“No, Bran,” I replied, sending the Raven Chief away. “Cynan will not accompany you now.”
I watched as the boats landed on the opposite shore and the pack animals were quickly loaded. The Ravens mounted; Bran lofted a spear and the warriors moved off along the lakeshore. I raised my silver hand in salute to them, and held the salute until they were well away. Then I turned and began walking back to the hall. In truth, I was secretly glad not to be riding with them. Weary to the bone, I longed for nothing more than sleep.
Instead, I returned to Tegid’s hut where Cynan had taken up vigil beside his father’s body. “There is nothing to be done here,” Tegid told me. “You need rest, Llew. Go now while you may; I will summon you if you are needed.”
Unwilling to leave, I hesitated, but the bard placed his hand firmly on my shoulder, turned me, and sent me away. I started across the small yard to my hut, and then remembered I had a different home now. I turned aside and went instead to the hut prepared for Goewyn and me. It seemed an age since our wedding night.
Goewyn was waiting for me inside. She had bathed and put on a new white robe. Her hair was hanging down, still wet from washing. She was sitting on the bed, combing out the tangles with a wide-toothed wooden comb. She smiled as I came in, rose, and welcomed me with a kiss. Then, taking my silver hand in both of hers, she led me to the bed, removed my cloak, and pushed me gently down onto the deep-piled fleece. She stretched herself beside me. I put my arms around her, and promptly fell asleep.
I came awake with a start. The hut was dark, and the caer was quiet. Pale moonlight showed beneath the oxhide at the door. My movement woke Goewyn, and she put her warm hand on the back of my neck.
“It is night,” she whispered. “Lie down and go back to sleep.”
“But I am not tired anymore,” I told her, lowering myself onto my elbow.
“Neither am I,” she said. “Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous.”
“There is a little wedding bread. And we have mead.”
“Wonderful.”
She rose and went to the small hearth in the center of the room. I watched her, graceful as a ghost in the pale moonlight, kneeling to her work. In a few moments, a yellow petal of flame licked out and a fire blossomed on the hearth. Instantly, the interior of our bower was bathed in shimmering golden light. Goewyn retrieved the meadskin and cup and two small loaves of banys bara.
She settled herself beside me on the bed once more, broke the bread, and fed me the first bite. Whereupon, I broke off a piece and fed her. We finished the first loaf, and the second, then pulled the stopper from the meadskin and lay back to savor its sweetness and warmth, sharing the golden nectar between us in a string of kisses, each more ardent than the last.
I could wait no longer. Laying aside the meadskin, I reached up and gathered her to me. She came into my arms, all softness and warmth, and we abandoned ourselves to the heady delight of our bodies.
Conscious that my metal hand would be cold, I did my best to keep it from touching her—no easy task, for I desired nothing more than to stroke her hair and caress her skin. But Goewyn put me at my ease.
Kneeling beside me, she took my silver hand in both of hers. “It is part of you now,” she said, her voice soft and low, “so it shall be no less part of me.” Raising my metal hand, she pressed it to her lips and then cradled it in the hollow of her throat until the cold silver began to warm to her flesh.
The tenderness of this act filled me with awe. I lost myself then in passion; Goewyn was all my universe, and she was enough.
Later, we poured mead into a golden cup and drank it in bed. Our wedding night, although untimely interrupted, was all we could have hoped it would be.
“It seems as if I have never lived until now,” I told her.
Lips curling deliciously, Goewyn raised the cup to her lips. “Do not think this night is finished yet,” she said.
And so we made love again, with passion, to be sure, but without haste. We were a world entire, the two of us, a universe to ourselves. There was no need to rush. Some time toward dawn we fell asleep in each other’s arms. But I do not recall the closing of my eyes. I remember only Goewyn, her breath sweet on my skin, and the warmth of her body next to mine.
That night was but a moment’s respite from the cares and concerns of the days that followed. Yet, I rose the next morning invincible, more than a match for whatever the future held in store. There was work to be done, and I was eager to begin.
I found Tegid and a somber Cynan in the hall, sitting at bread, discussing Cynfarch’s funeral. It had been decided that Cynan would return with his people to Dun Cruach for the burial. They must leave at once.
“I would it were otherwise,” Cynan told me. His eyes were red and his voice a rasp. “I had wished to stay and help rebuild the caer.”
“I know, brother; I know,” I answered. “But we have hands enough to serve. I wish I could go with you.”
Our talk turned to provisioning his people for the journey. Because of the fire and the long drought before it, our supplies were not what they might have been. Still, I wanted to send him back with enough not only for the journey but for a fair time beyond it.
Lord Calbha, who would be returning to his own lands one day soon, oversaw the loading of the Galanae wagons. After a while, Calbha entered the hall to announce that all was ready; we rose reluctantly and followed him out. “I will send word when we have caught the thieves,” I promised as we stepped out into the yard.
“Until that day,” Cynan replied gravely, “I will drink neither ale nor mead, and no fire shall burn in the hearth in the king’s hall. Dun Cruach will remain in darkness.”
Some of the Galanae warriors standing near heard Cynan’s vow and approached. “We would have a king to lead us home,” they said. “It is not right that we should enter our realm without a king to go before us.”
Tegid, hearing their request, placed a fold of his cloak over his head and said, “Your request is honorable. Have you a man of nobility worthy to be king?”
The Galanae answered, “We have, Penderwydd.”
“Name this man, and bring him before me.”
“He is standing beside you now, Penderwydd,” they said. “It is Cynan Machae and no other.”
Tegid turned and placed his hand on Cynan’s shoulder. “Is there anything to prevent you from assuming your father’s throne?” Tegid asked him.
Cynan ran his hand through his wiry red hair and thought for a moment. “Nothing that I know,” he replied at last.
“Your people have chosen you,” Tegid said, “and I do not think a better choice could be made. As Chief Bard of Albion, I will confer the kingship at once if you will accept it.”
“I will accept it gladly,” he replied.
“It would be well to establish your reign with the proper ceremony,” Tegid explained. “But the journey will not wait, therefore we will hold the kingmaking now.”
Cynan’s kingmaking was accomplished with the least possible ceremony. Scatha and Goewyn stood with me, Calbha watching, and the Galanae gathered close about as Tegid said the words. It was simply done and quickly over—the only interruption in the swift affair came when Tegid made to remove Cynan’s torc and replace it with the one Cynfarch had worn.
“The gold torc is the symbol of your sovereignty,” Tegid told him. “By it all men will know that you are king and deserving of respect and honor.”
Cynan agreed, but would not surrender his silver torc. “Give me the gold torc if you will, but I am not giving up the torc my father gave me.”
“Wear it always—and this as well.” So saying, the bard slipped the gold torc around Cynan’s neck and, raising his hands over him, shouted, “King of the Galanae in Caledon, I do proclaim you. Hail, Cynan TwoTorcs!”
Everyone laughed at this—including Cynan, who from that moment wore his new name as proudly as he wore his two torcs.
I embraced him—Scatha and Goewyn likewise—and in the
next breath we were bidding him farewell. Cynan was anxious to return to the south to bury his father and begin his reign. We crossed to the plain and accompanied him on horseback as far as Druim Vran, where we waited on the ridgetop as the Galanae passed. When the last wagon had crested the ridge and begun its long, slow way down the other side, Cynan turned to me and said, “Here I am, sorry to be gone and I have not yet left. The burden of a king is weighty indeed.” He sighed heavily.
“Yet I think you will survive.”
“It is well for you,” he replied, “but I have no beautiful woman to marry me, and I must shoulder the weight alone.”
“I would marry you, Cynan,” Goewyn offered amiably, “but I have already wed Llew. Still, I think you will not long suffer the lack of a beautiful bride. Certainly a king with two torcs will be a most desirable husband.”
Cynan rolled his eyes and smiled. “Och! I am not king so much as a single day and already wily females are scheming to separate me from my treasure.”
“Brother,” I said, “think yourself fortunate if you find a woman willing to marry you at any price. Ten torcs would not be too many to give for a wife.”
“No doubt you are right,” Cynan admitted. “But until I find a woman as worthy as the one you have found, I will keep my treasure.”
Goewyn leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. We then waved him on his way, watching until he reached the valley below and took his place at the head of his people. Goewyn was quiet beside me as we rode back to the lake.
I turned to her and said, “Marry me. Goewyn.”
She laughed. “But I have already married you, best beloved.”
“I wanted to hear you say it again.”
“Then hear me, Llew Silver Hand,” she said. She straightened in the saddle, holding her head erect and proud. “I marry you this day, and tomorrow, and each tomorrow until tomorrows cease.”
7
THE RAVENS’ RETURN
Work on the restoration of Dinas Dwr proceeded at once with brisk efficiency. The people seemed especially eager to eliminate all traces of the fire. The people, my people—my patchwork cloak of a clan, made up of various tribes and kin, warriors, farmers, artisans, families, widows, orphans, refugees each and every one—labored tirelessly to repair the damage to the crannog and put everything right once more. As I toiled beside them, I came to understand that Dinas Dwr was more to them than a refuge; it had become home. Former bonds and attachments were either broken or breaking down, and a new kinship was being forged; in the sweat of our striving together, we were becoming a singular people, a clan as distinct as any tribe in Albion.
Life in the crannog, so cruelly assaulted by fire and the Great Hound’s desolations, soon began to assume its former rhythm. Tegid summoned his Mabinogi and reinstated their daily lessons in bardic lore. Scatha likewise mustered her pupils, and the practice yard rang to the shouts of the young warriors and the clatter of wooden swords on leather shields once more. The farmers returned to their sun-ravaged crops, hopeful of saving some part of the harvest now that the drought had broken. The cowherds and shepherds devoted themselves to replenishing their stocks as the meadows began greening once more.
As I surveyed the work of restoration, it seemed to me that everyone had determined to put the recent horror behind them as quickly as possible and sought release from the hateful memories by striving to make of Dinas Dwr a paradise in the north. But the wounds went deep and, despite the ardent industry of the people, it would be a very long time before Albion was healed. This, I told myself, was why I must stay: to see the land revived and the people redeemed. Yes, the healing had begun; for the first time in years men and women could face the future with something other than deepest dread and despair.
Thus, when the Raven Flight reappeared with their prisoner a scant few days after riding out, we all deemed it a favorable sign. “You see!” men said to one another. “No one can stand against Silver Hand! All his enemies are conquered at last.”
We greeted the Ravens’ return warmly and acclaimed the obvious success of their undertaking: riding with them was a sullen, doleful, solitary prisoner—made to sit backwards in the saddle, with his hands bound tightly behind his back and his cloak wound over his head and shoulders.
“Hail, Raven Flight, and greetings!” I called as the boat touched shore. A number of us had rowed from the crannog to meet them; we scrambled ashore as the Ravens dismounted. “I see you enjoyed a successful hunt.”
“Swift the hunt, great the prize,” Bran agreed tersely. “But not without sacrifice, as Niall will soon tell you.”
“How so?” I asked and, turning, saw the blood-soaked bandage beneath Niall’s cloak.
The injured Raven dismissed my alarm with a wave of his hand— though even that slight movement made him wince. “Zeal made me careless, lord,” he replied, speaking through clenched teeth. “It will not happen again, I assure you. Yet, I was fortunate; the sword stroke caught me as I fell. It might have been worse.”
“His head might have parted company with his neck,” Alun Tringad informed me. “Though whether that be for the worse, or for the better, we cannot decide.”
This brought a laugh from the small crowd that had gathered to hail the Ravens’ success and learn the identity of the malefactor they had captured.
“A most disagreeable prisoner, this one,” Bran affirmed. “He chose death and was determined to have us accompany him.”
“We came upon him by surprise,” Drustwn offered, “or he would surely have taken two or more of us down with him.”
It was then that I saw that both Drustwn and Emyr were also wounded: Drustwn held his arm close to his body, and Emyr’s leg was wrapped in a thick bandage just above the knee. When I inquired about their injuries, Drustwn assured me that they would heal far faster than the pride of their prisoner, which he reckoned had suffered harm beyond recovery.
“The worse for us, if he had not slipped on the wet grass and fallen on his head,” Garanaw added; he made a motion with his hand, indicating how it happened, and everyone laughed again. It was a far from happy sound, however; they laughed out of relief mostly, and also to humiliate the captive further. Not for a moment had anyone forgotten the outrage done to us.
“I am glad none of you were more seriously hurt,” I told them. “Your sacrifice will not be overlooked. All of you,” I said, raising my silver hand to them, “have earned a fine reward and the increased esteem of your king.”
Bran declared himself satisfied with the latter, but Alun avowed that for his part the former would not be unwelcome. The prisoner, who had maintained a seething silence up to then, came to life once more. Twisting in the saddle, the man strained around to yell defiantly: “Loose me, sons of bitches! Then we will see how well you fare in an even fight!”
At these words, a chill touched my heart—not for what he said, but for the voice itself. I knew this man.
“Get him down,” I instructed. “And take away the cloak. I want to see his face.”
The Ravens hauled the captive roughly from the saddle and forced him to his knees before me. Bran seized a corner of the cloak, untied it, and pulled the cloak away to reveal a face I recognized and did not care to see again.
Paladyr had not changed much since last I saw him: the night he had put a knife through Meldryn Mawr’s heart. True, I had glimpsed him momentarily on the clifftop at Ynys Sci when he had hurled Gwenllian to her death, but I had not had a good look at him then. Seeing him now, I was amazed again at his immense size—every limb enormous, thick-muscled shoulders above a torso that might have been hewn from the trunk of an oak tree. Even men like Bran, Drustwn, and Alun Tringad seemed slight next to Prydain’s one-time champion. He had not given up without a fight, however, and the Ravens had not been overgentle with him. An ugly purple bruise bulged at one temple, his nose was swollen, and his lower lip was split. But his arrogance was as staggering as ever, and his fiery defiance undimmed.
“Bring Tegid,” I s
aid to the man nearest me, unwilling to turn my back on Paladyr. “Tell him to come at once.”
“The Chief Bard is here, lord,” the man replied. “He is coming now.”
I turned to see Tegid and Calbha hastening to join us. The sight of Paladyr kneeling before us halted both men in their steps.
Tegid regarded the defiant captive with grim satisfaction. Upon seeing the Chief Bard of Albion, Paladyr clamped his mouth shut, malice burning from his baleful eyes. After a moment, Tegid turned to Bran, “Had he the Singing Stones with him?”
“That he had, Penderwydd,” replied Bran. He gestured to Drustwn, who produced a leather bag from behind his saddle and brought it to us.
“We caught him with them,” Garanaw explained. “And we are pleased to restore them to their rightful place in Dinas Dwr.” He opened the chest briefly to show that the pale stones were indeed still within; then he passed the chest to Tegid’s keeping.
“Was he alone? Did you find anyone with him?” Lord Calbha asked. I watched Paladyr’s expression carefully, but he remained stony-faced, without the slightest flicker of a sign that what I said concerned him.
“No, lord,” the Raven Chief answered. “We searched the region, and watched well the trail behind us. We saw no sign of anyone with him.”
Turning to some of the men who had gathered with us, I said, “Make ready a storehouse here on the shore to receive our prisoner, for I will not allow him to set foot on the crannog again.”
To Lord Calbha, I said, “Send your swiftest rider to Dun Cruach. Tell Cynan we have captured the man responsible for his father’s death and we await his return so that justice can be satisfied.”
“It will be done, Silver Hand,” the king of the Cruin replied. “He is not so many days away—we may overtake him before reaching Dun Cruach.” Calbha then summoned one of his clansmen, and the two moved at once.
“What will you do with the Stones of Song?” asked Tegid, holding the bag.
“I have in mind a place for them,” I answered, tapping the bag with a finger. “They will not be so easily stolen again.”