Otherworld, and with Gods for parents, he is immortal and cannot be killed.’
‘Whoa . . .’ Gwion was a little disconcerted by the report and yet felt compelled to put in a good word for him. ‘Morvran saved my life today.’
‘You can thank him at your own risk, after your audience with King Owain.’ Gilmore headed towards the largest roundhouse. As far as Gwion knew, no one had inhabited this clutch of dwellings for years, but the chief hut looked to have had some repairs since Gwion had last passed it by.
Soldiers stood guard around the entire perimeter of the dwelling they approached. Butterflies began to disturb Gwion’s stomach as Gilmore led him through the human shield and up the stairs towards the hides that covered the large entrance where the King of Rhos awaited.
‘Gwion!’ His name was called by someone of fair voice, but it was not the Lady Tegid this time.
When a look around failed to locate the source, he kept moving.
‘Gwion! Please, help me!’
Again he turned, and casting his sight further afield to the edge of the encampment he saw a young woman with whom he bartered being blocked from entering the camp by the guards.
‘You know this woman,’ Gilmore assumed.
‘I do. Aleen . . . she is not one to ask for aid without real need.’
‘The King has yet to learn of your awakening,’ Gilmore considered. ‘We can spare a few moments.’
Gwion was grateful to be given grace, but had not expected the King’s man to accompany him on his errand. He mentioned this en route whereupon Gilmore advised that Gwion was his charge until he delivered him to the King.
‘I’ve never had a bodyguard before.’ He made light of the arrangement. What could a king want of him that was important enough to warrant such protective measures?
‘Gwion.’ Aleen smiled through her dismay, clearly pleased to see him. ‘They will not allow me to see Bran.’
‘But he is her husband?’ Gwion questioned the guards, who were now standing at attention upon sighting Gilmore.
‘The King has given orders to allow no one in or out of camp until he settles a dispute with one of his allies,’ Gilmore explained, and Gwion knew in his gut that the ally to which the soldier referred was the witch.
‘But Bran is just there!’ Aleen pointed to a man seated on a rock with his back to them. ‘I should know the cloak these hands have sewn. I have travelled all day to track him down . . . could you please, please tell him I am here? I need to know he fares well.’
The young lovers had only wed last spring and it was plain how anxious she was.
‘Wait here,’ Gwion said.
Aleen nodded, happy to wait. ‘May the Goddess bless you, Gwion, I am beholden.’
He proceeded towards the man, silently praying Bran was not one of the damned. ‘Bran!’ he called ahead but it fetched no response. ‘Bran?’ Gwion circled around in front of the man, but did not manage to draw Bran’s attention from the polishing of hi
s blade. ‘Oh no.’ Gwion’s heart sank as he crouched down onto his haunches to take a closer look at the witch’s handiwork. The young, vibrant man he’d once known had been reduced to a pale shadow. ‘What do I tell Aleen?’
‘You tell her it wasn’t Bran and you don’t know where he is,’ Gilmore outlined. ‘There’s nothing you can do, and the King awaits.’
‘This could have been me, were I not so fortunate as to escape with just a bump to the head.’ Tears welled in Gwion’s eyes as he observed Bran entranced in his chore. ‘He does not even draw breath.’
Wood that Gwion collected had fuelled the cauldron that left Bran and thousands more lost between realms like this. ‘What have I done?’ The pride he’d felt for his part in the victory abruptly fled. ‘Is there nothing to be done for them?’ Gwion looked to Gilmore for an answer.
‘The King barters for their lives as we speak,’ Gilmore seemed annoyed and yet compelled to divulge.
If Gwion had nothing else, he had excellent instinct, and that sixth sense was telling him something was seriously amiss here. ‘Why summon me during such vital negotiation? I am no one.’
‘I am not the King and do not pretend to know his mind.’ Gilmore grew agitated by their delay. ‘Deliver the message to your friend’s wife as scripted, or accompany me to my liege . . . your choice.’
Gwion rose to comply, but paused alongside Bran to place a hand on his shoulder in leaving. ‘I’m so sorry.’
He found himself leaning on his petrified friend for support as he was suddenly dizzy.
‘Gwion?’ Gilmore noted him swaying.
‘It’s all right . . . it will pass.’ Gwion removed his hand but to his shock the dead man gripped his wrist and forced Gwion’s hand back to rest on his shoulder, holding it firmly in place.
Bran threw his head violently backwards and, with windpipe fully open, gasped in a deep breath. The man’s entire body convulsed under Gwion’s hand as if he were waking from a falling dream, then he exhaled and began to breathe normally. With each breath Bran’s greying skin became flushed with the colour of life. He turned his sights to meet Gwion’s, and Gwion saw the man’s dark irises ignite with the brilliant blue colour and soulful fire that had always burned within them. ‘You called me back from the blackness of the abyss,’ he croaked as a crowd began to gather around them, amazed to see one of the walking dead returned to life. ‘I owe you more than my life, brother, I owe you my soul!’
‘Fetch water!’ Gilmore, as stunned as everyone else, set one of the idle crowd to purpose.
‘You owe me nothing.’ Gwion politely reclaimed his hand from the warrior as a goblet of water was given to Bran, and he emptied the vessel in a blink of an eye. ‘To see you returned to your loving wife is all the reward I require.’
‘But to have such amazing power bestowed upon you, surely the great houses of Don and Llyr truly favour you, Gwion.’ It was odd to have a man like Bran – a warrior with a fair wife, popularity and prospects – looking at him, jealous and in awe.
‘I have done nothing to earn such favour.’ Gwion insisted he was mistaken.
‘Gwion Bach can heal all our combrogi!’ cried a witness to the event.
‘He shall do no such thing until the King hears of this.’ Gilmore grabbed Gwion by the shirt. ‘Come with me. Both of you.’ He commanded Bran to follow. ‘Your reunion with your wife shall have to wait.’
‘It’s not right to leave our brothers in anguish!’ The witness incited cries of agreement as others joined his protest, to speak for fallen family and friends.
‘I feel weak—’ Gwion collapsed to his knees, and Bran scooped him up to carry him through the protesting crowd.
Infirmity proved convenient as Gwion saw an opportunity to gauge the young King Owain’s true interest in him.
He was completely ignorant as to how he had brought about Bran’s resurrection and, seemingly unconscious, Gwion was not forced to give voice to an explanation in the absence of one.
Thus, when carried forth into the chief house, he kept his eyes closed and faked slumber, while the events that had just unfolded between Bran and himself were explained by Gilmore.
‘This is a sign from the Gods that they favour my plea,’ said the King, his voice tinged with the excitement of vindication. ‘Why else give me the means to fulfil my request?’
‘It is not me you need to convince,’ Keridwen replied, her husky, calm voice distinctive. ‘The Night Hunter has the soul count from the battle and shall now come up one soul short. Resurrect more, and more deaths will be owed.’
‘Then I will send one Saxon among those in question to kill one of our enemies for every one of my combrogi that is revived.’
‘I do not negotiate oaths,’ Keridwen replied coolly. ‘You need to take your proposal to my daughter. My concern is for the Bach lad. Is it not plain to you that in reviving this man a great toll has been inflicted upon Gwion’s being? And you wish him to perform this task thousands of times over? I shall not allow it. There will be nothing left of him.’
Why was the Goddess so solicitous of his welfare? Had his efforts to keep her battle fire burning earned him favour as promised? Surely that was just a small service and not deserving of this remuneration.
‘I am his patron,’ the young king politely reminded the witch of her place. ‘So it is not for you to allow or not allow.’
‘My daughter found this one and brought him to my service,’ she countered. ‘Do you dare incite my wrath over one wee lad?’
Gwion was dying to see the expression on the young king’s face, but refrained to maintain his guise.
‘With all due respect to the Goddess,’ the King ventured, ‘did Gwion not cry “Cymru am byth!” before he engaged the Saxon? I am a king among the Cymry; therefore he has sworn fealty to me.’
‘Kings come and go, but I remain,’ Keridwen reminded him. ‘Your kingdom is only on loan from my folk.’
‘What is your family’s interest in this one?’ The King voiced the query Gwion most wanted answered.
‘This lad carries a very old soul, and this miracle he has performed is the proof.’
Gwion was shocked by her claim, although he really had no idea what it meant.
He heard someone rise and approach him.
‘Is that how you explain his miraculous healing?’ the King queried. He sounded to be in closer proximity to Gwion and he suspected he was eyeing him over. ‘That gash in his head would have killed any normal man . . . now it is but a scratch.’
So his injuries had been far worse – Gwion had not imagined his bloody wound. This day became more incredible with each passing moment.
‘Perhaps.’ Keridwen sounded more non-committal than unsure.
‘Gwion, son of Gwreang, your king has need to converse with you.’
Upon King Owain’s direct request, Gwion allowed his eyes to flicker open and take in the face of his majesty.
The adolescent king appeared so handsome to Gwion – with his dark hair and eyes, comely features, and tall, slender form. His clothes seemed to be crafted by the Gods as the tailoring was finer than any garments worn by common folk. He thought it a wonder that the Lady Tegid was not more taken with Owain – perhaps he was a little young for her taste? He wore a large golden torc round his neck – the mark of kingship. This was the first time Gwion had ever seen a royal torc up close.
‘Thank you, Bran, you can set me down.’ As Gwion was set upon his feet, he was still a little giddy, so Bran bent down to place Gwion’s arm over his shoulder for support. Due to Gwion’s slight build and Bran’s huge stature, this arrangement resulted in a somewhat uncomfortable stance for them both. ‘Majesty,’ Gwion, one arm stretched up over Bran, bowed his head to the King as best he could. ‘I am honoured by this audience, yet equally puzzled by it.’
‘It is not every man who can wake the undead,’ the King explained, backing up to be seated once again. ‘Of course I wished to meet you.’
‘I just want to clarify to your
majesty that I have no idea how I performed that feat and it has never happened before. Well, obviously, as I have never before encountered an army of the undead. And . . . I would also humbly point out that your highness summoned me to an audience before Bran was returned to the realm of the living.’
‘Ah yes . . . I did, didn’t I?’ The King pondered a moment, then cast his sights to his Otherworldly accomplice.
‘We made a deal; this changes nothing.’ Keridwen’s tone was a cautioning one.
‘It changes everything!’ The King rose to confront her. ‘Gwion must stay with us until I can obtain an audience with Gwyn ap Nudd.’
‘If!’ Keridwen scoffed at his plan. ‘The Night Hunter could keep you waiting for aeons, and I have need of Gwion’s services now.’
She did? Gwion didn’t know whether to be excited or horrified. His services? Did she mean as a woodsman?
‘As do I,’ Owain objected. ‘The Night Hunter will see me if he wants his soul count filled.’
‘He will not!’ Clearly, Keridwen thought the King naive. ‘The Night Hunter will set a plague on your kingdom, or send his fiery waifs to indiscriminately scalp the souls he’s owed.’
Out of options and exasperated, Owain dropped his forceful stance and unexpectedly went down on one knee before the witch. ‘Please . . . help me save my men, I beg you! All that is required is a little patience on your behalf.’
‘If only it were so simple.’ Keridwen seemed overwhelmed by the request and yet appeased by Owain’s homage. ‘I’ll grant you two weeks’ grace before the spell keeping your men alive will end, and then Gwion must be delivered to me at Castell Tegid.’
The scowl on Owain’s face transformed into a beaming smile of hope. ‘The Goddess is most gracious.’ The young king held an arm across his chest so that she might know how deeply he appreciated her cooperation. ‘Eternal gratitude.’
‘You know I am partisan to those suffering through the plights of your mortal world. Most of my ilk do not understand the depth of feeling awarded to human beings for their participation in the creation of this realm,’ Keridwen explained. ‘Very few of my folk can be sympathetic, and I shall be rebuked for this breach in protocol.’
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