The old man gestured to the warband. “Look upon what you see here before you… the Cauldron that is always Full, the Sceptre that a king bears, the Maiden that is the Land. Choose between them, warriors, and choose wisely. One may be He Who Sees Beyond to the true Nature of the Cup.”
Bohrs pushed forward, ever eager, and grasped the bowl in his thick hands, lifting it above his head. “A full bowl of food and the full bellies of the people is always a good thing! Without food, where would we be? Dead!”
The companions laughed, though Ardhu with unease. What if this game was played to deceive and the prize would be snatched away, with no real chance of winning it?
Hwalchmai stepped forth next, reverently lifting the sceptre with its flashing pins of gold. “A peaceful land with a strong lord to rule over it is good land. When chiefs fall to warring, the land and its bounty is diminished.”
Hwalchmai placed the sceptre back into its place and was about to sit back down at Ardhu’s side, when Mordraed shoved him aside, almost making him drop the holy relic in his hands. Mordraed’s eyes were hot as brands as he stared at Ivormyth, who sat head bowed, her hair pooling around her like black water. “It’s the girl, isn’t it?” he cried. “The other objects merely fool the greedy and the power-starved… the food bowl for Bohrs who dreams of naught but haunches of roast pig and beakers of beer, and the sceptre for Hwalchmai, a landless kinsman eternally basking in the glory of his betters! The girl is the key… She is Sovereignty, the Cup is her, and I will claim her here and now!”
Reaching down, he grasped Ivormyth’s slender wrist and yanked her to her feet, his expression one of triumph.
Ivormyth glanced up, eyes flashing, and slapped him with full force across the face.
“Bitch!” He dropped her arm and drew his dagger as Maheloas leapt up to pull Ivormyth away. Ardhu and Hwalchmai swung into action, grabbing Mordraed’s arms and pinioning them behind his back, while Bohrs ripped the knife from his hand and flung it upon the ground.
“You dishonour me!” Mordraed screamed, incandescent with rage. “It was the true answer, the meaning of the Cup… but you have no intent of giving us the treasure, do you, Maheloas? Your savages probably want to cut out our hearts and give them to your god, Bloody Crescent!”
“Enough!” Ardhu’s fist shot out, striking Mordraed in the mouth and drawing blood. The blow was strong enough to drive Mordraed to his knees, head reeling. “You will not insult our hosts. If you do not hold your tongue, I will give you to the spirits myself!”
Maheloas walked across the hut and stared down at Mordraed. “You were wrong, boy. Wrong. As were the others. The Cup is bound with all you have seen, and yet none. Its true meaning remains locked from you, and none here is noble or pure enough to witness its brightness, the Sun bound in a Cup of Gold. I would ask you now to leave the Mansion of the Good God and his Son. Follow the river back to the shore, take ship and do not look back. We will not harm you if you agree to this, but if you do not go in peace, I cannot guarantee your safety.”
“Wait!” It was Gal’havad who spoke now. Clambering to his feet, he faced the shaman. The light shining through the door at his back turned his hair into a halo of fiercest flame. His face was translucent pale, the face of one of the Everliving Ones who guarded the islands of the West. “I have not spoken yet. I beg you listen to me. I know the secret of the Cup of Gold.”
Maheloas’s brows rose; his shrew gaze scanned the young, ardent face before him, lit by an inner light that was almost not of the world. “Speak.”
“The mystery of the Cup is not in plenty, power or sovereignty. The secret is in here.” He laid his hand on his chest. “Its power is what is means to the man who holds it, who believes in its worth. It is nothing and everything.”
Maheloas’s lips drew to narrow lines. “Who are you, boy, who speaks words of a priest but wears a warrior’s garb?”
“I am Gal’havad, Hawk of Summer, prince of the Twilight.”
A sigh slipped from Maheloas’s lips. Unexpectedly, he sank down on one knee and clasped Gal’havad’s hand in his own. “You are the one. Dark and light, youth and death, warrior and mystic. You have won the right to the Cup of Gold for your people.”
Ardhu and his men stared, overjoyed at this sudden change in fortune, victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. Mordraed half-scrambled to his feet, snarling, and was slapped down to the ground again by Ardhu, who planted his heel upon his son’s wrist, pinning him to the spot.
Ivormyth, with great dignity, collected the bowl and the sceptre. Gravely she bowed to Gal’havad and placed them into his hands. “These will you have, lord of the Golden Cup: the Bowl of Plenty, the Sceptre of Power… and I will also be yours if that is your wish.”
“I wish it, lady,” he replied, blushing.
Maheloas came between them and took their hands and clasped them together. “An alliance between our people. This is good. On the night of the third day the Moon is reborn and then will the Lord Gal’havad claim the Cup and all the other treasures he has won.”
*****
The warriors of Ardhu Pendraec rejoiced, and so did the people of God’s Peak, the Spiralfort of the Good Dag and his Son. People danced around the stone circle throughout the day and night, and beakers were filled, and drunk and smashed. Offerings were given in the pit circle and to the maiden of the Holy Chalice and her chosen one, Gal’havad, winner of the Cup of Gold. The folk of Ibherna came from all around, climbing up the terraced hillside from the river to gift them with fruit and wheat sheaves and to give Ivormyth ancestral gifts to take to her new home in Prydn, the Isle of the Mighty—barrel-shaped beads and schist plaques of jadeite, a miniature axehead pendant and two polished balls for fertility.
Ardhu relaxed for the first time in many days. He drank from the same beaker as Maheloas, as they would soon be kin with the joining of his son and Maheloas’s daughter. He vaguely wondered how Fynavir would react when Gal’havad returned from his travels with a bride as well as the holy vessel; shocked no doubt, but perhaps since Ivormyth was of her own folk she would come to be glad.
As Ardhu drank to the health of the couple and the renewing of Prydn, Mordraed sulked, sitting in the blue shadows of the mighty God’s Peak, his back against a slab of intricately carved stone. He had been made a fool by the riddles and games of Maheloas and his haughty daughter, and by his own father, who should have stood up for him and not treated him like some miscreant. As for Gal’havad… envy gnawed at Mordraed. He could scarcely believe it. A mere few months ago, his half-brother had been just a boy, not even accepted as a Man of the Tribe, and now he was some kind of hero and about to wed the woman Mordraed desired for himself…
Cold snakes of fear writhed in his belly and suddenly he felt deathly ill. Gal’havad was becoming too powerful, too popular, despite his physical frailties, his shaking illness. It was time to act, time to make an end as he had sworn to do. He had been weak, and too merciful, sparing his half-brother too many times. It was time to do the will of Morigau, and to take the destiny he was owed.
He rose, heart hammering, gazing toward the cult-house where Gal’havad was ensconced with the girl, receiving gifts from the tribesmen of Ibherna. This deed had to be done; it was what he had been trained for, what he was sworn to do. So why did he feel so sick and shaken and sad… somehow so appalled and yet so intent on Gal’havad’s death?
“Am I falling ill?” He brushed his arm across his forehead. He did feel slightly hot. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. He did not understand this; he was never sick. But it would make no difference.
The deed had to be done.
When the Moon was reborn, Gal’havad would claim the Cup of Gold as Maheloas had decreed.
When the Moon was reborn, Mordraed would be waiting.
For he was the Dark Moon, eclipsing the light, son of a broken taboo. Fingers trembling, he touched the scar on his face where Morigau had marred him, marking him as the chosen one of her malevolent lunar spirits
.
In the time of the Dark Moon, death walked.
*****
Ivormyth moved like mist across the trampled earth before the portal stone of God’s Peak. Twilight had fallen and a purple haze hung over the land, giving it a surreal glamour, where trees and rocks and river seemed strange and distorted, half in the world of reality and half fading into an Otherness. Reverently she knelt in a dip in the ground before the tomb’s entrance and left an offering, a rounded ball of quartz, amidst a pile of older gifts peeping through the soil—pebbles from distant seashores, a stone phallus, tools that had been used to prepare the dead before they were cremated and their ashes placed inside the passage-grave. Then, rising, she stoked the eternal flames–the Fires of Uffern—that burned in stone lanterns on either side of the portal of God’s Peak. Imported oil spat and flames curled into the dusk, spitting and sizzling. The vast carved stone of the many spirals lit up, its tangle of lines seeming to curl and coil as shadows raced over its surface. The white quartz revetment behind gleamed with a spectral bone-light as the Moon, reborn, rose in the East and soared toward that ancient place of Ancestors.
Ivormyth bowed to the entrance-stone and then sprang lightly up and over it, vanishing into the blackness of the great cairn.
As she vanished from sight, Mordraed slid out from behind one of the boulders of the surrounding stone circle. He was not quite sure what he intended to do—only that something this night would change… change forever.
Carefully, quietly, he slithered on his belly over the spiral stone, and crawled on hands and knees into the passage, keeping low in the darkness to avoid detection. Gravel and bits of charred matter ground into his palms but he made no outcry. Glancing up, he could see spurs of stone jutting into the long, narrow tunnel; this ancient grave was almost barricaded across its width, as if to dissuade from entering all but the most reverent or determined.
Continuing on, he eventually spied Ivormyth in the furthest chamber. She had lit another stone lantern and was on her knees making obeisance to whatever spirits her tribe worshipped. Her back was to him, and she faced a niche carved with a triple spiral; it was here the Winter sun fell at dawn, the shaft of the sun piercing the dark womb of the holy hill. Other recesses also became visible, dark mouths in the tentative light; in them stood vast stone basins, decorated, filled with a jumble of cremated human bones. An astounding cantilevered dome covered the final chamber—the true turret of Spiralfort, the God’s Peak.
Mordraed gazed on this holy of holies with awe and for a moment his resolve wavered. The spirits here were strange to him; they almost seemed to sap his power, making his hand tremble and his heart heavy. But despite his sudden unease, he crawled over the shallow sill-stone into one of the niches and wedged himself in behind one of the cinerary basins.
He was quiet, using all the arts of moving silently that he had learned from the hunt… but Ivormyth heard something nonetheless, a shuffle, a breath in the shadows, and she turned her head swiftly and for a second he thought he was undone.
But she made no move, perhaps thinking it was a friendly spirit, some old mother from times past, or even just a small animal rummaging in the tomb, or leaves blown in on the wind. Turning back to the holy of holies, she reached into the fire-lit niche and drew out a beautiful cup.
Mordraed had never seen its like before. Fashioned like a drinking beaker, it was wrought from a single lump of pure gold, with descending rows of corrugated rills whose edges caught the flickering light. Unusually it had a grooved handle, also of gold, riveted on by tiny lozenges that resembled Ardhu’s breastplate. Reverently she lifted the Cup, touching the cold metal to her lips. “Blessed Cup of Plenty, one of the Hallows of these isles,” she breathed. “Wrought by the bright lords from Murias, across the sundering sea, fashioned in the breath of Dag the Good God whose Cauldron is never empty. Now to pass to the Prince of Evening, to restore the fortunes of his land and augment those of mine.”
So saying, she reached to a woven basket she had brought with her and removed a wooden keg and poured a draught from it into the Cup. She tasted it herself; allowed to touch this man’s drink because of her priestly status. Satisfied the drink was properly brewed, she set the Cup carefully on a jutting ledge of stone, where it gleamed like a fallen sun. The drink within it, whatever it was brewed from, shone the colour of dark, arterial blood.
Rising, Ivormyth bowed to the Cup, to the Ancestors that surely swirled, bone-dust and ether, in such a holy, ancient space. “I will return, O Mighty Ones,” she murmured, “with he who will become one with me, who will drink the Breath of Life from this Cup of Plenty and unite our isles forever.”
Turning, she swept down the passage, her robes trailing behind her like mist.
Mordraed’s heart almost leaped from his chest it beat so hard. This was the moment… the moment of his destiny, his triumph. Surely it was meant to be, all his mother had worked for. The spirits had guided the arrogant bitch Ivormyth away, and left the Cup unguarded. The Cup that Gal’havad would drink from.
The Cup he would poison.
Laughing under his breath, he reached inside his jerkin and drew out the tiny clay vial Morigau had given him. At the same time he drew forth Gal’havad’s tawdry purple cup, which he had stolen in the night. Hurling it to the floor, he smashed it in two and ground the bits into the dust. If it did protect from poison—and of that he was doubtful—its power was truly shattered now.
Slinking forward, he approached the shimmering Cup of Plenty. It beckoned to him, almost daring him to take it for his own, but he resisted. It would be more useful as it was… the Cup of Life… but by his design an instrument of death. Unstopping Morigau’s flask, he poured its contents into the Cup. Acrid fumes rose then dispersed throughout the chamber.
The sound of approaching voices at the passage of God’s Peak made him whirl around in alarm. Ivormyth and Gal’havad were entering the tomb. Quickly he shoved the empty poison vial in his tunic and scuttled away to hide behind the huge funerary basin in its niche. Hot-eyed, he watched as his half-brother and the girl Ivormyth came into the terminal chamber of Spiralfort.
Ivormyth gestured for Gal’havad to kneel and he did so at once, bowing his bright head. With her thumb she traced patterns in ochre on his brow and cheeks. “Tonight you take the Holy Cup as your own; you are chosen, you will unite two lands. A new Sun will come, dawn will be bright. I will leave you here a while to ask the spirits about your path; what they will desire of you when you are a king of men. Drink freely of the elixir whose secret was passed down to us, time out of mind, from Ancestors long dust upon the Fields of Gold. It will help you see the Otherworld and know the Truth and your ultimate Destiny.”
“Will you stay with me?” he asked.
She shook her head but reached out and squeezed his hand. “No, it is for you alone as the one who is pure and holy enough to claim the Cup of Dag. But when it is over, my father Maheloas will join us and we will lie together this night and every night until forever.”
He grabbed her then, rough in his haste, and kissed her lips, her cheeks, her hair, and Mordraed, in the niche with the old bones scattered around him, grimaced in revulsion and envy. But then he stifled a laugh upon his sleeve. Envy? No need. Ivormyth would have a cold bedmate before the light of dawn…
Ivormyth pulled gently away from Gal’havad and, casting him one last smile, retreated down the corridor. Gal’havad knelt on the floor, hands spread out as though in supplication, staring at the Cup on the ledge before him. It seemed a long time before he moved; Mordraed chafed impatiently in his cramped hiding spot, willing him to drink.
Finally he climbed to his feet and took hold of the Cup. Light from its pure gold surface cast a warm glow on the cold grey stones of the burial chamber. “Spirits, I know not what your plan is for me. Whatever it is, know that I have always served you well. Maybe, within the draught from this blessed Cup, all the mysteries of the heavens and earth shall be revealed to me.”
Mo
rdraed shuddered as the younger man spoke; it was almost as if he knew, suspected. And yet… he raised the Cup, first holding it above his head as if to show the Spirits that he was ready to accept what Fate they brought him, then bringing its shining rim to his lips.
He drank deep, finishing the Cup in a single draught.
He stood for a few minutes, eyes closed, arms outstretched, almost god-like in the flickering of the stone lamp. Then, he began to choke. His eyes shot open and he fell to his knees, hand clutching at his throat.
Mordraed did not know why, but he could not watch in secret any longer. He burst from his hiding place and skidded across the cairn floor to tumble down a few feet from Gal’havad. His heart was racing, its furious beat making him nauseous, and sweat sprang on his brow, but it was cold as ice-water. What have I done? What have I done? his mind screeched, unbidden.
“Mordraed…” Gal’havad’s voice was a croak; he dragged himself towards his half-brother with an effort, his arms trembling like leaves in a high wind. “The gods, the Eternal Ones on the Plain of Honey… they have called to me… I must go to them… For me, the Cup has come with a great price, but I am sure this is indeed a gift and not punishment by the Great Ones… I will never again shake with the illness-inside-my-head when I am gone across the Plain…”
His face was white and earnest, his eyes unfocussed and dazed. “Mordraed,” he suddenly said, his voice small, like a child’s. “Take my hand. It is growing dark… so dark…”
Moon Lord: The Fall of King Arthur - The Ruin of Stonehenge Page 28