“It is no rumor, Belyn,” said Charis firmly. “I cannot explain why or how I know, but I do know-I know it is going to happen. Very soon. There is little time left.”
Belyn slumped back in his chair, his expression mingling pity and regret.
“But I did not come here to ask you to Believe me,” she continued. “I can offer no proof for what I Believe. I came to ask for”
Just then there was a rustle of tent flap and into the room stumbled the tall, broad-shouldered frame of Maildun. He stopped just inside the entrance and stared, his eyes puffy from sleep. “Charis! Dear sister, it is you! I was asleep and thought I heard”
“Hello, Maildun,” said Charis rising slowly. “It is good to see you.”
He crossed the room in a bound and swept her up. She grimaced and stifled a cry of pain.
“She is hurt!” shouted Kian.
Maildun released her at once. “Then what they say is true?” He looked at her wonderingly. “Kian said you had saved them. But what are you doing here? Will you stay?”
“If you will be quiet for a moment, we will all find out why she has come. She was just about to tell us when you came crashing in.”
“Something about a request,” said Belyn.
“A request? What sort of request?” asked Maildun, settling himself on the floor.
“Ships,” said Charis simply. “We need ships.”
“We have no ships to speak of,” observed Belyn.
“Perhaps not, but Seithenin does,” offered Maildun. “They are about all he has left.”
“Then take them from him.”
Belyn stared at her and laughed. “Just take them?”
“Have you any idea how difficult that would be?” asked Kian. “We could more easily walk into his palace and take Seithenin himself.”
“Wait a moment, Kian, there is a way.” Maildun leaned forward. “Charis, this is just what I have been trying to tell them.”
“Well, you have your chance,” she said. “Tell us now.”
“We send a message-an urgent message from Belyn to Meirchion, saying that we Believe we have Seithenin on the run”
“True enough,” remarked Belyn slowly. “Go on.”
“We tell Meirchion we think we can defeat Seithenin once and for all, but we need more men-many more men. We must have enough men to press the fight home. Meirchion must raise them, and we will wait, meanwhile, with all our remaining forces, at-ah, somewhere just out of easy striking range-for a week, no longer, until Meirchion can send the men.”
Kian gulped down his wine and threw aside his cup with disgust. “Let Seithenin capture such a message? You can not be serious. He would never”
Belyn raised a hand toward him. “An attractive bait, Mail-dun. But where is the trap?”
“Suppose Seithenin also received an urgent communication from Nestor?”
“What sort of message?”
“Something to the effect that he has detected heavy troop movement to wherever it is we are supposedly waiting, and Believes he has a chance to cut us off before our attack force can be established. Let Nestor say that he has three thousand men amassed at somewhere or other and ready to fight, but”
“Yes?” wondered Charis, becoming caught up in the intrigue.
“But fears he cannot reach them in time.”
“I see,” said Belyn.
“I do not,” replied Kian. “What does Seithenin care”
Belyn waved Kian silent. “It is subtlety itself,” he said.
“We simply suggest the means and let Seithenin outsmart himself.”
“Would he send the ships?” wondered Charis. “Would he really send them?”
“He might. He most certainly will consider it-it offers a most attractive way out of his dilemma,” Belyn answered. “The war has taken a turn against him. He will be under pressure from Nestor to be more effective in his raiding. After his most recent beating he is sitting in his palace licking his wounds, counting his losses, wondering what Nestor will say when he learns that their best ambush troops have been beaten. And here comes his chance to win his way back into Nestor’s favor, perhaps win a decisive victory-and at very low risk to himself.”
“Would he do it?” asked Kian, on his feet now, gripping the back of his chair with his hands. “Would he?”
“Would you if you were in his place?” Belyn rose and went to the table and poured more wine, which he downed in a single swallow. Both he and Kian seemed to have forgotten all about Charis and Maildun in their excitement over the plan. “If I were Seithenin I would send the ships-and pray to every god in heaven and earth that they get there in time. He will send them and sacrifice day and night for favorable winds. He knows we will wait only a week. And he knows that traveling overland Nestor can never reach us in time.”
“But by ship he would have a chance!” shouted Kian.
“It is Seithenin’s only hope.”
“He would do it.”
“He would be a fool not to.”
They fell silent and looked at one another. “How do we take the ships?” wondered Kian.
“Yes, and what do we do with them once we have them?” asked Belyn. Both men turned their gaze on Charis.
“Give diem to me,” she said.
“So you can sail away when the catastrophe comes?” taunted Kian.
“Catastrophe?” echoed Maildun.
“Precisely,” she agreed. “You said yourself Seithenin is losing. All he has left is his fleet. Without that, he must face the fact that he cannot win.”
“But Nestor”
“Without Seithenin to back up his schemes, Nestor will suddenly become far more interested in protecting his own borders than in overrunning ours.”
“He would never sue for peace,” Kian said.
“Who cares?” said Charis hotly. “It does not matter anymore what they do. Let them divide all nine kingdoms between themselves, for all the good it will do them.” She glared sternly at the two men. “If I am wrong, what has been lost? A little time perhaps. But if I am right, what is gained? Either way you have Seithenin’s ships, and either way you have won a great victory-perhaps ended the war.”
Belyn stared at Maildun, then at Charis. “We will do it,” he said, shaking a finger at her. “But by Cybel’s horns you had not the slightest idea what you were going to say when you came here tonight.”
“You may be right, Uncle. The details I leave to you,” replied Charis magnanimously. “Just bring me the ships as soon as you have them.” She pushed herself slowly, stiffly up from the chair. “I am going back to the palace.”
“Now? Tonight?” asked Kian.
“Yes, now. Tonight.” She waved aside his assistance. “I want to get back to the palace.”
“It is late, Charis. Stay,” Maildun said.
Belyn came to her. “Rest a few hours at least. Leave at first light tomorrow. I will send a guard with you.”
“There is no need.”
“I insist. You can have my bed-all our beds, in fact.” He put a hand on each man’s shoulder. “Your brothers and I will be working through the night.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Work on Elphin’s timber hall proceeded at a brisk pace. Within a week of the warband’s return, the tranquillity of the hilltop caer was a memory. Every morning at dawn when the gates were opened, scores of men with shining axes trooped out to the forest and soon the first of the logs were being dragged back up the incline behind a team of horses- an activity which continued until dusk. With a hundred pairs of hands to cut, dress, and drag the logs from the nearby forest, to manhandle them into place, to wedge, peg, and fit them together one on another, joining them to the huge timber uprights with rawhide thongs, the stout walls grew higher with each passing day.
For the necessary ironwork Elphin wooed and won a smith, giving him cattle and a patch of land on the river for his forge. From early morning and on into the night the clang of the smith’s hammer could be heard ringing through the wood
s along the river, answered by the chunk, chunk, chink of the woodcutters’ axes. Those not directly involved with the building of the hall were put to work enlarging the caer itself: digging a new outer ditch and refilling a portion of the old ditch so that the outer walls could be expanded.
Over all this industry, surrounding it, permeating it like a seasoning vapor, wafted the aroma of roasting meat and baking bread as the women turned spit and tended oven in an effort to feed the hungry builders. Meal bags full of apples, mounds of meat, mountains of bread, and whole wheels of cheese disappeared as soon as they were laid on the board, washed down by frothy rivers of beer and mead.
Liberally sown through the bustle and fuss, sprinkled like glittering dew or bright nuggets of gemstone, was the laughter of children. The enormity of the task, the grandness of the enterprise fascinated the younger inhabitants of Caer Dyvi, who encouraged it with squeals of delight at the wonders practiced before them. Their tireless good cheer lightened the load for their elders, and the picture of a workman standing over a child, hand lightly over the small hand beneath his own, guiding the tool, was a scene often observed throughout the caer. Though the work was hard, the high spirits and good humor of all concerned made it seem sometimes as if the walls were raised by laughter alone, as by childish enchantment.
Taliesin was no less caught up in the spell than the rest. He was everywhere, dodging roof beams as they swung through the air, riding the logs as they came up the incline, dipping his fingers into the caldron for a bit of meat, snatching an apple from a bag or filching a piece of cheese, creeping to the doorway of the dark hut on the river to hear the wheeze and whoosh of the Bellows and see the red fireglow on the black, glistening brow of the smith-descendant of Gofannon, god of the fiery forge-running along the log trail with the other boys to bring water and beer to thirsty woodcutters…
The days were good, and despite the long hours of labor it was a glad time for the people of Caer Dyvi. Elphin was a leader and a helper to his men-as often as not stripped to the waist, as they were, hair bound in a thick braid, hammer in hand astride a log newly raised to the wall, dripping sweat in the sun. This was how Hafgan found him one afternoon several weeks after Cormach’s visit.
“Hail, Hafgan, Henog of Gwynedd!” Elphin called down to him. The autumn sun was hot and bright, the sky deep autumn blue. He paused in his work to survey the scene, pride lighting his eyes as he drew an arm across his forehead. “What do you think, bard? Will the weather hold till we get a roof on?”
“The weather will hold, lord,” replied the druid, casting a critical eye to the sky.
“Then, by Lieu, we will have a hall before Samhain.”
“I think you will.” Hafgan stood, gazing up at Elphin, shading his eyes with his hand.
“Something else, Hafgan?” asked the king.
“A word, Lord Elphin.”
Elphin nodded and put down his hammer. He climbed down the birch ladder and came to where Hafgan was standing. “What is it, Hafgan?”
“Cormach has died. I must go bury him.”
Elphin nodded amiably. “I see. Yes, go.”
“I wish Taliesin to come with me.”
Elphin pulled on his mustache. “Is it necessary?”
Hafgan shrugged. “It would be instructive.”
“Would you be away long?”
“Two days, maybe three.”
“I suppose,” Elphin mused, “there is no harm in it.” Hafgan said nothing but merely stood silently by, allowing the king to make up his own mind. “Well, he can go if you like,” Elphin said and made to turn away. “I will tell his mother.”
“Thank you, lord,” replied Hafgan with a curious little bow.
Elphin saw the bow and turned back. “Thank you, Hafgan.”
“Lord?”
“You show me respect.”
“Have I ever shown you disrespect, lord?”
“You of all people know me for what I am-yet you have never Belittled me. For that, I thank you. Further, I know you could take Taliesin whenever you chose to, yet you come to me and ask. For that I thank you too.”
“Lord Elphin, it is because I know you for what you are that I have never Belittled you. And as to this other-how could I ever take something that was not mine to take?” He touched the back of his hand to his forehead. “Do not fear the time of testing, for you have mastered your strengths and your weaknesses. You will live long, my king, and will be forever remembered for the goodness of your heart and the wisdom of your reign.”
“Flattery?” Elphin smiled uneasily.
“Truth,” replied the draid.
Hafgan, Taliesin, and Blaise departed the next day. Ordinarily Taliesin would have welcomed the journey, but as it meant he would miss out on the work of the hall, he was less than happy about leaving. He did not voice any misgiving to Hafgan, and although the druid noticed the slump of the lad’s shoulders and his dragging heels and knew what the problem was, he said nothing. Disappointment, however slight, was a reality of life to be dealt with, and Taliesin was learning.
“What is the color of summer?” asked Blaise after a while. They were following a well-used forest track, heading north and west to Dolgellau where they would join the other druids gathering to bear Cormach’s body to the cromlech on the hill Below Garth Greggyn. The three strode along the wooded track, Hafgan with his new rowan staif, Blaise with his staif of elm, and Taliesin with his willow staff, impatiently whipping the supple wand at branches along the path.
“Huh?” Taliesin swiveled around.
“The color of summer,” repeated Blaise. “What is it?”
The boy thought for a moment. “It is-hmmm… gold!” he declared triumphantly.
“You mean green, do you not, Taliesin? I think autumn should be gold.”
“No,” replied Taliesin. “Autumn is gray.”
“Gray?” Blaise shook his head in bewilderment. “The things you say, Taliesin. What do you think, Hafgan?”
The druid did not answer. “What color is spring, Taliesin?”
“White.”
“And winter? What color?”
“Winter is black.”
Blaise laughed. “Summer is the only season of color in your world, Taliesin. Do you realize that?”
“Of course,” he answered without hesitation, swinging the willow wand easily. “That is why I am going to be King of the Summer and my realm will be known as the Kingdom of Summer. While I am king there will be no winter, no autumn, and no spring.”
“Only summer?” said Blaise suddenly serious. He had caught the wistful note in the boy’s voice and had stopped laughing.
“Only summer. There will be no darkness and no dying, and the land will flow with all good things.” Taliesin became quiet then and said no more. The three walked on in silence, listening to the woodland sounds.
They reached the settlement by midday. Dolgellau lay in a shallow, wooded valley beside a fresh cold-water stream. It had no gates, no walls, or earthwork defenses, but relied on seclusion and the strength of its neighbors for safety. The people welcomed them cordially, for Cormach had served them long and well as bard, counselor, prophet, and physician. The fain chief saw Hafgan’s staff and hastened to meet him. “We made a bier for him,” he said. “Bard told us to hew it out of new hawthorn.”
Hafgan nodded.
“It is what he wanted. We have done all he asked and I regret that we could not do more.”
“I am certain you have done well,” Hafgan told him. “We will take him now. You and your people may accompany us if you wish.”
“Will you require horses?”
“No, we will carry him.”
“Let it be as you wish.” They moved through the village under the lively scrutiny of the clansmen. Blaise leaned close to Hafgan and whispered, “Why are they looking at us like that?”
“It is Taliesin they are looking at,” Hafgan answered. Taliesin, however, appeared perfectly oblivious to the attention he was getting and walk
ed with his head erect, eyes straight ahead.
Yes, thought Hafgan, he is the King of Summer and his reign will know neither cold nor darkness. But summer is short in the Island of the Mighty, Taliesin, and winter will not be held back forever. All things yield in their season. Still, let the light shine, lad; while it burns, let it dazzle the greedy night like starfall.
They arrived at a small thatched hut at the far end of the settlement. Three of the Brotherhood sat on the ground outside the hut, each in his blue robe; the empty bier lay nearby, covered with boughs of fir and yew. When they saw Hafgan they all stood.
Hafgan greeted them by name. “Kellan, Ynawc, Selyv, is all in order here?”
Selyv answered, “All is in order. The body has been prepared, and I have sent the others to the grove to await us there.”
“Good,” said Hafgae. He stooped and pushed his way through the deerskin hanging at the door of the hut. A moment later he held back the hide flap and beckoned Blaise and Taliesin to enter.
Taliesin followed Blaise and found himself in a single-room dwelling which had no windows but only a round smoke hole in the roof to let in light and let out the smoke from the hearth in the center of the room. Stretched out on his bed of rushes lay the body of Cormach, his hands folded over his chest. Two tallow candles-one at the Chief Druid’s head, another at his feet-cast a thin yellow glow against the limed mud wall.
Taliesin looked at the body and was struck by the fact that it no longer looked like Cormach. There was no doubt that it had been the Chief Druid-the features and shape were the same-but it was clear that Cormach himself had utterly vanished. The spirit that had animated the body was gone, and its absence made the husk on the ground seem terribly frail and inconsequential, a residue, a mere afterthought of the person that had been.
“He is gone,” whispered Taliesin. He had not viewed many dead bodies and lowered his voice in the corpse’s presence as he would in a sickroom. “Cormach is gone.”
“Yes,” agreed Hafgan. “He is well on his journey now.”
He touched Blaise on the arm and stepped to the corpse’s head; Blaise took his place at the feet.
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