When I had recovered from grief's first assault—and make no mistake, it is as savage a mauling as a rape, and leaves you as ravaged after—I glanced round, with a kind of dull interest, to see where I had got to.
I seemed to be on the edge of a little wood at the valley's mouth, near the limit of our lines; by straining my eyes I could just make out Edeyrn's stronghold of Ratherne a few miles up the glen. That would have to be taken care of, I resolved, and soon too; maybe Merlynn—But nay; I had forgotten… I shivered again and huddled down inside my cloak. Was there no safe thought anywhere? Aught to think of that did not carry loss and bitter pain with it?
They speak truly when they say be wary of what you wish for: At once, as if my despairing question had been given the grace of an answer, I was given things to See and think of that led my mind off my more immediate woes.
It was not much unlike to what I had experienced after Cadarachta, or in Sychan; but this time the Sight took me far down the road of years: I saw the Crown pass from Arthur's line to Tarian's kindred; a queen around whom holiness blazed like Fragarach's own fire, and a king who might have taken a leaf from Edeyrn's book. Then the road bent sharply, and I beheld the Crown pass again, this time to Grehan's house; four kings and a queen all in swift succession, slain in some civil strife; later, a queen with hair as red as Grehan's, and a tall dark-haired lord who had a look of Arthur and myself, an army of trees, Gwyn's own horn…
I cried aloud, and the Sight released me. I thought to see Morgan come to comfort me, as she had done that other time, but the hillside was empty. Nay; she would not leave her mother just now, and besides there were preparations to be made for the ritual sending the family and friends of Uthyr Pendreic would hold that night for him. And before that could commence, I had tasks of my own that called; so I turned from all this Seeing, and trudged heavy-footed, heavy-hearted, back down the hill.
The King's tent was full of torchlight and people and silence; I stood beside Arthur, watching Morgan begin by casting the riomhall, the ritual circle. How can she do this, I wondered; then answered my own question—it was her place to do this, as a priestess, and that knowing gave her power, and the joy of rightness in action…
"Mar a bha, mar a tha," she said clearly, softly—'So it was, so it is'—and we gave her the response, as softly.
"Mar a bhitheas vyth go bragh." 'So it shall be forever…'
I felt the circle form and seal itself, all of us within caught up in its confines; caught the loving touch of Uthyr's presence, and smiled as Ygrawn stood forward.
"What is between the worlds belongs to both and neither," she said, and standing straight and tall and still as a candleflame, she raised her hand. "I invoke the Guardians of the Doors."
Turning sunwise, invoking to the east as was done only at times of birth and death: "The Lady is in the East. This is because from the East do all light and life proceed. Hail, Thou who art Queen of the Four Green Fields!"
And south: "The Dragon is in the South. This is because out of the South do come all strength and valor. Hail, Thou who art blood-red of a thousand battles!"
And: "The Lord is in the West. This is because into the West do all things go in the end. Hail, Thou who art Shield of Tir-n'am-beo!"
And one time more: "The Stag is in the North. This is because in the North is ever the high seat of mystery and of power. Hail, Thou who art milk-white of a thousand magics!"
Then Gweniver stepped forward to join Morgan and Ygrawn, no longer Uthyr's grief struck niece but a High Priestess like the other two, of the ancient order of Nia the Golden.
"We come in on the wind from the East, we live out our days in the light of the South. We go out from here with the wind from the West in our faces, and we dwell thereafter in the castle that is the Crown of the North. So it was, so it is, so it shall ever be."
Three queens beside a dead king: I knew the moment, and myself stood forth; unslinging Frame of Harmony, I smiled down upon Uthyr's pale chill face—he was not there, but I knew how to reach him—and began my lament for Uthyr Ard-righ, and ever was it sung after.
"Thou stag amongst deer,
Salmon amongst trout,
Eagle amongst sparrows,
Tall ship amongst curraghs,
Uthyr the King, by dan restored…"
and so I chaunted for him whom I had loved.
The rest of the ritual passed swiftly; Kelts sorrow beyond the measure of most races for our dead, but we rejoice in their passing in the same measure, for they move now in the Light, in bright and blessed company, and any road they are never gone… But looking at Arthur as Morgan folded Uthyr's hands over the traditional tokens, I saw only grief—such sorrow in the living as to bring tears to the eyes of the dead. And I knew there was more here than Uthyr for him: There was Merlynn, who if not dead were surely not precisely alive,—our lost Companion Kei and all the others dead in the fighting for Tara; all those who might yet perish in days to come. He was King now, it was for him to think so, to grieve so…
Yet he had taken no part in the rite as yet, though as priest and King there was claim on him that none else could fill. Now, however, he stepped forward, to stand at the foot of the dead King's bed, and put a hand inside his tunic, beneath his leinna. When he drew his hand out again, I saw that his fingers were closed upon a much-folded piece of parchment, and with a shiver of awe I recognized Edeyrn's missive, that mockery of brevity and line of honest warning that had been delivered to us in the days before Cadarachta, and I read it over once again in my mind: 'If thou come,' it had said, in the formal script and the High Gaeloch, 'and if ever thou come to Tara.'
And I remembered Arthur's vow upon receiving it, to keep that letter next his heart until the fight was won, or he was dead, or Edeyrn was dead… Now I watched, as did we all, as Arthur drew Fragarach from its sheath; and that bard's mind was already casting the moment into legend and song, as Arthur, with great deliberateness and no apparent emotionwhatsoever, set the Answerer's silver point to the parchment, and Edeyrn's letter was gone in a flash of flame.
And I remembered too Arthur's answer to Edeyrn's challenge: 'And if I go to Tara,' it had read, in Gaeloch as High and a script as vaunting, 'and if I go.'
But that seemed to be the last thing Uthyr needed to know done, for I could sense him leaving now, in accomplishment and in peace, and I made my own farewells as he went out. Morgan, working serenely, closed down the circle, and we all relaxed, as was custom, into a celebration of our loved one's life. The work was done, his and ours together, and now was the time for warm memory; his as he went, ours who remained.
But for the new High King and High Queen, there was more, and other. Though no formal coronation would be held for many days—by old tradition, not until after Uthyr's harrowing—and no oaths would be taken until that time by the princes and the lieges and the folk, nonetheless it was the duty of our new rulers to take oath themselves,—and now that Uthyr was sped we set our thought to this.
Ygrawn, to whom duty had so long been action's well-spring, had already considered it, and now she lifted a hand to Alun Cameron, the Chief Brehon, and to Uthyr's Taoiseach, Marigh Aberdaron.
"For the law and the governance," she said so all could hear her. "And for the Orders, let come forward Taliesin ap Gwyddno for the bards, and Keils Rathen for the Fians; for the Druids"—my eyes shot to her face as she checked an instant, but she met my gaze calmly—"since that our friend and Archdruid Merlynn Llwyd is no more among us, let the most senior priest stand forward, and for the Ban-draoi the same."
It was a maimed rite in the end, not done as it should have been done, full of uncertainty and performed by folk all unprepared for it; but it was required, and so it was held, and we were all relieved in the end when Alun Cameron, improvising desperately for this unprecedented ritual, charged us in our turn.
Arthur Ard-righ, Gweniver Ard-rian, now before you. Let those who will, obey them and them alone henceforward, as sovereigns over Keltia. And those who
will not, let them go to serve Nanteos of Fomor or Arist of Alphor or whatsoever other master they might."
No fear of that: We all swore fervently to Arthur and to Gweniver; and all the while Ygrawn watched with composed features and an air of dan met. She is tired, I thought very privately, we must do somewhat to ease her burdens; she has carried far too much far too long…
But we were all tired, and had not yet, I think, even grasped the implications of this day's work… Morgan came and leaned against me, much the way Cabal was wont to do, and I ruffled her hair as I was wont to ruffle his ears; she seemed grateful to have it so, and said no word with mind or voice.
The others had left the tent by now for the most part, just family—kin and closest friends—remained by Uthyr's bier. Soon Ygrawn would set the traditional guard around it—a warrior, a bard, a sorcerer, a liege; most like she would watch by her lord all this night, that was a widowed mate's duty and a right not even we her children would dissuade her from. But for the rest of us, it was time to give Uthyr the grace of the Last Prayer, and leave him with his lady.
Outside in the bitter chill, I stretched and flexed my fingers scrabbling at the stars; so close they seemed tonight… Waiting for Morgan to join me, all at once I was brought back to earth by a voice just within the tent-flap.
"A word with you—Ard-righ." The voice smoked with scorn on the title, and I went very still, for the owner of the voice was Gweniver.
Arthur's own voice in answer was the soul of courtesy. "Ard-rian?"
I began to edge away, not wishing to be in the vicinity when this battle was joined; but it was not to be, for they came exploding out of the tent together, and I was caught, almost literally, between them, as if between two great feuding forces of nature.
Now you must remember that of late Arthur and Gweniver had not been on the best and warmest of terms; indeed, had scarcely seen one another until they faced off across Uthyr's deathbed. Since we landed on Tara, they had been commanding in different quarters—Gweniver holding the east, while Arthur brought off his spectacular sidemarch over the Loom and the taking of Caerdroia. They had communicated by diptych, third parties and the occasional bolt of mindspeech—and that last usually in moments of wrath.
They could, in truth, hardly be said to have worked together at all on this,—and now they were yoked so for the rest of their lives, bound to one another more surely even than by the marriage oaths from which Gweniver had freed herself…
Well, I could see they had quite a lot to say to one another, so prudently made as if to leave,—but, not even looking at me, Arthur caught me by the collar in a grip of steel.
"Nay, braud, do not remove on our account… Any road, I wish you to be witness to this." He released me, and I stood chastened, not daring to shift position, even. "Like it or loathe it, from this day on we share sovereignty in Keltia, Lady. We have sworn as much, as he who lies now within did wish it."
"Aye? Ard-righ?" Gweniver, when she chose, could put an edge on her tongue of a sharpness to cut cheese, and chose so now. "And has the Ard-righ Arthur forgotten so quickly that which he himself did swear to?"
Arthur smiled, and my heart bled for him; how very tired he was, how grief-worn for Uthyr and Merlynn and Kei, how much he cared for this waspish queen, and she for him, though they would sooner die under torture than admit it…
"Nay, I have not forgotten, and I hold to it; that we rule together, but will wed, if we choose to, as shall please ourselves." His hand rested now on my shoulder, and tightened.
"But I swear something more, and freely: Once Keltia has been scoured, the Marbh-draoi's ills subdued, I leave it to you."
Gweniver's control slipped, and she barely caught back a "And what of you?"
I was echoing her question myself by then; but Arthur looked at neither of us as he answered.
"I have other things to attend to," he said then, and pointed straight up into the blazing night sky. "Out there."
And so he did.
BOOK III
Graightrai
* * *
* * *
Chapter Seventeen
BUT FOR ALL I TRIED, I could get no more out of Arthur that night about his future plans, and went furious to my bed, where I tossed and fussed and muttered so much and so long and so hard that at last Morgan set one bare foot in the small of my back and pushed me out onto the tent floor.
"You had no cause to do that," I said, creeping humbly back into the warmth beside her.
"Not? Then talk to me,—if you are going to keep me from sleep, and have not love in mind, the least you can do is tell me a tale."
So I told her of what had befallen between Arthur and Gweniver; and she listened attentively, and sighed at the end of my telling.
"I told Merlynn and my mother, when first they hatched this ill-found plan, that it would be grave error to harness those two so close, and no hope of free running."
I settled more comfortably against her. "We have been down this road many times before. There was no other way."
"Maybe," she agreed after a while. "But to the best of my knowing Arthur has never before threatened leaving Keltia."
"He told me it is in pursuit of the gallain Edeyrn hired to fight us; he wishes to punish them on their own home ground—or space."
Morgan snorted. "This is I, his sister; let him try a better story on me…"
I was as fearful and exasperated as she, but felt a perverse loyalty to my lifelong friend. "Have you any better solution then? Hu Mawr! If so, I pray you tell us all!" Then was immediately contrite,—her father lay dead in the next tent but one. "Ah, cariad, no matter." I gathered her into my arms; she seemed little and simple and small this night. "Has anyone told your sister of the King's—of Uthyr's death?"
She shifted against me. "Aye, I think Tari or Daronwy—I know not. Someone will see to it."
I held her until she fell asleep,—by now I was wide awake, and carefully setting Morgan onto her own pillows I lay back and stared up at the tent ceiling. Why had Merlynn to be taken from us just when his vision was needed most? He it was who had been chief architect of all this: to destroy the Marbh-draoi, to make Arthur and Gweniver co-rulers; now, when it came to the working-out, he was not here to guide it. Though, surely, it was scarce his own fault that he was not; or was it?
I glanced over at a small murmur from Morgan; but she slept deep, if not peacefully. Maybe Arthur's intent was all for the best; if he were not here, might not things go more smoothly in the transition than they had done otherwise? Still, it seemed the height of folly for the strongest sword-arm in Keltia to be elsewhere employed just when it might be needed here more than ever… I smiled in spite of my fears. Gwennach was not like to give anything away, or let aught be taken from her. Besides, she had good helpers: Keils, for one, though that could be a problem right there, and we would have to keep an eye on that union; not to mention Ygrawn and Morgan, and our brother and sister Companions; and new comrades too, who had been of such importance in the victory at Caerdroia and here…
For the first time since—well, since leaving Gwynedd, I allowed myself to think on what had in truth happened here. We had won. We had won. Oh, to be sure, there was much—a daunting much—still to be done, on other worlds as well as on this one; but the bottom note was unchanged: We had triumphed over Edeyrn; his sorceries and his Ravens had availed him not, in the end, and we had won. Uthyr would be pleased…
I awoke sweating and shuddering: a dream of Gwaelod, such as I had not had in years, walls of water, green and glassy, roaring over me, yet leaving me unharmed. I turned to Morgan, but the bed was cold and empty,—she had slipped away without disturbing me. Would that she had, I thought meanly, I might not have dreamed so else… While I hastily dressed—for I heard the camp stirring outside, and guessed it was later than I would have wished it—I ran over the thing in my mind for perhaps the thousandth time, thinking maybe, even now, to find some way of avoiding the pit I saw yawning before our feet… But for
all my thought nothing came to mind; I tied off my last point, threw on a cloak and went out to look for my King and Queen.
I found my Queen first. Gweniver was already hedged round with that indefinable apartness that defines a monarch; since last night she had taken it on, will she or nill she—it was as much in her as it was in the perceptions of those who approached her. She even appeared physically different; taller, maybe, or older, or was it thinner or paler or more remote—I could not name the difference, and as I gave her the formal salute due to the ruler of Keltia, it troubled me that I could not.
But she was still Gwennach… As I hailed her, she looked up, flushed and gave me a quick kiss. Not uncommon for her to greet me so; we had long history, and a casual affection not unlike to that of sibs. But it was uncommon enough for me to be a little surprised all the same, and I responded with more warmth; it seemed something she needed just now.
"We are readying to break camp," she said, gesturing vaguely round at the chaos. Indeed, I could see for myself. The melancholy business had already begun of preparing to convey the dead King to Caerdroia. It would not be as we had wished, but still…
"He will be harrowed at Ni-maen," said Gweniver; she had followed my gaze, and my thought.
"And is not that more than we ever dared hope for, back on Gwynedd, at the Bear's Grove, or at Coldgates?" I asked gently, and saw her wistful smile and slow nod. "But how is it with you, Lady?"
She startled at the title I had chosen, quite deliberately, to use to her. Perhaps it was the first time she had been called so, by the address and inflection given only to a reigning Ard-rian. Certainly it was the first time I had called her so; but I had done it for a reason—
"The sooner you 'custom yourself to it, Gwennol, the easier it will be in the end," I whispered for only her to hear. "Aye," she answered, with a certain ruefulness. "But it is a hard thing to grow used to."
The Oak above the Kings Page 20