“And also the High Druid of Glencairck,” Aodhgán pointed out.
“Well, yes, that too.” He gestured to the stables. “Settle your horses, and come to the hall.”
Gwydion had heard of the High Druid, but the man walking away wearing no cloak and shooing chickens out of the way was not what he had expected. He felt a certain curiosity reassert itself, along with some trepidation. If the High Druid had expected him, his situation could be even worse than he thought.
The company stabled their horses, and walked to the hall, which was not much bigger than one of the outbuildings at Caer Dathyl. Gwydion wondered if the whole company would fit inside, but only Aodhgán went in with him.
Several trestle tables flanked a long open fire pit, currently banked. At the far end, a table sat perpendicular to the rest, but was not raised like a traditional high table. It was very much like the halls Gwydion had visited all over Gwynedd, but there was a power that filled the room so palpable that Gwydion began to sweat.
Aodhgán led him to the high table where Gareth was talking softly to a man who wore a cloak made of bird feathers, arranged in six stripes of color. Gwydion recognized the Tuigin from tales he knew even though he had never met the man wearing it. He stopped short and bowed low. “Pen Bardd,” he said.
Columb mac Col, Pen Bardd of Glencairck, said, “’Tis myself. Have a seat.” He had enough hair for Gareth and several others, dark blonde waves that fell over his shoulders. Even his beard and moustache looked silky.
Gwydion looked at the two men, arguably the most powerful people in Glencairck besides the Ard Righ, sitting at a plain table with no one else around. Gareth indicated a pitcher and several cups. “Help yourself,” he said. “It’s only apple cider, but it is freshly pressed.”
“I don’t understand,” Gwydion said, sinking into a chair as plain as the table. “I thought I was going to be judged…”
“Oh, you are,” Columb said, pouring a cup and passing it to Aodhgán.
“But just the two of you…” Gwydion said.
“Do you doubt our ability, or our authority?” Gareth said gently.
The gentle tone did not soften the sting of rebuke for Gwydion. “My apologies. It’s just not what I expected.”
“We hear that more than you know,” Columb said. He poured another cup of cider and pushed it towards Gwydion.
The smell made his mouth water, but he didn’t touch it. “So what happens now?” he asked.
“We talk,” Columb said with a shrug.
Gareth said, “Specifically, you tell us what you think has brought you here. And there is one warning I will give you: both Columb and I are very adept at spotting a lie. So please give us only the truth. It will make it a lot easier for all of us, but especially for you.”
Gwydion had expected something more formal, but he knew that he would have to tell his story, so he squared his shoulders and began, starting with his desire to get Arianrhod alone for a while, and all the actions that had come from that. He told about himself, Gil, Math, and Bran; how he had come up with the idea of drawing Dyfed into war. He told of his hatred of Kyrnin, and how that hatred had culminated in Kyrnin’s death. He spoke of returning to Gwynedd, wounded, and being left at Caer Don, where he was able to fulfill his lustful desires. And he told about how Gilventhy fulfilled his, and how he knew.
He paused to take a long drink, before telling about the tower battle. He had thought about it so often since it happened that the telling came out more impersonal and impassionate than he felt. He avoided the eyes on him, of three men who he was sure despised him. He told of the tower’s fall and the bardic company’s arrival before he looked up.
Aodhgán was nodding his head, and Gareth looked sadly sympathetic. The Pen Bardd looked like he was carved from stone, however, and it scared Gwydion. As he sat silently, Gwydion got more and more nervous. Columb finally roused himself, and said, “I have a few questions.”
Gwydion took a gulp of cider, and said, “I will answer as best I can.”
“Yes, you will,” Columb said. “First of all, what happened to Bran? Did he die?”
“No, I healed him.”
“How?”
“With music.”
“And how did you get him back to Caer Don?”
“A woman named Ruchalia helped me.”
“And who is Ruchalia?”
So Gwydion told him about his training, and how he had met the boar, and the things she had taught him.
“But she didn’t teach you how to heal Bran?”
“No, she just guided me.”
“I see.” Columb tapped the edge of his cup. “Do you have anything, Gareth?”
“A few questions come to mind, yes,” the High Druid said. The two of them proceeded to pepper him with questions about the hows and the whys of his actions, always trying to get deeper into both his motivation and his specific action. Gwydion answered them as completely as he could; the telling of his story had drained him emotionally and he found it hard to concentrate. When they finally finished, Aodhgán led him out of the hall, and Gwydion was surprised to find the sky dark and peppered with stars. He tried to figure out how long he had been in with the High Druid and the Pen Bardd, but it turned out to be too difficult. He just followed Aodhgán to room containing a simple pallet and rough woolen blanket. Gwydion laid down gratefully and full into a deep sleep.
Gareth woke him the next morning. Gwydion could see the sunlight through the open doorway, and he said, “How long have I slept?”
“Not as long as you might wish, but we have things to do,” Gareth said.
“We do?”
Gareth nodded. “Despite the tragedy that you have lived through, life goes on, and so must we.”
Gwydion wanted to protest, but instead got up and followed Gareth into the yard of the dun. He saw a few people doing small chores: mending a rope, feeding the chickens, carving a spoon. None of them wore cloaks, and he realized with a start that they were all priests.
Gareth led him out of the dun and into one of the surrounding fields. The High Druid gave him a sack and they spent the rest of the morning harvesting carrots. Gwydion spent the first hour worrying about his fate, but then he fell into the rhythm of the picking, and let himself just drift without thought.
Gareth touched his shoulder, and Gwydion followed him to a spot under a shady tree where they ate a simple meal of bread and cheese, washed down by more cider. The ruins lay before them, dark and ugly, and Gwydion couldn’t help but ask, “What was that place?”
“Caer Cadia,” Gareth said. “Have you heard of it?”
“I don’t think so,” Gwydion answered.
“It’s a good story, rather appropriate for you right now,” Gareth said. “Caer Cadia used to be the home of the High Druid, before Cathbar. It was a grand place, with high towers and many artisans, who spent their days decorating. It was said that every stone was a sculpture, and every post a work of art. Even after Cathbar overthrew the Ard Righ and the bards, the High Druid at the time, Imchad, thought that Cathbar wouldn’t dare attack the druids, and basically ignored the situation.”
Gareth sighed. “It really caught Imchad off guard when Cathbar came here with his army and demanded that the High Druid bless him as rightful ruler of Glencairck. Imchad found himself caught in a dilemma: give in to a powerful man, or honor his commitment to the truth. He asked for time to pray and reflect, and Cathbar gave him a day. When Imchad returned and said that he could not bless him since he was not the rightful ruler, Cathbar attacked the caer, and killed everyone he found inside. Then he burned it, not just with flame, but with bael fire as well, melting away all the beauty, and reducing it to the monstrosity you see now.”
“But that was hundreds of years ago,” Gwydion said. “Why haven’t you rebuilt it yet?”
Gareth smiled sadly. “As beautiful as Caer Cadia was, it was also a distraction and a source of pride. We prefer to live simply now, in the shadow of the ruins, where we can se
e for ourselves everyday what can happen when we forget our sacred obligations.”
Gwydion looked at the ruins, but saw only the fallen tower. “Am I destined to be the monster that Cathbar was?”
“Oh, hardly,” Gareth said. “Not even Cathbar was destined for it. Like most of us, he faced hard choices, and he made the decisions based on his own free will. But his understanding of right and wrong was perverted by his power; he thought that since he could do something, that he should do it.”
“A wise man once told me that winning a battle meant controlling the outcome, even if that meant that you lost, it the traditional sense.”
“That’s right,” Gareth said, wiping a hand across his bald head. “Cathbar thought that he knew the best way to run things, which was his first, and gravest mistake. He had the power of the bards, as well as the Cymry, just like you; he could have had a longer effect, or at least a more positive one. He could have made meaningful changes that improved everyone’s life. Instead he chose to dominate and control, and ruined not just individual lives, but the whole country for a generation.”
“That’s what I fear for myself,” Gwydion said softly.
“Sure, but it’s not just you,” Gareth said. “All of us who use, or are able to use, power find ourselves concerned with how to do so safely.” A priest waved to them from the gate of the dun, and Gareth raised his hand in acknowledgement. “It’s time to go in now. It looks like Columb is ready for us.”
The Pen Bardd sat at the head table, stroking his moustache. Gwydion approached him hesitantly, and Gareth stayed at his side the whole time. Gwydion stopped in front of the table and bowed deeply. “I await your judgment, Pan Bardd,” he said.
Columb leaned forward. “Gwydion ap Don,” he said. “Why are you here?”
Gwydion straightened. “To answer the charges against me,” he said.
“And what are the charges?”
“Treason.”
“Against whom?”
“Math ap Mathonwy, Lord Gwynedd.”
Columb said, “You do realize that treason cannot be committed against a cantref Lord, do you not?”
Gwydion blinked. “I did not.”
Columb leaned back. “So you tricked a fellow Tanist and stole his prize cow.”
“I did.”
“And when he tried to kill you, which he had sworn to do the first time you met, you defended yourself at the cost of his life.”
Gwydion wanted to protest, but said, “Yes, that’s what happened.”
“Why did you start the cattle raid?” Columb said.
Gwydion sighed. “To bed Arianrhod and allow Gilventhy to bed Goewin.”
“And what did you tell Math the reason was?”
“Because the Dyfedians were raiding our southern border with stronger intent than just stealing cattle.”
“Did you have proof of this?”
“Yes.”
“And was any of this reasoning false?” Columb said, his eyes twinkling.
“No, but it wasn’t the driving reason,” Gwydion said.
“So you started with one goal: bedding a young lady. But the method you chose for that goal, going to war, had a valid reason?” Columb leaned forward again. “Did you lie to your uncle about the Dyfedian threat?”
“No, but—”
“So you did not deceive him?”
“I did about my intent,” Gwydion said.
“So the fact that Kyrnin incited his laird to kill your laird had nothing to do with it?”
“Of course it did.”
Columb tapped the table. “I’m trying to get you to see that even though you had ulterior motive, the war you set in motion was not exactly avoidable. You brought things to a head faster than it might have happened, but maybe only by months.”
“But the rape, and the tower—” Gwydion protested.
“Did Gil tell you he would take Goewin against her will?”
“No, but—”
“And did you request a bardic judgment?”
“I did, but—”
Columb waved away his complaints. “You are not responsible for Gil’s crime. And it is not a crime to defend yourself from someone trying to kill you.”
“So what you’re saying…”
Columb rose to his feet. “Gwydion ap Don, I am ready to render my judgment in this matter: you are hereby cleared of any wrongdoing in the rape of Goewin, and in the death of Math ap Mathonwy and Gilventhy ap Don.”
Gwydion felt a little light headed. “I’m innocent?”
“I’m not finished,” Columb said. “There is the matter of how you defended yourself against your uncle.”
“There is?”
Columb said, “You are not a bard. Your use of bardic magic is of great concern to me. So I hereby order you to study for the bardic star. If you succeed, you will become a bard.”
Gwydion said, “And if I fail?”
“You will be bound magically, taken to Gorsedd Ogham, and stripped of your bardic power.”
“You can do that?” Gwydion said.
“I can,” Columb said.
Gwydion did not doubt the flint in the Pen Bardd’s eyes, but a thought struck him. “And that’s it? What about Gwynedd? And Caer Dathyl, and all the people affected by what has happened?”
“You will no longer be Tanist,” Columb said. “So it is not your concern.”
“How can you say that?” Gwydion said. “It’s my home!”
Columb shook his head. “Not any longer.”
“And if I refuse the training?”
“Then we will go to Gorsedd Ogham today.” Columb sighed. “I understand your guilt, I really do. But you must learn to control your power, one way or another.”
“I know,” Gwydion said.
“Well?” Columb asked. “What will you choose?”
Gwydion looked him in the eye. “When do I begin?”
The Two Tanists (A Bard Without a Star, Book 2) Page 10