Silver on the Tree (22 page)

Will said, “What did he do, the craftsman?”

“He called together all the makers in the land,” Gwion said. He tilted his head a little higher. “All those who wrote, or brought life to others' words or music, or who made beautiful things. And he said to them, I have this work in me, I know it, that will be the peak of everything I can ever make or do, and the Dark is trying to forbid me to do it. We may all suffer, if I deny them their will, and I cannot therefore be responsible alone for deciding. Tell me. Tell me what I should do.”

Bran was gazing at him. “What did they say?”

“They said,
You must make it.”
Gwion smiled, proudly. “Without any exception.
Make the sword,
they said. So he went away into a place of his own, and made Eirias, and in a land of wonders it was the most wonderful and powerful thing that had ever been made. And the fury of the Dark was very great, but impotent, for the Dark Lords knew that they could neither destroy a work created for the Light, nor steal it, nor bring any … harm to its creator.”

He fell silent, gazing out at the misted horizon.

“Go on,” Bran said urgently. “Go on!”

Gwion sighed. “So the Dark did a simple thing,” he said. “They showed the maker of the sword his own uncertainty and fear. Fear of having done the wrong thing—fear that
having done this one great thing, he would never again be able to accomplish anything of great worth—fear of age, of insufficiency, of unmet promise. All such endless fears, that are the doom of people given the gift of making, and lie always somewhere in their minds. And gradually, he was put into despair. Fear grew in him, and he escaped from it into lethargy—and so hope died, and a terrible paralyzing melancholy took its place. He is held by it now, he is held captive by his own mind. He, and the sword Eirias that he made, with him. Despair holds him prisoner, despair, the most terrible creation of all. For in great men, the mind can produce giant spectres of great power. And King Gwyddno is a great man.”

“The King!” Will said slowly. “The King of the Lost Land made the sword?”

“Yes,” Gwion said. “Long, long ago the king went alone into his castle, into the glass tower of Caer Wydyr. And he made the sword Eirias, and there he and the sword have been, alone, ever since. Held in a trap made by the king himself. And only you, perhaps, may spring that trap.” He seemed to be speaking to both of them, but he was looking at Bran.

Bran said, his pale face drawn by horror, “All alone? All alone since then? Hasn't anyone ever seen him?”

“I have seen him,” Gwion said. But there was suddenly such pain in his voice that no one asked him anything more.

The sun was warm on their faces; heat grew in the gold and crystal banding of the dome, and the roofs of the City shimmered before them. Somewhere in the distance, out over the green fields of the Lost Land, Will heard a seagull cry.

He had a sudden illusion of Merriman's presence, and at once then a sense of great urgency. Merriman was not there, not even to be heard in the mind: he knew it, and yet the urgency lingered, as if it were an echo from something happening somewhere else, a long way away. Will looked at Gwion's face and could see the awareness of it there too. Their eyes met.

“Yes,” Gwion said. “It is time. You must journey to the Castle, across the Country that lies between, and that I have made possible as far as I can. But I cannot tell you what you may encounter on the way, nor protect you against it. Remember, you are in the Lost Land, and it is the enchantment of the Land which is in command here. “He looked anxiously out at the gleaming distant tower on the horizon. “Look well, now, at the place where you must go, and set your minds on reaching it. And then, come.”

They looked once at the finger of light, far out in the haze, and then they followed Gwion back down the staircase, into the Empty Palace where no king now lived. But even though the king was gone, they saw now that the palace still held others beside Gwion—and they found that they had been there before.

When they were halfway down the curving staircase, Gwion opened a door in the wall that Will had not noticed before. He led them down a different stair, straight and shallower, in towards the centre of the palace. And all at once they heard a faint murmur of voices ahead, and found themselves in a long wood-panelled room filled with books and bookshelves and heavy tables.

It was the long gallery, the room like a library. Will's eyes went to the side wall and saw that there still was the darkness, empty space with no light or shadow visible: the great theatre in which all life might be played. Other things, though, were not the same as before. People crowded the room now, filling it with a warm buzz of conversation, and any who glanced up at the three of them standing in the doorway smiled, or raised a hand in greeting.

They walked through, up and down over the strangely differing levels of its floor; many people they passed spoke a word or two to Gwion, and the warmth was clear in every face that looked at Will and Bran. One woman touched Will gently on the shoulder as they went by, and said, “Safe journey to you.” As he looked up, startled, he heard a man beside them say softly to Bran,
“Pop hwyl!”

Bran said in his ear,
“Good luck,
he said. How do they all know?”

Will shook his head, wondering. They followed Gwion's neat dark-clad figure down the room, walking quickly, and then at the far end a man who had been standing bent over a large book on a table straightened and turned as they approached, putting out a hand to halt them. Will thought he remembered the face as that of the man to whom he had spoken when they had first been in the room: a man who had not then seemed to see or hear him, and who had been reading a book whose pages were blank.

“See, before you go,” the man said, with the lilt of North Wales stronger in his voice than Will heard it from Gwion or even Bran. “There is a part of this book that you must see, and remember.”

“Remember …” said Gwion softly, looking at them, and the echo woke in both their minds. The book lay open before them on the heavy oak table; on one curving vellum page was a painting, and on the other a single line of words.

Will was staring at the picture. In a stylized green world of trees and lawns, among beds of roses bright as those where they had encountered the Rider, it showed the figure of a young woman, fair-haired, robed in blue, standing looking out at them. Her face was heart-shaped, fine-boned, delicately beautiful; she was serious, neither smiling nor sad.

“It is the Lady!” Will said.

Bran said in surprise, “But you said she was very old.” He reflected for a moment. “Of course, that just depends, doesn't it?”

“It is the Lady,” Will said again, slowly. “There's that big rose-coloured ring on her finger, too, I've never seen her without it. And look there—in the picture behind her, isn't that—”

“The fountain!” Bran peered closer, looking over his glasses. “It's the same fountain, the one we were at in the park—and so that must be the same rose garden. But how—”

Will had his finger on the line of thick black manuscript on the facing page. He read aloud,
“I am the queen of every hive.”

“Remember,” the man said. He closed the book.

“Remember,” Gwion said. “And then go.” Facing them, he put one hand briefly on a shoulder of each and looked carefully into their eyes. “Do you know this place, the gallery we are in? Of course. So you will remember the way by which you came into it, that you must follow now. I stay here, for a while. There are men and women of some art in this place, and they will tell me what they can of Merriman. I will be with you again, but you must go on, now, at once.”

Will looked down, and found the square open trapdoor in the floor, and the ladder leading down beneath. “That way?”

“That way,” Gwion said. “And then, take what you will find, and the finding will start you on your way.” The strong grey-bearded face broke into its warm, illumining smile. “Go well, my friends.”

Down into the shadows Bran and Will clambered, more confident than when they had scrambled up the ladder in the early morning, linked by the little horn that hung forgotten again now from Will's belt. On level ground once more, they groped their way forward in the murk, and came to the small wooden door. Will felt its pitted surface with the flat of his hands.

“No handle or anything on this side, either.”

“It opened outwards, didn't it? Perhaps you just push.”

And at the first gentle pressure the door did swing outward, so that they stood blinking for a moment at the light of the street outside. Then they went out, the door swinging shut behind them with a crash that showed it would not open so easily again. And there in the narrow shady street, waiting for them, were the two white-maned golden horses they had ridden there so long and so short a time ago.

The horses tossed their heads as if in greeting; the silver harness rang like sleighbells. Without a word Will and Bran
swung themselves up into the saddles, with the same unaccountable ease as before, and the horses trotted away up the narrow street, between the high grey walls with the thin bright strip of blue sky far above.

They came out into a broader place, filled with people who seemed at once to recognize them; who stood waving, calling out in greeting. The horses walked carefully through the crowd; the calling grew into a spasmodic cheering; children ran alongside them, laughing and halloo-ing. Bran and Will grinned at one another in pleased embarrassment. On they went, down the broad paved street, until they reached a towering wall, with a great gateway in it through which the road ran. Through the arch they could see a glimpse of green fields and distant trees.

The crowds stood thick before the arch, but the golden horses went stepping on, never pausing, nudging their way gently through.

“Good fortune to you!”

“Safe travelling!”

“A good journey!”

All around, the people of the City called and waved; children ran and danced and shouted; a group of girls beside the gate stood laughing and throwing flowers. Will put up his hand half in self-defence and caught a wide red rose; looking down, he saw the dark-haired girl who had thrown it blushing and smiling. He grinned at her, and stuck the flower into his top pocket.

Then all at once they were outside the great gate of the City, and all the crowd was gone. Before them lay broad green fields, and a rough sandy road stretching brown-gold into the distance with a wood beyond. The voices from the city died away. Somewhere a lark sang in the summer sky; a blue sky, patched here and there with puffy fair-weather clouds, the sun high amongst them now. The horses turned up the sandy road and went on without breaking step, at a steady walk.

Bran eyed the flower in Will's pocket. “Oooh!” he said in a mocking falsetto. “A red rose, is it?”

Will said amiably, “Get lost.”

“Not so pretty as Jane, that one who threw it.”

“As who?” Will said.

“Jane Drew. Don't you think she's pretty, then?”

“I suppose so, yes,” Will said, surprised. “I never thought about it.”

Bran said, “One good thing about you, you're uncomplicated.”

But Will's mind had jumped backward. He wound the loose rein thoughtfully round one finger as he swayed steadily to and fro on the tall horse. “I hope they're all right, back there.”

Bran said, roughly, abruptly, “Better forget them, for now.”

Will looked up sharply. “What d'you mean?”

Without speaking, Bran pointed out to one side, past him. In the distance across the flat green fields Will saw a patch of black and white, moving fast, in a direction parallel to the road along which they were travelling. He knew it could only be the Riders of the Dark, heading, like themselves, for the Castle of the Lost Land.

They watched the troop of Riders, miniature in the distance, moving fast across the fields. Will's horse tossed its head suddenly, snuffing the air, and began to quicken its pace.

Bran came up level with him. “They're going a good lick. Trying to get to the Castle before we do?”

“I suppose so.”

“Shall we race?”

“I don't know.” Will looked down at his restless mount. “The horses want to.”

Bran was sitting poised in the saddle, his pale face alert; he smiled. “Think you can stay on?”

Will laughed, a sudden wild exhilaration seizing him. “Just watch!” He gave no more than a flick to the reins before the horse was off, leaping out, galloping eagerly along the hard sandy track. Bran was beside him, leaning forward, white hair flying, yelling with delight. On and on they went, past stretches of ripening oats and wheat, past fields where placid cattle grazed—some the familiar black, but many pure white. The horses ran smoothly, confidently. In the distance, the Riders of the Dark raced parallel: then, after a while, disappeared behind the far edge of the wood which lay in the centre of the Country, between the City and the Castle of the Lost Land.

Will had assumed that their own road too would skirt this wood, on the nearer side. But when he raised his head out of the whirl of riding, he found that they had not turned;
instead the trees seemed to be reaching out around them, cutting off their view of the shining glass tower. He and Bran were galloping straight towards the wood, and the wood was growing, rising before them, far darker and more dense than it had seemed before.

The horses began to slow their pace.

“Come on!” Bran twitched his reins impatiently.

“They know best,” Will said. “I don't like the looks of that wood.”

Bran glanced up, flinching at the size of the dark mass looming ahead. “They aren't stopping, though. Why didn't they go around it?”

“I suppose they have to go where the track goes. And I didn't notice where it
was
going. Should have done.”