by Lowri Thomas
Taliesin tapped Glyn-Guinea’s elbow and they rose together as Awel swept into the hollow. Her eyes flashed with ire and Glyn-Guinea took an involuntary step backwards.
‘May the light spare me from the stupidity of men!’ she came to a stop in front of Glyn-Guinea and leaned on her staff. ‘Come with me, time is running short.’ She spun on her heel, her cloak billowing out behind her as she hurried back up the pathway.
Glyn-Guinea trotted behind her, his heart racing and his hand itching to slip his pipe from his pocket. Taliesin walked steadily behind them, easily keeping up with Awel’s urgent pace. She led them to a clearing where a grand, richly embroidered silk tent dominated the centre. It was held aloft by stout hazel poles braced with barley coloured ropes and staked into the ground with copper pickets. Pale cream roses and creeping ivy wound their way around the guy ropes, thorny bushes stood guard on three sides and small scented flowers stood in clumps around the pathway that led to the entrance lit by two flaming torches driven into the ground. ‘Come.’ Awel stalked towards the tent, pulled the door flap aside and beckoned them inside with her staff.
Glyn-Guinea’s footsteps faltered as he stepped inside. The pavilion was enormous and richly adorned with woven carpets covering the floor and silk tapestries decorating the walls, but what caused him to catch his breath were the Bwy Hir themselves all collected together, some standing, some sitting, others reclining amongst embroidered cushions, but all were staring at him with a mixture of mild interest, impatience or curiosity.
In the centre of the gathering Aeron and Mab were sitting side by side. Aeron was sitting on the floor with his legs outstretched, his elbow resting on a cushion. Mab was kneeling with her legs to one side holding a silver goblet with bejewelled fingers. Mab gave a welcoming smile but Aeron wore a scowl.
Awel pushed Glyn-Guinea into the centre of the large carpet that decorated the centre of the pavilion. ‘May I present Elder Glyn Williams of the Chosen.’ Glyn-Guinea bowed to Mab and Aeron.
‘I am already acquainted with this man.’ Aeron’s voice was monotone. ‘Why have you come?’
Glyn-Guinea cleared his throat. ‘The mirrors, my Lord.’
‘And what about them?’ He leaned forward. ‘The process is by my command.’
Glyn-Guinea swallowed hard. He hadn’t anticipated making his petition to Aeron himself, he had hoped to speak to Awel so she could intercede on his behalf. Grateful, she took the opportunity to do just that.
‘This Chosen man comes because he is faithful to the Bwy Hir.’ She threw a scowl at Aeron. ‘Do not admonish him for his dedication.’ Aeron leaned back with a dismissive grunt.
Awel addressed the assembly. ‘The Host and the Druids have taken it upon themselves to undertake an enterprise that they believe will purge the Dderwydd Ddrych of the blight of the Ysbrydion.’ Murmured approval rippled through the Host. The Pride remained silent. ‘And yet this man,’ she said, spreading her hand towards the small figure shuffling awkwardly under their scrutiny, ‘comes to us with his great unease at such an undertaking.’
‘And what qualifies him to an opinion on the matter?’ Aeron drawled.
She spoke to Glyn-Guinea but kept her eyes fixed on Aeron. ‘Elder Glyn Williams of the Chosen, would you be so kind as to show us your torso?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ he stammered.
‘Your torso, if you would be so kind.’
Glyn-Guinea hastily unbuttoned his waistcoat. ‘I’m not one of them bloody Bradychwr.’ He grumbled as he fumbled with the last of his shirt buttons before pulling his shirt open to reveal his tattooed chest.
‘Ah.’ The Pride intoned their understanding together and Awel smiled smugly.
‘The Chosen who stands before you bares a greater understanding of the lore of earth bound magics: He is the son of the Gwrachod.’
Aeron accepted defeat. ‘Let us hear your concerns, Chosen, Son of the Gwrachod. Why should the mirrors not be salted?’
A collective intake of breath came from the Pride. They had obviously not been fully informed of the details of the proposed purging. Awel waved them to silence.
‘Well …’ Glyn-Guinea rubbed his chin. ‘The way I see it is that salting is a mistake – I know that spirits dislike salt – so I can see where the thought came from, but salting a mirror – a magic mirror, well, I think that you’re going to cause more harm than good.’
‘That’s it?’ Aeron spluttered incredulously. ‘That is your argument?’
‘He is correct.’ A small voice called out, the author making herself known by stepping up beside her brother. Gwenllian stood with her head held high and addressed the whole gathering.
‘Since time immemorial, the Gwrachod have used salt in the preparation of spells and in the purification of our instruments, our books of magic are littered with the application and usage of salt – it is a corner stone of our arts – and yet, there is danger with using such a seemly harmless earthbound element.’ She cast a warning eye over the gathering. ‘Salt will purify but it will also corrode. Salt will cleanse but it is also a conductor. Salt, despite being a conductor, will also dull magic, and it will bind!’ She wagged a gnarled finger. ‘A Human or animal can pass through a witch’s circle but a Bwy Hir? An Eternal Spirit? “A ring of salt to bind the spirit.” The mirrors will be as closed to you as they are to the Ysbrydion.’ She concluded, fixing Aeron with a glare. ‘The Druids have grown arrogant in their role as Keepers of the mirrors and in their conceit they are about to cast a death blow to the Triskele.’
Aeron sat bolt upright, anger lacing his voice. ‘What does the Gwrachod know of the Triskele? They are no part of the three!’ Spittle flew from his lips. ‘Dare you stand before me and condemn the Druids for their loyalty?’
Gwenllian was unbending in the face of the tirade. ‘The Gwrachod were the makers of the mirrors as equally as were the Druids and the Bwy Hir!’ She lifted her chin. ‘We may not be part of the Triskele but we are still faithful – we still watch and wait!’
‘Enough!’ Mab was on her feet. ‘Peace. Peace I say!’
Gwenllian snapped her jaw closed as Glyn-Guinea’s dropped open. Aeron threw himself back on his pillows, silently fuming.
Mab daintily lifted the hem of her flowing robes and stepped into the circle. ‘Take a seat, my friends.’
Awel ushered Gwenllian and Glyn-Guinea to one side as Mab smoothed her dress and gathered her thoughts. The Bwy Hir waited patiently for her reflections.
‘Time grows short … Chaos, disorder, distrust and turmoil have wormed their way into our hearts and left us bereft of grace and integrity.’ She turned to Aeron. ‘We are one, Aeron. A mighty oak of many branches, we must rise up together or be felled to lay rotting in broken shards upon the ground. We must come together and strike at the darkness that creeps ever closer, the darkness that threatens to swallow us one by one until nothing remains, not the Chosen nor Druid, Host nor Pride, man nor woman nor child, nothing will remain.
Lest we forget the Gwrachod chose to separate from the Triskele long ago. They foretold of this day. A day when the Triskele would face annihilation and evil would rule in our stead. They chose to detach from us and disperse, to remain hidden, to wait and watch so that when the time came they would be able to offer shelter and aid to those fleeing from the holocaust, and we dare offer them insult this day, Aeron? Are they any less important to us that the Tylwyth Teg, who shelter and protect us? They are no part of the Triskele and yet they are still part of us.
I declare that we must unite together and we must heed the voices of all those who rally to us. I say stop the salting – at least for now – until we can be sure it is safe to do so. Let us gather the sharpest minds among the Druids and bring them here to the Dell. Call the Gwrachod. Call the Chosen. We must call an assembly and decide together how and where we strike at the Ysbrydion, how strike at the heart of Arawn with every weapon we can muster. We cannot do this alone – you cannot do this alone. Time grows short.’
Ra
pt silence filled the pavilion. Awel was the first to seize her opportunity. ‘Our queen has called us to arms, how do we answer?’ Her voice rose with conviction, ‘How do we stand?’
Bran jumped to his feet. ‘So hath she commanded, so do I obey!’ One by one they rose to their feet, all calling out their assent. Aeron was the last to his feet with a whimsical look on his face and gave a mock bow towards Mab. ‘Should I rise as sovereign or a supplicant?’
Mab raised an eyebrow. ‘You rise as Aeron Ddu, King of the Winter Realm, Pro-tem Arch Orphanim of the Bwy Hir.’ His bow was deeper this time and filled with unaffected respect.
A small tugging on her sleeve caused her to look down into the flushed face of Glyn-Guinea. ‘If you please, ma’am, the mirrors?’
She raised an eyebrow and he snapped his hand away, his face blushing crimson. ‘Peace, Chosen.’ She raised her head and turned to Aeron. ‘The mirrors are in peril. Will you send Celyn-Bach with this man to Maen-Du and halt the salting?’
Aeron nodded his assertion. ‘If we are not too late.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘Bryn, Bryn, can you hear me?’ Reverend Morgan whispered through the bars of his prison. He had been separated from the other prisoners and locked up in a cage behind the main row of cages where the majority of prisoners were kept, but if he pressed his head against the back wall of his prison he could snatch whispers of conversations and goings on from the main housing.
‘Bryn, Bryn, I know you’re there – answer me!’ His hoarse, urgent whisper sounded thunderous to his ears. He heard a shuffling and low moan before the wretched voice answered, ‘I hear you, vicar.’
‘”Then they cried to theLord in their trouble, and he delivered them from their distress.” Do not give up hope, Bryn. Help will come.’ He whispered earnestly, ‘Already there is another one here, another Nephilim. If some are good like you say, maybe he will help deliver us to safety?’
Bryn rolled his head against the back wall of his cage in despair. If another of the Bwy Hir were truly here, then they were both Arawn and Atgas’ confederate, else they were a prisoner the same as he.
‘Bryn, Bryn?’ Reverend Morgan pressed his face against the walls of the cage. ‘Have faith, this will soon be over.’
He gently prodded the fleshy half heeled wounds on his arms. She would be here soon, with her wicked knife and vicious touch. He wished he was dead. ‘I pray that it is, vicar, I pray that it is.’
The familiar rattle of the chain on the outer fence announced the arrival of Atgas. A tear slid down Bryn’s face as he forced himself upright and shuffled towards the front of his cage. He numbly slid his arm through the bars, his wrist upturned and waited. Hopefully she’d cut too deep or hit an artery and then it would be over.
The vicar’s voice suddenly rang out from the darkness. ‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor …’
Bryn watched as Atgas appeared, she was smiling as she ran her knife along the bars of the cages. He heard the other prisoners shy back in their cages and whimper. ‘Louder, vicar!’ she called as she stalked the cages, ‘Double portions today!’
The vicar’s unsteady voice called back, ‘He hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised! Have faith, stand fast!’
She grabbed Bryn’s wrist and he let out an involuntary yelp. ‘Does it hurt, little man?’ she whispered cruelly, delighting in his pain. ‘Console yourself …’ She drew the knife across his arm, just above the wrist and allowed the blood to spill into a bowl she’d set at her feet. ‘Your blood will bolster our army. New Wraith Warriors are coming and your blood will ensure that your villages will be plundered anew. Your families and livestock will perish.’
Bryn was shaking, he felt cold and tired, so tired, but he looked Atgas in the eye and gave what he hoped was more smile than grimace. ‘Do your worst, Atgas Adfyw. I am Chosen and will not be cowed by the likes of you … Ahh!’ Atgas had twisted his wrist and jammed it hard against the bars of his cage. His cry rang out in the silence and was only answered by the howl of a Cwn Annwn.
Finally she released his arm and he collapsed into the filthy straw strewn floor. ‘I am Bwy Hir!’ she hissed. ‘You will cower at my feet!’ Without a backward glance she collected her bowl and moved on to the next bloodletting.
‘Bryn. Bryn?’ Reverend Morgan received no reply.
Cadno paced up and down the edge of the circle. He had already made the mistake of touching the invisible walls of his prison and received a thunderous shock of pain for his troubles. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again; his arm still throbbed.
Even on tiptoe he could not see what was going on in the cages and pens where Atgas had headed armed with a knife and bowl. He had heard a voice calling out, reciting what he presumed was a Bible verse and then heard the shriek of pain but after that there had been nothing but silence. What was she doing? Killing them all or bloodletting? Why does she need so much blood? Why did they have a Cristion? Was that the voice he’d heard? Where was Arawn?
He threw his hands in the air and let out a frustrated growl. Too many questions and not enough answers. Since Atgas’ furious departure he had been left alone; he wasn’t even guarded. He spun in a slow circle, it was getting lighter somehow. Shapes and forms began to emerge as the darkness receded.
The light was coming from above, slowly filtering through the underside of a huge lake suspended in the air. Below it was a smaller lake where huge droplets of water descended from above to splash in murky droplets. Hulking shadows became ash trees and hazel thickets, crags and hillocks. There was only one place on earth where this place could exist: he was in the Pride’s Lair.
Another scream tore through the cavern, echoing into silence. Cadno’s heart lurched at the pitiful resonance. What was Atgas doing? Killing everyone? He had to do something – didn’t he? He lifted his chin and began to chant.
‘We adhere to the command of the Alpha and Omega: Thou shalt not spill the blood of my children – And so the Bwy Hir must stand fast – Until we are absolved of our father’s sins – So we must obey – Atgas. We must obey!’ His voice thundered in a high pitched plea.
Silence. ‘Atgas. You hear me? You hear me, Atgas?’ His voice echoed off the cavern walls before descending into an ominous silence broke only by the splashing of the lake.
‘She hears you but she’s quite mad. She enjoys inflicting pain, but then you already know that.’ Cadno spun around. Arawn stood at the edge of the circle, arms folded, feet planted apart. Cadno was shocked to see how much Arawn had altered since he last saw him in Dduallt. He had decayed somehow; his skin, or as Cadno reminded himself – Afagddu’s skin had withered and had taken a grey cast. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken, his veins stood out on his forearms, varicose and engorged. The two huge antlers fixed to either side of his head were dull and desiccated, his spine had begun to recoil and he stood slightly stooped. Cadno cringed at Arawn’s wasted state.
‘He never liked you.’ Arawn stood as if listening to a far off whisper. ‘In fact, he hated you.’
‘Who?’ Cadno was cautiously intrigued.
‘Afagddu.’ Arawn frowned as if Cadno had asked an absurd question.
Cadno tried to keep his face blank. ‘The feeling was mutual.’
‘He didn’t like the way you grabbed his neck in the Druids’ Hall of Maen-Du when you dragged him to Dduallt.’ Arawn smiled at Cadno’s obvious discomfort. ‘I however, thank you. It made it so much easier for me to find him.’
‘Is he … is he in there?’ Cadno grimaced. ‘Inside you?’
Arawn pursed his blue-tinged lips. ‘Actually, when you think about it, it is I who is in him.’
Cadno shuddered, aware of how Arawn was looking at him, hungrily, covetously. He turned his face away from Arawn’s scrutiny.
‘Why are you here?’ Arawn broke the silence.
&
nbsp; ‘It wasn’t exactly my choice.’ Cadno slowly turned his face back to Arawn. ‘What do you intend to do with me?’
‘Will you surrender your body to me?’ Arawn’s voice held a tinge of challenge.
‘No,’ Cadno replied flatly, ‘although for the right price I may be able to help you secure another.’
‘Oh?’ Arawn took a step closer to the circle’s edge, careful not to get too close. ‘And how do you intend to do that?’ He waved a hand towards the invisible wall between them.
Cadno rubbed his chin and tilted his head towards the ceiling as if thinking aloud. ‘Well, the way I see it, there are two ways, both of which will require my release.’
Arawn threw his head back and laughed but Cadno talked over his mirth. ‘I am still one of the Bwy Hir. I can enter the Dell, lure a female out and deliver her to you here – a fertile female – one who has just provided a daughter to the Pride. You can take her – sire a child – sire your own Bwy Hir body.’ Cadno shivered inwardly at the thought. ‘Or set me free and I will track down Taliesin’s Halfling sprog.’
Arawn leaned in and whispered in a comparative manner, ‘Atgas will not set you free … she wants me to have your body.’ He made the pantomime of looking over his shoulder. ‘I would hate to disappoint her.’
‘My answer is no.’ Cadno scowled and took a step back away from Arawn.
‘I thought that would be your answer.’ Arawn shook his head sadly but a smirk played on his lips. He turned on his heel and walked away from the circle as Cadno looked on bemused and unnerved. Whatever game Arawn was playing Cadno had no idea on the rules or how to plan the next move and that left him terrified.
‘Bring me the Cristion.’ Arawn’s voice bellowed through the cavern. Cadno watched and waited as the little Christian man was frogmarched past the circle.
‘Cristion!’ Cadno called to him, ‘I am Cadno. Think me not evil, Cristion. “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone” – eh, Cristion!’