When Bevan awoke, hours later, it was Ellid's tired face that first met his eyes. He reached out to her hungrily. "Oh, Love, Love," he murmured, and kissed her tenderly; warm comfort flowed through her from his caress. "I am sorry," he whispered.
"Hush," she told him gently. "Look, here is one who you have not seen this year and more."
Bevan looked on a placid white-haired woman he did not know, then looked again as truth struck in. "My mother!" he cried, then choked as he embraced her. "Oh Mother, you have given yourself over to Death!"
"'Tis not so fearful a prospect, and high time, too," she said serenely. "Your father went, these many months ago, and he went gladly."
"Death is a fair fellow, some folk say," Bevan replied shakily, "but still I would not meet him yet awhile."
"Nay, for you have the best of life yet to taste, my son." Celonwy smiled. "Therefore, when I knew that you must leave me and blunder into darkest peril, I conjured from you your vitalest spirit and placed it in the keeping of a noble thing, the white hart. And in you I settled some of its feral wanderlust to carry you out of danger. Thus your lives were linked, and so long as either of you lived, the other could not die. "'Twas interference of me, I own it. Twice to my knowledge it has saved you, but some harm has come of it. You could not fully live, fully love or fully sorrow… At your core you were but a wild thing, a wanderer apart from men. And finally it brought you to the misery wherein I found you."
"But what has happened to the hart?" Bevan exclaimed. Ellid's face was taut and white.
"It struggled back to me, terribly wounded by a hunter's spear. Swift of steed and hard of heart must have been he who pursued it. It will be dead now and done with suffering, thanks be… I took some of its blood on a napkin and hastened here to give back to you what I had taken, your veriest heart. I rejoice that you are well now, but I grieve for the passing of a thing so lovely."
"Sorrow be to him who smote it," Bevan muttered.
"We all know who that may be," Eitha spoke from the entry. Her round chin trembled, but her gentle face was set in hard lines; anguish spoke in that hardness.
Ellid went to her swiftly and put her arms around her. "Mother," she told her softly, "there is no need."
"There is need for me to be a woman and no more a worm. Lass, he is not the man I wed. These months past all concern has gone from him except the cold cunning of power. I know that he wed you to Bevan only so that he could be the father of a Queen. He drove Cuin from us to keep you as his heir. And now he has taken the golden sword."
"What word from Cuin?" Bevan demanded.
"None," Ellid whispered. "He is yet in Welas."
"Then I must ride forthwith." Bevan jumped up to make ready, scattering clothing in his haste. "Find me some food and my gear… Ellid, you would not have me stay when Cuin is in peril?"
"Nay," she answered. "But take Kael with you."
"Nay, I must go alone. I'll take no retainers; this must be no invasion, or I'll have Welas up in arms. Bide here and wait for word."
He kissed her hastily and hugged his mother and was off as fast as the dapple-gray could take him. The camp watched amazed as he disappeared in the distance toward Welas. At the tent flap three women stood: a sorrowing matron, a snowy-haired goddess and a young wife lovely as the dawn. Yet in their fears their three minds were as one.
A week later, after steady travel, Cuin came to Twyth. The tilled land and pastureland climbed sharply to the fortress which was set halfway up the first mountain that soared between Welas and the sea. With his booty in tow Cuin ascended the steep trail to the gates, oblivious to the stares of the peasantry. "Open up!" he shouted in the language of Isle.
The gatekeeper peeped at him and scuttled away. Cuin waited for minutes of rising irritation. "Who goes there?" a voice challenged him at last from within, in the Islendais speech, though haltingly spoken.
What was he to say? He was lord neither of Wallyn nor the lands Dacaerin, but only of a nameless empty plain. "Cuin Falconer," he roared at last, "emissary of Bevan High King in Isle to Owen of Twyth in Wales. I come in peace, though peace has not been my lot. Open up!"
Slowly the gates creaked open, and more hastily Cuin rode in. The one who addressed him in his own tongue was a burly man of middle age. "I am Owen of Twyth," he said warily. "You are welcome, King's Man, for the sake of your liege, whatever might be your business here."
"That is for you to say, lord." Cuin dismounted to address him. "You who sent for me."
The big man's eyes widened. "I sent not!"
"Three short and swarthy fellows came to our camp," Cuin explained laboriously, "requesting an emissary to Twyth with assurances of peaceful intent."
"Gladly would I make treaty of peace with Bevan High King," the chieftain protested, "but I sent no one. Where are these men who used my name?"
"They beset me in the night, like robbers, and I slew them. Those are their beasts and gear."
Owen ran his eye over the horses with polite disdain. "You should have slain them with their masters," he said. "I would be ashamed to keep such nags in my stables."
"I have disturbed you to no purpose, lord," Cuin mumbled. All sense told him that the blunt-spoken man spoke the truth, and sudden trouble stirred in his heart. He vaulted onto his roan.
"You need not go!" Owen exclaimed. "Stay and eat, and we will speak of your liege."
"That was courteously said," Cuin told him. "But I feel a storm of sorrow brewing, lord; some subtle cunning took me from my liege lord's side. I must return to him in all haste. I hope we shall more happily meet again." Cuin raised a hand in salute and spurred toward the gate.
"What of your nags?" the chieftain called after him.
"Feed them to your dogs!" Cuin shouted, and sent his steed plunging down the mountain. He muttered vehemently the while, berating himself, but he did not have much time for the luxury of self-reproach. Scarcely had he entered the woven shade when a red horse and tall red-haired rider moved before him; Pryce Dacaerin blocked his path. Cuin stared, for in his uncle's hand was the great golden sword of Lyrdion.
"Well met, nephew," said Dacaerin harshly.
"So it was you who set them to slay me," Cuin whispered.
Pryce threw back his head and laughed, a cold, dragonish laugh, "Aye, I paid those three to take you, and I knew you would not be sorry to go with them! But they have botched the task, it seems, and I must do it myself. I would have done it before now, could I have torn you away from that precious Prince of yours—my curse on you both!"
"Why?" Cuin met his eyes squarely, without anger or plea. "We have always honored you, my liege and I, and spoken fairly of you."
"Honored me!" Dacaerin spat the words out with reptilian virulence; Cuin recoiled from the passion of his hatred. "Honored me! I have done well that you have not yet reft me of my lands! You two have taken all else: my men's loyalty, my wife's affection, my daughter and my sword! For this sword is by rights mine, Cuin traitor!" Dacaerin came closer, brandishing Hau Ferddas before Cuin's startled face. "I, too, am an heir of the line of Lyrdion, and were it rightly reckoned the sword should have been mine, and kingdom and crown as well!"
Pryce laughed again, and blood was in his laugh. "But I shall have my own again, Cuin King's Man; even my daughter shall I have, and she shall make a King of me."
"All the clans are sworn to vengeance against an oath-breaker and a shedder of kindred blood," Cuin breathed.
"I have broken no oath and shed no kindred blood!" Dacaerin crowed with cruel triumph. "I have merely slain a deer, a fair white hart—as I will slay you who have betrayed me!" Pryce Dacaerin rushed with treacherous suddenness as Cuin sat frozen with the despair of his tidings. But Flessa shot from Cuin's shoulder and beat her wings against Dacaerin's helm, driving her talons at his eyes. Furiously the lord swung at her with his leather-clad fist, knocking her broken to the ground. Cuin did not see; he had wheeled and fled.
He knew that he stood no chance against the mystic force
of Hau Ferddas. Swiftly he sent the roan along the rim of the Forest, but Dacaerin's steed was as swift after him, forcing him away from the shelter of the trees. Cuin galloped over the sparse shoulders of the mountains vainly seeking refuge. Something stung his foot, and the roan lurched. Cuin looked down, even now scarcely able to believe the infamy of his uncle's deeds. Then he leapt away as his steed fell to earth with Dacaerin's spear jutting from its side. With a jeer Pryce spun his bay to run him down.
Like a hunted animal Cuin took to the rocks, seeking heights where the red horse could not follow. Panting, he scrambled up toward the jagged rim of Welas. His youth stood him in good stead here, and he soon left Dacaerin far behind. But the blood-spoor of his cut foot marked his trail. Gasping, he sat to bind it.
That done, he climbed more slowly to a high defile between two great crags of stone. Once there he thought to make his way along the mountainous ridge out of Dacaerin's sight. He scarcely knew for what he wished to escape. To wrest the sword from his uncle, at all cost… But what use was it, if Bevan was dead? Tears streaked Cuin's cheeks, for Bevan's fate and for his own folly in leaving him. Painfully he reached the defile and limped over its peak. But ten steps farther on he stopped, stunned. A narrow ledge ran off to his right before coming up against a wall of stone. Below dropped only sheer cliffs, falling thousands of feet to the unheard crashing of the Western Sea.
Cuin turned, already knowing what he would see. Pryce Dacaerin straddled the defile, looming against the sky. The sea breeze lifted his bright hair like a plume of fire, and the giant sword shone flame-bright in his hand. Fierce exultation lighted his face. Cuin had seen such a fire-crested face before.
"Ay, you're a true King of Lyrdion," he shouted bitterly, and strode to meet him.
What ensued was scarcely to be called a duel. Cuin could not stand against Hau Ferddas, which darted faster than human hand could guide it. Within moments he was driven back to the cliff, and along the ledge to the wall and stood with his back to the rock. Already he bled from a dozen wounds. He held his sword before him; Dacaerin's next blow broke it off in his hand. Cuin tossed the useless hilt into the abyss of the sea and waited for the end.
"So!" Dacaerin mocked. "It seems that I need not be guilty of spilling your heart's-blood, nephew. I have only to nudge you over the edge, thus." He placed the mighty point of the sword at Cuin's side and pressed it like a goad. But Cuin did not budge even as the blade bit into him.
"It will not be so easy, Uncle!" he panted between teeth clenched with pain. "You must truly slay me; nor will I turn away my face from yours. May it come between you and your rest! Treacherous coward! Was it I that you saw in the blood-red pool?"
"Nay, thou moonstruck pup!" Pryce roared, and angrily he raised the great sword for the final blow. But as Hau Ferddas whistled over his head, a shining hand reached from the rocks above and grasped his wrist with steely force. Dacaerin cried out in surprise and pain as the golden sword was wrested from him.
The High King Eburacon stood on the mountaintop. Bevan loomed godlike against a thunder-dark sky. Rage filled him like silver lightning; Dacaerin stumbled back from the sight of him. Bevan lifted his candent hand that held the sword of Lyrdion; then with startling force he flung it far down the mountainside. He leaped down between Cuin and Dacaerin, landing like a cat, squarely on the ledge.
"Pryce of the Strongholds," he said in soft and deadly tones, "I would not sully that fair blade of the Beginnings with your blood. I will fight you with steel and the skill my comrade has taught me. What, man, say not that you have neglected to bring your own unstolen sword!"
In wordless agitation Pryce produced a blade. "Have at you, then!" Bevan exclaimed and moved swiftly to the fray. Cuin bit his lip and trembled as he watched, for Dacaerin was a seasoned fighter who knew every trick of combat, and Bevan had ever scorned the war-like trade… But this day Bevan fought with his own feral grace and with the force of his wrath. Pryce Dacaerin was shaken by the sudden turning of his fate, unnerved by his failure. He staggered back before Bevan's attack, then desperately turned to run for the defile. But his haste betrayed him; stones slid beneath his feet and he hurtled over the cliff. His cry hung on the air for the long moment of his falling. Bevan froze where he stood, staring after him.
"There are dragons in the Deep," he breathed, "and now there is another one." He leaned against the rock with lidded eyes and a face like death. Alarmed even in his vast relief, Cuin struggled toward him.
"Bevan! Are you hurt?"
"Nay," Bevan murmured. "The sea, Cuin; it pierces me."
"Duv, I forgot!" Cuin exclaimed. "Come away, Bevan, quickly!"
Bevan opened his eyes slowly. "Oh, Cuin, you bleed," he whispered, and tears wet his cheeks. Cuin stared, for he had never known his comrade to weep. Bevan turned his face to the stone and sobbed. With aching effort, Cuin put an arm around him.
"Come away," he urged gently.
Slowly, with arms on each other's shoulders, they made their way up to the defile and stumbled down the steep rocks beyond. Pain racked Cuin. He sat to catch his breath. Far below, he could see the ungainly lump that was his roan, lying still with Dacaerin's spear in its side. Pryce's tall red bay was nowhere to be seen.
"Where is your horse?" he asked Bevan when he could speak.
"I killed it with galloping hither." Sharp sorrow was in Bevan's voice. "Flessa lies dead below; it is just the two of us now, Cuin."
But Cuin was beyond speaking of Flessa. "By blood," he muttered, "I am as spent as a pauper's purse. I cannot go much farther."
"Just to the grass; then we shall rest."
But Cuin did not make it to the pasturelands. The rocks came up to meet him, and he lay on them uncaring. Vaguely he perceived a file of horsemen along the distant Forest, and he heard Bevan hail them. Then he shut his eyes and forgot to notice more.
6
Cuin awoke to find himself lying on a soft bed in a vaulted chamber of stone. An old woman was watching him. She scurried away when she saw his opened eyes, and soon a stocky man stumped into the room, followed by a servant with a tray. Cuin recognized his host as the stalwart Owen of Twyth.
"So!" the chieftain exclaimed. "Your storm of sorrow came soon, hah?"
"Fast and fell." Cuin sat up gingerly to take the proffered drink. "How did I come here?"
"By mine eyes, 'tis not every day that we hear sword-play on the peaks, Cuin King's Man. I sent a patrol out to look, and they came back with you and your friend. That is a strange one, he!" The big man leaned forward in innocent wonder. "No sooner had he seen you cared for than he must ride out again, no less, and came back with a great bundle under his arm. And a dead falcon, which he must needs lay to rest like a proper soul! Then he slept not the whole night, but paced and prowled about, with nary a light to guide him. He stopped here before dawn to see you, and the old woman swears his hand burned her arm… Now he's off again, and all this time I've scarcely had three words from him. Who or what might he be?"
"Bevan of Eburacon, High King," Cuin replied quietly, "and he has stranger powers than the ones you have named. Where has he gone?"
"Southward, toward the sea. So that is the new-crowned King of Isle! And he came to you himself! You must be dear to him indeed. But who gave you your wounds?" Owen broke off, puzzled, for Cuin was not listening; he was pulling on his clothes.
"You've not yet eaten, lord!" Owen protested.
"I must go to him," Cuin said worriedly. "Pray point me the way."
Shaking his head and expostulating, Owen complied. To the south and east the land was steep but not lofty, lowering by degrees toward the estuary of the Gleaming River. Cuin picked his way along the ridge and down a sloping path beyond, to where Bevan sat overlooking the sea. The noise of the breakers was loud beneath him. He started as Cuin slid down to sit at his side.
"Cuin!" he exclaimed. "You should not be here."
"Neither should you," Cuin retorted.
"You know what I mean," Bevan grumbled
. "How do you feel?"
"Stiff, but no worse." Cuin settled himself painfully on the comfortless ledge and pulled a packet from his shirt. "Owen would not let me come off without food. Will you eat?"
"Nay, you eat." Bevan did not even glance at the meal; his eyes were on the sea.
"I thought it hurt you," Cuin remarked presently with his mouth full.
"As love hurts." Bevan turned to Cuin with aching eyes. "Though I never knew the veriest pang of it till lately… Strange, Cuin, how fervently we fought those unmade men of the mantled lord! For I also was an unhearted thing, unknown to myself, until Celonwy my mother freed me from the spell of the white hart."
"Tell me," Cuin said.
They talked for hours, quietly retracing the interwoven threads of their lives, seeking the turnings that had led them to this place where, both sensed, destiny tottered on the wheel. "If only I had kept Hau Ferddas from mine uncle's hand," Cuin mourned.
"Small matter. His bid for power would have come soon or late," Bevan replied. "He was what he has been these many years… I was a fool to trust him out of my sight."
"And I a fool and a coward to leave you with him, as he knew well I would," Cuin sighed. "Sword and maid have been our making and unmaking, it seems; both are bright blades of double edge… Where is Hau Ferddas, Bevan?"
"Well hid." Bevan gazed intently at the sea. Cuin gasped and clutched his hand; there were creatures in the deep. A fey green stare matched theirs from the breakers. Wide-set wild and fearless eyes looked from under a tumult of wave-washed hair. Others blinked beyond. Cuin struggled to find his feet.
"Come away!" he shouted. "They are sylkies; they will drive you mad!" But Bevan had leaped to his feet, calling to them in his strange melodious tongue, pulling against Cuin's grip. The seafolk vanished swan-like beneath the waves. Bevan looked after them with yearning eyes, and Cuin grasped his trembling shoulders.
The White Hart Page 15