We waited three days for the ships to arrive, and then three more. Each day was slow torture. Just after daybreak on the seventh day, four ships arrived from the winter harborage in the south Caledon estuary where Cynan kept them. He commanded the men to stand ready, and then we returned to our camp on the strand to await Tegid’s arrival. The bard appeared just before sunset; Scatha, who would not be left behind, rode with him.
“My daughter has been taken,” she said by way of greeting, “I mean to aid in her release.”
There was no denying her, so I said, “As you will, Pen-y-Cat. May your presence be a boon to us.”
Tegid explained. “As Scatha meant to join us, I summoned Calbha to watch over Dinas Dwr. That is why we could not come sooner.”
I was not pleased with this development. “Let us hope your thoughtless delay has not cost the lives of either Goewyn or Tángwen.” I turned away and hastened to ready the ships to sail, calling for torches to be lit and for the provisions to be loaded.
“It will be dark soon, and there will be no moon tonight,” Bran pointed out, stirring himself from the fretful silence of the last days. “We should wait until morning.”
“We have wasted too much time already,” Cynan told him. “We sail at once.”
Tegid dismounted and hurried to my side. “There is something else, Llew,” he said.
“It can wait until we have raised sail.”
“You must hear it now,” the bard insisted.
I turned on him. “I will hear it when I choose! I have waited on this freezing shore for seven days. Seven days! At this moment I am interested in just one thing: rescuing Goewyn. If what you have to say will accomplish that the quicker, then say it. If not, I do not want to hear it.”
Tegid’s face became hard; his eyes flashed quick-kindled fire. “And yet you will hear it, O Mighty King,” he snapped, fighting to control himself.
I made to turn away from him, but he caught me by the wrist of my silver hand and held me. Anger glared hot within me. “Take your hand off me, bard. Or lose it!”
Several bystanders saw what was happening and stopped to watch—Scatha and Cynan among them. Tegid released me and raised his hand over his head in the way of a declaiming bard.
“Hear me, Llew Llaw Eraint!” he said, spitting the words. “You are Aird Righ of Albion, and thus you are set about by many geas.”
“Taboos? Save your breath,” I growled. “I do not care!” I was doubly angry now. He had disobeyed my commands and put us many days behind, and now had the audacity to hinder us further, talking about some ridiculous taboo or other. “My wife is abducted! Cynan’s bride is gone! Whatever it takes, I will have them back. Do you understand that? I will give the entire kingdom to obtain their release!”
“The kingdom is not yours to give,” the bard declared flatly. “It belongs to the people who shelter beneath your protection. All you possess is the kingship.”
“I will not stand here arguing with you, bard. Stay here if that is what you wish. I am leaving.”
Holding me with his voice, he said, “I say you cannot go.”
I stared at him—speechless with rage.
“The Aird Righ of Albion cannot leave his realm,” he announced. “That is the principal geas of your reign.”
Had he lost his mind? “What are you saying? I have left before. I have traveled—”
Tegid shook his head, and I grasped his point. Since becoming king, I had never set foot outside Albion’s borders. Apparently, this was forbidden me now for some obscure reason. “Explain,” I snapped. “And be quick about it.”
Tegid simply replied, “It is forbidden the High King to leave the Island of the Mighty—at any time, for any reason.”
“Unless I hear a better explanation than that,” I told him, “you will soon find yourself standing here alone. I have ordered the ships to sail, and I mean to be aboard the first one when it departs.”
“The ships may depart. Your men may depart,” he said softly. “But you, O King, may not so much as set foot beyond this shore.”
“My wife is out there! And I am going to find her.” I made to turn away again.
“I say you will not leave Albion and remain Aird Righ,” he insisted, emphasizing each word.
“Then I will no longer be king!” I spat. “So be it! One way or another, I am going to find my wife.”
If my kingship would bring her back, I would give it a thousand times over. She was my life, my soul; I would give everything to save her.
Scatha stood looking on impassively. I understood now why she had come, and why Tegid had disobeyed my explicit order. She knew that I would not be able to leave Albion, and she assumed that once I understood the problem I would change my mind. But I was adamant.
I glanced at Cynan, who stood pulling his moustache and gazing thoughtfully at me. I raised my hand and pointed at him. “Give the kingship to Cynan,” I said. “Let him be Aird Righ.”
But Cynan only grunted. “I am going.”
“Then give the sovereignty to Scatha,” I said.
Scatha also declined. “I am going to find my daughter,” she said. “I will not remain behind.”
I turned at once to Bran, only to see him reject the offer as well. “My place is by your side, lord,” was all he would say.
“Will no one take the kingship?” I demanded. But no eye met mine, and no one answered. It was rapidly growing dark, and I was quickly losing what little remaining dignity I possessed.
Whirling on Tegid as if on an attacker, I said, “You see how it is.”
“I see,” replied the bard icily. “Now I want you to see how it is.” With that, he paused, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. His first words caught me by surprise.
“Treán ap Golau was a king in Albion,” Tegid announced. “Three things he had which were all his renown: the love of beautiful women; invincibility in battle; and the loyalty of good men. One thing he had which was his travail: it was the geas of his people that he must never hunt boar. And this is the way of it . . .”
I glared at him. A story! He meant to tell me a story. I could not believe it. “I do not have time for this, Tegid,” I protested.
His head came up, his eyes flew open, and he fixed me with a baleful stare. “One day,” he intoned icily, “when the king is out hunting with his war band, there arises a fearful grunting and growling, like that of a wild beast. So great is the noise that it shakes the trees to their roots and the very hills from top to bottom, cracking the rocks and cleaving the boulders. Once, twice, three times, the mighty grunting sounds, each time louder and more terrible than the last.
“King Treán cries to Cet, his wise bard, ‘This sound must be silenced, or every living thing in the land will die! Let us find the beast that is causing this din and kill it at once.’
“To this, Penderwydd Cet replies, ‘That is more easily said than done, Mighty King. For this sound is made by none other than the Boar of Badba, an enchanted beast without ears or tail, but with tusks the size of your champion’s spears and twice as sharp. What is more, it has already killed and eaten three hundred men today, and it is still hungry. This is why it grunts and growls so as to sunder the world.’
“When Treán ap Golau hears this, he says, ‘A boar and a bane it may be, but if I do not stop this beast there will be nothing left of my realm.’
“With that, the king rides to meet the monster and finds it tearing at a broken yew tree to sharpen its tusks. Thinking to take it with the first blow, he charges the Boar of Badba. But the giant pig sees him coming and looses such a horrible growl that the king’s horse falls to its knees with fright, and Treán is thrown to the ground.
“The enchanted boar charges the fallen king. Treán hefts his spear, takes aim, and lets it fly. Closer and closer drives the boar. The spear flies true, striking the pig in the center of its forehead. But the spear does not so much as crease the boar’s thick hide, and it bounces away.
“The boar closes in on the king. Treán draws his sword, and slash! Slash! But the solid blade flies to pieces in his hand, while the pig remains unharmed. Indeed, not even a single bristle is cut.
“Down goes the boar’s head, and up goes the king. He clings for a moment to the pig’s back, but the frenzied beast shakes him off with such fury that the king is thrown high into the air. The king lands squarely on the yew tree: the splintered trunk pierces his body, and he hangs there, impaled on the yew. And the king dies.
“Seeing this, the Boar of Badba begins to devour the king. The beast tears at the dead king’s limbs. He devours the king’s right arm and the king’s right hand, still clutching the hilt of his shattered sword. The broken blade sticks in the beast’s throat, and the Boar of Badba chokes on it and dies.
“The king’s companions run to aid the king, but Treán ap Golau is dead.” Looking directly at me, Tegid said, “Here ends the tale of King Treán, let him hear it who will.”
I shook my head slowly. If, by telling me this tale, he had hoped to discourage me, he would be disappointed. My mind was made up.
“I hear your tale, bard,” I told him. “And a most portentous tale it is. But if I must break this geas, so be it!”
Strangely, Tegid relented. “I knew that was what you would say.” He paused and, as if to allow me a final chance to change my mind, asked, “Is that your choice?”
“It is.”
He bent down and laid his staff on the ground before him, then straightened, his face like stone. “So be it. The taboo will be broken.”
The Chief Bard paused and regarded the ring of faces huddled around us in the failing light. Speaking slowly, distinctly, so that none would misunderstand, he said, “The king has chosen, now you must choose. If any man wishes to turn back he must do so now.”
Not a muscle twitched. Loyal to a man, their oaths of fealty remained intact and their hearts unmoved.
Tegid nodded and, placing a fold of his cloak over his head, began speaking in the Dark Tongue. “Datod Teyrn! Gollwng Teyrn. Roi’r datod Teryn-a-Terynas! Gwadu Teryn. Gwrthod Teyrn. Gollwng Teryn.” He ended, turning to face each direction: “Gollyngdod . . . gollyngdod . . . gollyngdod . . . gollyngdod.”
Retrieving his staff, he proceeded to inscribe a circle around the entire company gathered on the beach. He joined the two ends of the circle together and, returning to the center, drew a long vertical line and flanked it either side with an inclining line to form a loose arrowhead shape—the gogyrven, he called it: the Three Rays of Truth. Then he raised the staff in his right hand and drove it into the sand and, taking the pouch from his belt, sifted a portion of the obscure mixture of ash he called the Nawglan into each of the three lines he had drawn.
He stood and touched my forehead with the tips of his fingers— marking me with the sign of the gogyrven. Raising his hands palm outward—one over his head, one shoulder high—he opened his mouth and began to declaim:
In the steep path of our common calling,
Be it easy or uneasy to our flesh,
Be it bright or dark for us to follow,
Be it stony or smooth beneath our feet,
Bestow, O Goodly-Wise, your perfect guidance;
Lest we fall, or into error stray.
For those who stand within this circle,
Be to us our portion and our guide;
Aird Righ, by authority of the Twelve:
The Wind of gusts and gales,
The Thunder of stormy billows,
The Ray of bright sunlight,
The Bear of seven battles,
The Eagle of the high rock,
The Boar of the forest,
The Salmon of the pool,
The Lake of the glen,
The Flowering of the heathered hill,
The Strength of the warrior,
The Word of the poet,
The Fire of thought in the wise.
Who upholds the gorsedd, if not You?
Who counts the ages of the world, if not You?
Who commands the Wheel of Heaven, if not You?
Who quickens life in the womb, if not You?
Therefore, God of All Virtue and Power,
Sain us and shield us with your Swift Sure Hand,
Grant us victory over foes and false men,
Lead us in peace to our journey’s end.
Through this rite, the bard had sained us—consecrated us and sealed our journey with a blessing. I felt humbled and contrite. “Thank you for that,” I said to him.
But Tegid was not finished. He reached into a fold of his belt, withdrew a pale object, and offered it to me. I felt the cool weight in my palm and knew without looking what it was: a Singing Stone. Bless him, he knew I would choose to break the geas in order to save Goewyn, and he meant to do what he could to help me.
“Again, I thank you, brother,” I said.
Tegid said nothing, but withdrew two more stones and placed them in my hands. With that, the bard released me to my fate. I tucked the three stones safely into my belt, turned, and ordered the men to board the ships. Everyone raced to be the first aboard, and I followed close behind. I had all but reached the water when Tegid shouted. “Llew! Will you leave your bard behind?”
“I would go with a better heart if you went with me,” I answered. “But I will think no ill if you stay behind.”
A moment later he stood beside me. “We go together, brother.”
We waded through the icy surge and were hauled aboard by those waiting on deck. Men took up long poles and pushed into deeper water as the sails flapped, filled, and billowed. Night closed its tight fist around us as the sharp prow divided the waves, throwing salt spray in our faces and spewing sea foam over our clothes.
In the deep dark of a moonless Sollen night I left Albion behind. I did not look back.
The seas were rough, the wind raw and cold. We were battered by rain and sleet and tossed on every wave as the sea battled our passage. More than once I feared a water grave would claim us, but sailed ahead regardless. There was no turning back.
“What makes you think they have escaped to the Foul Land?” Tegid asked. I stood at the prow, holding to the rail. We had not seen the sun since our departure.
“Paladyr was behind this,” I told him, staring at the waves and pounding my fist against the rail.
“Why do you say so?”
“Who else could it be?” I retorted. Nevertheless, his question brought up the doubt I had so far suppressed. I turned my head to meet his gaze. “What do you know?”
His dark brows arched slightly. “I know that no man leaves a trail on the sea.”
“The trail leads to Tir Aflan. That is where we banished Paladyr, and that is where he has taken them,” I declared, speaking with far more certainty than I felt at the moment. Standing on the shore, there had been no doubt. Now, after two days aboard a heaving ship, I was not so sure. What if they had sailed south and made landfall at any of a thousand hidden, nameless coves?
Tegid was silent for a time, thinking. Then he said, “Why would Paladyr do this?”
“That much is obvious: revenge.”
The bard shook his head. “Revenge? For giving him back his life?”
“For sending him to Tir Aflan,” I answered curtly. “Why? What do you think?”
“Through all things Paladyr has looked to himself and his own gain,” Tegid countered. “I think he would be content to save himself now. Also, I have never known Paladyr to act alone.”
True. Paladyr was a warrior, more inclined to the spear than to subtle machinations. I considered this. “It does not matter,” I decided at last. “Whether he acted alone or with a whole host of devious schemers, it makes no difference. I would still go.”
“Of course,” Tegid agreed, “but it would be good to know who is with him in this. That might make a difference.” He was silent for a moment, regarding me with his sharp gray eyes. “Bran told me about the beacon.”
I frowned into the slate-dark sea.
“Is there anything else you have not told me? If so, tell me now.”
“There is something else,” I admitted finally.
“What is it?” Tegid asked softly.
“Goewyn is carrying our child. No one else knows. She wanted to wait a little longer before telling anyone.”
“Before telling anyone!” Tegid blustered. “The king’s child!” Shaking his head in amazement and disbelief, he turned his face to the sea and gazed out across the wave-worried deep. It was a long time before he spoke again. “I wish I had known this before,” he said at last. “The child is not yours alone; it is a symbol of the bounty of your reign and belongs to the clan. I should have been told.”
“We were not trying to hide it from anyone,” I said. “Would it have made a difference?”
“We will never know,” he answered bleakly and fell silent.
“Tegid,” I said after a while, “Tir Aflan—have you ever been there?”
“Never.”
“Do you know anyone who has?”
He gave a mirthless rumble of a laugh. “Only one: Paladyr.”
“But you must know something of the place. How did it get its name?”
He pursed his lips. “From time past remembering, it has been called Tir Aflan. The name is well deserved, but it was not always so. Among the Learned Brotherhood it is said that once, long ago, it was the most blessed of realms—Tir Gwyn, it was called then.”
“The Fair Land,” I repeated. “What happened?”
His answer surprised me. “At the height of its glory, Tir Gwyn fell.”
“Fell?” I wondered. “How?”
“It is said that the people left the True Path: they wandered in error and selfishness. Evil arose among them and they no longer knew it. Instead of resisting, they embraced it and gave themselves to it. The evil grew; it devoured them—devoured everything good and beautiful in the land.”
“Until there was nothing left,” I murmured.
“The Dagda removed his Swift Sure Hand from them, and Tir Gwyn became Tir Aflan,” he explained. “Now it is inhabited only by beasts and outcasts who prey upon one another in their torment and misery. It is a land lacking all things needful for the comfort of men. Do not seek succor, consolation, or peace. These will not be found. Only pain, sorrow, and turmoil.”
“I see.”
Frowning, Tegid inspected me out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, you will soon see it for yourself,” he said, pointing with the head of his staff to the sea before us. I looked at what appeared to be a dull gray bank of cloud riding low on the horizon: my first glimpse of the Foul Land. “After we have sojourned there a while, tell me if it deserves its name.”
I gazed at the colorless blotch of landscape bobbing in the sea swell. It seemed dreary, but not more so than many another land mass when approached through mist and drizzle on a sunless day. Indeed, I wondered after Tegid’s description that it did not look more abject and gloomy.
I had come to find Goewyn, and I would go through earthquake, flood, and fire to save her. No land, however hostile, would stand in my way.
But in that I was wildly and woefully naive.