Stephen Lawhead - Song Of Albion 2 - The Silver Hand

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Hear, 0 Son of Albion, the prophetic word:

Sorrow and be sad, deep grief is granted Albion in triple measure. The Golden King in his kingdom

will strike his foot against the Rock of Contention. The Worm of fiery breath will claim the

throne of Prydain; Llogres will be without a lord. But happy shall be Caledon; the Flight of

Ravens will flock to her many-shadowed glens, and ravensong shall be her song.

When the Light of the Derwyddi is cut off, and the blood of bards demands justice, then let the

Ravens spread their wings over the sacred wood and holy mound. Under Ravens' wings, a throne is

established. Upon this throne, a king with a silver hand.

In the Day of Strife, root and branch shall change places, and the newness of the thing shall pass

for a wonder. Let the sun be dull as amber, let the moon hide her face: abomination stalks the

land. Let the four winds contend with one another in dreadful blast; let the sound be heard among

the stars. The Dust of the Ancients will rise on the clouds; the essence of Albion is scattered

and torn among contending winds.

The seas will rise up with mighty voices. Nowhere is there safe harbor. Arianrhod sleeps in her

sea-girt headland. Though many seek her, she will not be found. Though many cry out to

her, she cannot hear their voices. Only the chaste kiss will restore her to her rightful place.

Then shall rage the Giant of Wickedness, and terrzfy all with the keen edge of his sword. His eyes

shall flash forth fire; his lips shall drip poison. With his great host he will despoil the

island. All who oppose him will be swept away in the flood of wrongdoing that flows from his hand.

The Island of the Mighty will become a tomb.

All this by the Brazen Man is come to pass, who likewise mounted on his steed of brass works woe

both great and dire. Rise up, Men of Gwir! Fill your hands with weapons and oppose the false men

in your midst! The sound of the battleclash will be heard among the stars of heaven and the Great

Year will proceed to its final consummation.

Hear, 0 Son of Albion: Blood is born of blood. Flesh is born of flesh. But the spirit is born of

Spirit, and with Spirit evermore remains. Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed

and Silver Hand must reign.

Banfdith of Ynys Sd

Doomsayer

We carried the body of Meidryri Mawr down from high Findargad to be buried in the Hill of Kings.

Three horses pulled the wagon: a red and a white to draw the bier, and a black to lead them. 1

walked at the head of the dark horse, guiding the great king's body to its rest.

Six warriors walked on either side of the bier. The horses' hooves and the wagon's wheels were

wrapped with rags, likewise the spearsand shields of the warriors. The Liwyddi followed, each man,

woman and child carrying an unlit torch.

Burial of a king has been observed in this way from time past remembering. The wheels and hooves

are muffled, so that the bier may pass silently through the land; the weapons are covered and the

torches unlit, so that no eye will mark the passing procession. Secrecy and silence are maintained

so that the gravemound will never be discovered and desecrated by an enemy.

As night drew its cloak of stars across the sky, we arrived at Glyn Du, a narrow valley tributary

to the Vale of Modornn. The funeral procession entered the black glen, moving beside the still,

dark water. The deep-folded valley was darker even than the sky above, which still glimmered in

blue twilight. The gravemound loomed on its hill as a mass of thick-gathered shadow.

At the foot of Cnoc Righ, the Hill of Kings, I kindled a small fire to light the torches. As the

people took their places, forming two long lines on either side of the path

leading up the hill to the entrance of the cairn, the flame was passed from torch to torch. This

is the Aryant 0!, the radiant way along which a king is carried to the tomb. When the people had

assembled, I began the funeral rite, saying:

"The sword I bear on my thigh was a wall, high and strong-the bane of marauding enemies! Now it is

broken.

"The torc I bear in my hand was a light of keen judgment-the beacon of rightwise favor shining

from the far-off hill. Now it is extinguished.

"The shield I bear on my shoulder was a platter of plenty in the hail of honor-the sustenance of

heroes. Now it is riven, and the hand that upheld it is cold.

"The pale white corpse will soon be covered, under earth and blue stones: Woe my heart, the king

is dead.

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"The pale white corpse will soon be covered, amidst earth and oak: Woe my heart, the Ruler of

Clans is slain.

"The pale white corpse will soon be covered, under the greensward in the tumulus: Woe my heart,

Prydain's chieftain will join his fathers in the Hero Mound.

"Men of Prydain! Fall on your faces, grief has overtaken you. The Day of Strife has dawned! Great

the grief, sharp the sorrow. No glad songs will be sung in the land, only songs of mourning. Let

all men make bitter lament. The Pillar of Prydain is shattered. The Hall of Tribes has no roof.

The Eagle of Findargad is gone. The Boar of Sycharth is no more. The Great King, the Golden King,

Meldryn Mawr is murdered. The Day of Strife has dawned!

"Bitter the day of birth, for death is its companion. Yet, though life be cold and cruel, we are

not without a last consolation. For to die in one world is to be born into another. Let all men

hear and remember!"

So saying, I turned to the warriors at the bier and commanded them. The horses were unhitched, the

wagon was raised and its wheels removed. The warriors then lifted the bier shoulder high and began

to walk slowly towards the cairn, passing between the double

line of torches, moving slowly up the radiant way to the gravemound.

As the bier passed, I took my place behind it and began the Lament for a Fallen Champion, singing

softly, slowly, allowing the words to fall like tears into the silence of the glen. Unlike other

laments, this one is sung without the harp. It is sung by the chief bard and, although I had never

sung ~t, I knew it well.

It is a strong song, full of bitterness and wrath at the way in which the champion's life has been

cut short and his people deprived of his valor and the shelter of his shield. I sang the lament,

my voice rising full and free, filling the night with harsh and barren sorrow. There is no comfort

in this song: it sings the coldness of the tomb, the obscenity of corruption, and the emptiness,

waste, and futility of death. I sang the bitterness of loss and the aching loneliness of grief. I

sang it all, driving my words hard and biting them between my teeth.

The people wept. And I wept too, as up and up the Aryant 01, and slowly, slowly we approached the

burial cairn. The song moved to its end: a single rising note becoming a sharp, savage scream.

This represents the rage of the life cruelly cut short.

My voice rose to the final note, growing, expanding, filling the night with its accusation. My

lungs burned, my throat ached; I thought my heart would burst with the effort. The ragged scream

burst and faltered in the air, dying at its height. A truncated echo resounded along the sides of

Glyn Du and flew up into the starry void-a spear hurled into the eye-pit of night.

The warriors bearing the king's body halted at the sound. Strength left their hands, and the bier

pitched and swayed. For an instant I thought they would drop the body, but they staggered,

steadied themselves, and slowly raised the bier once more. It was a dreadful, pitiful moment,

speaking more forcefully than the words of my lament the anguish and heartbreak of our loss.

The bearers moved to the entrance of the cairn, where they paused while two men with torches went

ahead of them into the tomb. The bier entered the gravemound next, and I followed. The interior

was lined with stone niches, small chambers containing the bones of Prydain kings whose shields

covered the openings.

Meidryn's body was laid in the center of the cairn, on its bier, and the warriors saluted their

king, each man touching the back of his hand to his forehead, honoring Meldryn Mawr for the last

time. Then they began filing out one by one. I lingered long, looking upon the face of the lord I

had loved and served. Ashen white, sunken-checked and hollow-eyed, pale his brow, pale like bone,

but high and fair. Even in death it was a noble countenance.

I considered the shields of other kings on the walls of the cairn: other kings of other times,

each a lord of renown who had ruled Prydain in his turn. Now Meidryn Mawr, the Great Golden King,

had relinquished the seat of power. Who was worthy to take his place?

I was the last to leave, consigning the king's body to its long sleep. One day, when death's

handmaidens had finished their work, I would return to gather the bones and place them in one of

the empty niches. For now, however, I bade Meldryn Mawr a final farewell and stepped from the

cairn. Passing slowly down the shimmering pathway of the Aryant 01, I raised my voice in the

Queen's Lament.

As I sang, the women joined in, blending their willowy voices with mine. There is a measure of

solace in the song and as I sang I became the Chief Bard in more than name only. For I sang and

saw the life of the song born in my people; I saw them take strength and sustenance from its

beauty. I saw them live in the song, and I thought: Tonight I grasp Ollathir's staff, and I am

worthy. I am worthy to be the bard of a great people. But who is worthy to be our king?

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Gazing upon the faces of all those gathered on the slopes of the Cnoc Righ, I wondered who among

them could wear the torc Meldryn Mawr had left behind. Who could wear the oak-leaf crown? There

were good men

among us, fine and strong, chieftains who could lead in battle-but a king is more than a war

leader.

Who is worthy to be king? I thought. Ollathir, my teacher and my guide, what would you have me do?

Speak to me, old friend, as you did in former times. Give your Fiidh benefit of your sage wisdom.

I wait on your word, Wise Counsellor. Instruct me in the way that I should go...

But Ollathir was dead, like so many of Prydain's proud sons, his voice but an echo fading in the

memory. Alas, his awen had passed out of this worlds-realm, and I must find my way alone. Very

well, I thought, turning to my task at last. I am a bard, and I can do all that a true bard can

do.

I placed a fold of my cloak over my head and raised my staff high. "Son of Tegvan, son of Teithi,

son of Talaryant, a bard and the son of bards, I am Tegid Tathal. Listen to me!"

I spoke boldly, knowing there were some who would rather I remained silent. "Most mournful of men

am I, for the lord who upheld me has been wickedly killed. Meldryn Mawr is dead. And I see nothing

before me but death and darkness. Our shining son is stolen from us. Our king lies stiff and cold

in his turf house, and treachery sits in the place of honor.

"It is the Day of Strife! Let all men look to the edge of the sword for their protection. The

Paradise War is begun; the sound of warfare will be heard in the land as Ludd and Nudd battle one

another for the kingship of Albion."

"Doomsayer!" Meidron shouted, thrusting his way through the crowd. He had dressed himself in his

father's clothing-siarc, breecs, and buskins of crimson edged in gold. He wore Meldryn Mawr's gold

knife and belt of gold discs fine as fish-scales. And, as if this were not enough, he had bound

back his tawny hair that everyone might see the king's golden torc around his throat.

My words had found their mark. Meldron was angry. His jaw bulged and his eyes glinted like chips

of flint in

the torchlight. Siawn Hy, Meldron's champion, sleekly dark and smooth-faced, followed at his

lord's right hand.

"Tegid is confused. Pay him no heed," Meldron cried. "He does not know what he is saying."

The Liwyddi murmured uncertainly and Meidron rounded on me. "Why are you doing this, bard? Why

must you persist in frightening everyone? We have enough to do without listening to all this

careless talk of yours."

"I see that you are busy indeed," I replied, facing him squarely. "Busy stealing Meldryn Mawr's

belt and torc. But do not think that by wearing your father's clothing you will take his place."

"No one talks to the king this way, bard!" snapped Siawn Hy, thrusting himself closer. "Watch your

tongue, or lose it."

"He is no bard," Meldron said. "He is nothing but a doomsayer!" The prince laughed abruptly and

loudly, waving me aside with a flick of his hand. "Go your way, Tegid Tathal. I have had a

bellyful of your meddling. Neither you nor your spiteful tongue are wanted here. We do not need

you any more."

Siawn Hy smiled thinly. "It seems you are no longer useful to the king, bard. Perhaps your service

would receive greater esteem elsewhere."

Anger leapt like a flame within me. "Meldron is not the king," I reminded them. "I alone hold the

kingship; it is mine to give as I choose."

"And I hold the Singing Stones!" Meidron bawled. "No man can stand against me now."

His boast brought a murmur of approval from many standing near. It became clear to me how he had

managed to gull his followers and to work Liew's inspired achievement to his own advantage. He had

claimed the gathered fragments of the song-bearing stones and had made of them a talisman of

power.

"Your courage is misplaced," I told them. "The Song of Albion is not a weapon."

Siawn's sword flicked out, the blade a streak in the

shimmering torchlight. He leaned close and pressed the point against my throai. "We have other

weapons," he hissed, his breath hot inmy face.

His threat was rash and reckless. The people surged around us, uncertain which way to go.

Attacking a bard before his people could only bring disaster. But Meldron, with his heavy-handed

authority-backed by Siawn Hy and the Wolf Pack-had them cowed. They did not know whom to believe

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any mere, or whom to trust.

I regarded Siawn By with icy contempt. "Kill me now," I taunted. "For Meldron will never be king."

Siawn forced the swordpoint deeper. I could feel his strength gathering behind the point. The

blade bit into my flesh. I gripped my staff and made ready to strike.

A voice cried out from the crowd. "Look!"

Another shouted. "The cairn!"

Siawn's eyes shifted to the gravemound. Surprise replaced malice and the blade faltered.

I glanced towards the hilltop. In the torchlight I saw something move inside the cairn. A trick of

fickle light, I thought; a flicker of flame, the smokeswirl from the upraised torches. I made to

turn away but saw it again. . . something tp there. . . moving in the darkness...

As we strained forward, all saw the form of a man emerging from the cairn.

A woman cried: "Ii is the king!"

"The king!" the people gasped. "The king lives!"

A tremor of fear and wonder shivered through the host.

In truth, I thought it was the king returned to life. But the thought vanished at once. It was not

Meidryn Mawr struggling back to life.

The man stepped from the gravemound, straightened, and began striding down the Hill of Kings

towards us. I caught the golden glint of the champion's ring on his finger.

"LIew!" I shouted. "It is Liew! Llew has returned!"

The name of Llew rippled through the gathered

throng. "Liew... it is Liew. . . Do you see him? Llew!"

Truly, the Otherworld traveller had returned. The Liwyddi melted before him, forming a shining

path as he passed among them. He looked neither right nor left, but advanced with resolute steps

down the hillside.

I watched him, and saw how the sight of him both astonished and heartened the people: they hailed

him, hands stretched to touch him, torches were lofted before him. "Llew! Llew!" they shouted; how

easily his name leapt to the tongue.

I watched him striding down from the Kings' Hill on the radiant way and I thought to myself: on

this frame the Swift Sure Hand may yet stitch a king.

Return of the Hero

"Greetings, brother," I said, as Liew came to stand before me. I would have embraced him as a

kinsman, but his jaw was set and there was dread purpose in his eye. "I am glad to see you."

He offered no greeting, but confronted Siawn Hy. "It is over," he said-though he spoke quietly,

his words were unyielding-"Put away that sword. We are going home."

Siawn Hy stiffened. The blade in his hand swung instantly from my throat to Llew's. But Llew

grasped the naked blade with his bare hand and jerked it aside.

"Take him!" shouted Meldron, reaching for his knife.

A dozen spears swung towards Llew. But the spearheads, still wrapped in their cloth coverings,

wavered uncertainly. The warriors of Meldron's Wolf Pack obeyed, although they were reluctant to

assault their own champion. The crowd surged dangerously, pressing more closely; some shouted

defiance at Meidron's order. The people did not understand what was happening, but clearly they

did not like it.

"Llew!" I cried, sweeping the spears aside with the butt of my staff. "Hail, Liew!" 1 raised my

staff and called to the crowd. "The champion has returned! Hail him, everyone!"

The Llwyddi cried out with a mighty voice. Llew turned his eyes to the people gathered all around,

torches

held high, peering expectantly at him. It came to me that Llew did not know what his appearance

meant to those looking on: Meidryn's champion emerging from the Hero Mound. A dead king had gone

into the dark portal, a living man had come out-mysteriously, inexplicably, yet in full sight of

all: an Otherworid hero declaring his equality with the king we had just buried.

Before Meldron could react, I raised my hands for silence and said, "The king is dead, brother,

but you are alive. You are back among your people, and that is cause for celebration."

The people greeted this with loud approval. Meidron's frown deepened as he sensed his moment

slipping away. He had exaggerated his support, and underestimated the people's regard for Llew.

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Still he sought to recapture the advantage. "What do you mean, coming here like this?" he

demanded.

"I have come to honor the king," replied LIew slowly. His eyes flicked from the prince to Siawn

Hy. Something passed between Siawn and Liew that I did not understand. But I saw Siawn bristling

with anger, and Liew's face harden once more as resolve returned. "And to do something I should

have done long ago."

"You speak of honor," Meidron sneered, "but you steal it from the dead."

"Llew was the king's champion," I declared- thinking it prudent to remind everyone that Meldryn

Mawr had chosen Llew for this honor; it was the king's final act, and the one which had caused his

death. "Who would deny the king's champion the right to pay homage to his lord?"

"You are not in authority here, bard!" Meidron said, his voice vengeful and brimming with spite.

"You and your kind may have deceived my father with your sly words and cunning ways. Do not think

to deceive me."

"Why speak of deception, Meldron?" I asked. "You are surrounded by wise advisers," I told him,

watching Siawn twitching with malice. "Could it be that you do not trust them?"

"I trust the blade in my hand," the prince spat. "I trust my war-band. Better the company of

warriors, than the empty words of a bard."

Having pressed the matter too far, Meidron did not know how to retreat with dignity. Rather than

embrace Llew, which would have increased his own support-for clearly, the people esteemed Liew

greatly-he chose to mock and revile.

The prince turned to all those gathered close about. "Liew has returned! We have nothing to fear,

now that my father's champion is once more among us." He spoke with undisguised contempt. He

slowly raised an accusing finger and pointed at Llew. "Yet I cannot help thinking," he continued,

"that if Llew had honored the king as highly as he claims, Meldryn Mawr would yet walk among us.

How is it that the king lies dead and his champion lives?"

What the prince hoped to accomplish by this rash speech, I knew well enough: to poison the

people's good feeling towards Llew. Apparently, he thought that casting doubt upon Llew's loyalty

and ability would aid him. But, instead of sowing doubt, all he managed was confusion.

The people looked at one another in bewilderment. "What is Meldron saying? It was LIew who saved

us from the Coranyid!" Several even protested outright:

"Paladyr killed the king! Paladyr it was-not Liew!" they shouted.

Yes, I thought, Paladyr killed the king. And where is Paladyr now?

But I held my tongue. If suspicion is to be loosed, let it roost in Prince Meldron's roof, I

thought. Oh, but it is a chancy thing to malign a hero who has rightly earned the clan's

affection. Meidron showed poor judgment in the attempt, and people have a way of remembering these

insults and redressing them.

Having done all he dared for the time being, Meldron called for the procession to depart, then

turned and thrust his way through the gathered host. Siawn Hy allowed

himself a slender smile, then hurried after Meldron. The Wolf Pack moved away awkwardly, taking

their places behind the prince.

I was relieved to see them go, and equally relieved to have Llew beside me once more.

"I feared you dead," I whispered. People streamed by us, every eye on Llew. Some saluted him

outright with heartfelt greetings and expressions of respect. Most were too awed to speak,

however, and simply touched the back of their hands to their foreheads as they passed.

Llew smiled ruefully. "I should have told you what I intended," he said. "I thought it best to

goalone. 1 am sorry. It will not happen like that next time."

"You mean to leave again?" I asked.

"Yes," LIew replied, tensing again. "I am sorry, Tegid. That is how it must be. You understand."

"But I do not understand," I confessed.

"Then you will just have to accept what I am telling you.,'

"But you are telling me nothing."

He made no reply, so I reached out and gripped his arm; it was rigid beneath my touch. "Llew, we

are brothers, you and I. We have drunk from the same cup and I will not let you go again without

hearing a better explanation than I have heard just now."

Llew frowned unhappily, but he remained silent and turned his eyes to watch the departing Llwyddi.

I could see it was hard for him, this decision he had made. He wanted to tell me, I think, but

simply did not know where or how to begin. So I suggested, "Say nothing yet. We will wait until

the others have gone ahead and we will follow at a distance so that we will not be overheard. You

can tell me as we walk and no one will disturb us."

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Stephen Lawhead - Song Of Albion 2 - The Silver Hand

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