Chapter 30: The Secret Mission

Herrwn returned from the sunrise ritual the next morning to find Caelym sitting on the side of his bed, kicking the wall and muttering that no one ever took him anywhere and that he was always left alone with nothing to do.

Resisting the temptation to point out this was the first morning in the six years since Caelym had entered his formal training that Olyrrwd or Labhruinn had not, weather permitting, taken him around the lake or into the woods, Herrwn observed that the capacity to exaggerate events and dramatize emotions was key to being a successful storyteller, and dryly commended Caelym on his ability to do both before turning to ask Benyon, “What was the message that Labhruinn gave you to give to me?”

Pausing in his task of clearing away Caelym’s breakfast dishes, Benyon did not exactly sigh, but he did take the sort of slow, deep breath that Lothwen had sometimes taken when Herrwn asked her about something she had just explained a moment before.

“He said for me to tell you that he was leaving on a mission for Rhedwyn, and that he would return in time for the council.”

“On a mission for Rhedwyn.” The words echoed Madheran’s declaration that he was leaving his discipleship with Herrwn to “take up arms with Rhedwyn.”

With Olyrrwd unable to leave his patients and Labhruinn off on his “mission for Rhedwyn,” Herrwn spent the next two days battling with Caelym’s irascible mood and petulant complaints.

If it wasn’t one thing, it was another!

Stamping back from his lesson in the healing chamber the next day, Caelym burst into the classroom out of temper because Olyrrwd wouldn’t let him try his new potion on Asof, even though he’d put all sorts of good things in it—and glowered when Herrwn suggested that Olyrrwd must know what was best in such serious cases.

Instead of settling down with his recitation lessons, Caelym resumed the argument he had been making since the day after his eleventh birthday—that he was almost twelve years old and was ready to learn real rituals, not just to keep practicing silly chants that any baby could say.

Calling on the self-discipline he’d acquired through years of intense training, Herrwn repeated his counterargument—that the chants and sagas Caelym was learning to recite were far in advance of anything babies could say, and that they were the foundation on which his advanced studies would be built.

“But I know them now!”

“Very well, then.” Herrwn met Caelym’s vehement outcry with a reasonably calm retort. “What were the names of the rival contenders to the throne of the kingdom of Gwyddion in the seventh tale of the third saga of the wars between the Sea-Goddess and giants from beyond the northern mountains?”

“Heddrwn and Healyn!”

“Who was the true heir?”

“Heddrwn!”

“Why do you say so?”

“Because he was the firstborn son of the firstborn son of the firstborn son of the first king, Haerviu, who was the firstborn son of the Sea-Goddess by her consort, Headdreth.”

“And can you name each of those forebears in their proper order?”

“Heddrael, Hilferann, umm, Hyaddan?”

This last question had not been entirely fair, as the earliest progenitor of Gwyddion’s dynasty had not been named in any of the sagas except as Haerviu’s beloved son or Hilferann’s esteemed father. If Caelym had answered, “I don’t know,” or even “I don’t remember,” instead of hazarding a guess, Herrwn would have taken it as close enough. As it was—and also because he was beginning to despair of finding a question to stump his sometimes annoyingly precocious pupil—he simply complimented Caelym on what he had learned so far and said they would repeat that particular tale to clarify his recollection.

Then, hoping to cheer the boy up, Herrwn reminded him it was almost the summer solstice, where he would once again get to play the part of the firstborn son of the Sun-God and the Earth-Goddess in the festivities for the children from the village.

That was a mistake Herrwn would not repeat.

If Caelym’s complaints had been vehement before, they were positively scathing at this reminder that he was going to be required to do exactly the same thing that he’d enjoyed so much in years past.

Beginning with how it wasn’t fair that he had to play “stupid games with ordinary children” when he had already had his initiation into the second level of recitations, he ran on, decrying how he was being forced, against his will, to ride in a “stupid toy chariot pulled by seven stupid little goats” and bemoaning his having to say “the same stupid poem” he had to say every year—“and, worse, to dance stupid dances that are just hopping and skipping and not real dances at all”—before finally ending with the shrill pronouncement that he was “too old to wear a stupid make-believe crown that’s just a bunch of stupid pink flowers!”

“That will do!” Herrwn softened his reprimand by saying, “None of us is ever too old to honor the Goddess.”

Going resolutely on, he reminded Caelym of what a privilege it was to be chosen to enact the part of the firstborn son of the Great Mother Goddess in celebration of the day he danced on the banks of the river with his three mortal brides, wearing the crown they’d woven for him out of flowers that had sprouted up wherever his feet touched the ground.

Herrwn had just finished explaining that this was why, every year on the morning of the summer solstice, the priestesses wove their favorite flowers into the festival crown with their own hands when Olyrrwd, looking tired and careworn, came into the room to find the last of his remaining healing amulets.

Managing the lighthearted quip that “not everyone was lucky enough to have priestesses picking flowers for them” in answer to Caelym’s attempt to get his sympathy, the weary physician shook his head at Herrwn’s inquiries about Asof’s chances for recovery and limped out of the room.

“So, then, as you have no need to rehearse the poems and songs you will be performing at the Sacred Summer Solstice Celebration, I will now listen while you recite the seventh tale of the third saga of the wars between the Sea-Goddess and giants from beyond the northern mountains, beginning with the ogre king’s challenge to Heddrwn, whom, as you correctly stated, was the rightful heir to the kingdom of Gwyddion.”

Herrwn’s back was to the door as he stood, looking as stern as he was able at Caelym’s unintentionally effective rendition of the churlish ogre’s speech, when Caelym suddenly shifted from surly to valiant and struck a noble posture more in keeping with the story’s hero than with its villain—breaking off mid-phrase to say, “Master, I believe we have a visitor.”

The visitor was Rhedwyn.

Dressed in his riding clothes, Rhedwyn scanned the room, looking for something or someone, before delivering his own greeting.

“Good day, Master. I am looking for Labhruinn. Where may I find him?”

It was an odd question under the circumstances, and Herrwn came close to stammering as he answered, “He … I … That is …” Unwilling to admit that all he knew of his disciple’s whereabouts was what he’d been told by a servant, he cleared his throat and—speaking with all the dignity he could muster—finished, “It is my understanding that he has gone on a mission for you.”

“What mission? I sent him on no mission!”

Rhedwyn’s surprise surprised Herrwn.

Before he could decide how to respond, Rhedwyn spoke again, this time with the persuasive charm that few but the most strong-minded could resist.

“When he does return, I ask you, Master, that you release him from your charge as the time approaches that I will need all of the strong and courageous men of Llwddawanden at my command.”

Herrwn was at a loss to answer this. All he could think of to say was, “I hold no disciple against his will, so if you see him before I do—and I expect that you will—you may assure him that I will listen to whatever requests he may have to make in this regard.”

“My eternal thanks, Master!” Clearly assuming no request of his would be denied, Rhedwyn turned on his heels and strode off—leaving Herrwn completely baffled over Labhruinn’s disappearance and also deeply disturbed that Rhedwyn was so certain that the council would agree to his cry for war. With nothing to be done about either question, he returned his attention to Caelym’s lesson.

“So start again, if you will, from the passage in which the king of the ogres ridicules Heddrael’s offer of a peaceful settlement of their differences.”

But instead of resuming where he had left off, Caelym dashed over to the window, picked up a rock from one of his carefully arranged collections, and threw it out, heedless of anyone who might be passing below.

“Caelym, that is dangerous! Why ever would you do such a thing?”

Caelym answered Herrwn’s sharp question with one of his own. “Why does Labhruinn get to go on missions and I have to just stay here and play stupid games with stupid babies?” With that he reached for the shelf again, and for a moment Herrwn thought he meant to hurl another rock—but instead he snatched up his bedraggled toy horse and stamped into his bedchamber.