The Endless Knot (10 page)

“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 said 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.”

Leaving our prisoner in the care of a score of warriors, Tegid, Calbha, and the Ravens returned with me to the hall, where I pointed to the firepit in the center of the great room. “Raise the hearthstone,” I said, “and bury the Singing Stones beneath it. No one will be able to take them without alerting the whole crannog.”

“Well said, lord,” Bran agreed. Tools were brought and, after a great deal of effort, the massive hearthstone in the center of the hall was raised and held in place while a small hole was dug beneath it. The oak chest was put in the hold and the hearthstone lowered into place once more.

“All men bear witness!” declared Tegid, raising his hands in declamation. “Now is Dinas Dwr established on an unshakable foundation.”

I dismissed the Ravens to their well-earned rest, and then summoned Scatha and Goewyn to the hall where I informed them that the thief responsible for killing Cynfarch, stealing the stones, and setting fire to the caer had been captured. “It is Paladyr,” I said.

Goewyn allowed a small gasp to escape her lips; Scatha's face hardened, and her manner grew brittle. “Where is he?”

“He had the Singing Stones with him. There is no doubt he is guilty.”

“Where is he?” she asked again, each word a shard of frozen hate.

“We have locked him in a storehouse on the shore,” I answered. “He will be guarded day and night until we have decided what is to be done with him.”

She turned at once. “Scatha, wait!” I called after her, but she would not be deterred.

When I caught up with her again, Scatha was standing outside the storehouse, railing at the guards to open the door and let her go in. They were relieved to see me approach.

“Come away, Pen-y-Cat,” I said. “You can do nothing here.”

She turned on me. “He killed my daughters! The blood debt must be paid!” She meant to collect that debt then and there.

“He will not escape again,” I soothed. “Let it be this way for now, Pen-y-Cat. I have sent word to Cynan, and we will hold court as soon as he returns.”

“I want to see the animal who killed my daughters,” she insisted. “I want to see his face.”

“You shall see him,” I promised. “Soon—wait but a little. Please, Scatha, listen to me. We can do nothing until Cynan returns.”

“I will
see
him.” The pleading in her voice was more forceful than my own misgivings.

“Very well.” I gestured to the guards to open the door. “Bring him out.”

Paladyr shambled into the light. His hands were bound, and chains had been placed on his feet. He appeared slightly less insolent than before and gazed at us warily.

Quick as the flick of a cat's tail, Scatha's knife was out and at Paladyr's throat. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to gut you like a pig,” she said, drawing the knife across the skin of his throat. A tiny red line appeared behind the moving knife point.

Paladyr stiffened, but uttered no sound.

“Scatha! No!” I said, pulling her away. “You have seen him; now let it be.”

Paladyr's mouth twitched into a faintly mocking smile. Scatha saw the smirk on his face, drew herself up, and spat full in his face. Anger flared instantly, and I thought he would strike her, but the one-time champion caught himself. Trembling with rage, he swallowed hard and glared murderously at her.

“Take him away,” I ordered the guards and, turning back to Scatha, I watched her walk away, head high, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Upon Cynan's return a few days later, I convened the first
llys
of my reign: to judge the murderer. Meting out judgment was the main work of a king's llys, and if anyone stood in need of judgment it was Paladyr. The verdict was a foregone conclusion: death.

My chair was established at the head, or west end, of the hall. Wearing Meldryn Mawr's torc and the Great King's oak-leaf crown, I stepped to the chair and sat down: Goewyn and Tegid took their places—my queen standing beside me, her hand resting on my left shoulder, and my Chief Bard at my right hand.

When everyone had assembled, the carynx sounded and the Penderwydd of Albion stepped forward. Placing a fold of his cloak over his head, he raised his staff and held it lengthwise above him. “People of Dinas Dwr,” he said boldly, “heed the voice of wisdom! This day your king sits in judgment. His word is law, and his law is justice. Hear me now: there is no other justice but the word of the king.”

With three resounding cracks of his staff on the stone at my feet, Tegid returned to my side. “Bring the prisoner!” he called.

The crowd parted and six warriors led Paladyr forward. But if his captivity had cowed him even in the slightest, he did not show it. Prydain's one-time champion appeared as haughty as ever, smiling smugly to himself, his head high and his eye unflinching. Clearly, he had lost none of his insolence in captivity. He stalked to the foot of my throne and stood there with his feet apart and a smirk on his face.

When Bran saw how brazenly his prisoner regarded me, the Raven Chief forced Paladyr to kneel, dealing him several sharp blows behind the knees with the butt of his spear. Not that this altered the prisoner's demeanor appreciably; he still regarded me with a strange disdainful expression—the condemned man's way of displaying courage, I thought.

The hall was deathly silent. Every man and woman present knew what Paladyr had done, and more than a few burned to see the blood-debt settled. Tegid regarded the prisoner coolly, gripping his staff as a warrior would a spear. “This is the court of Llew Silver Hand, Aird Righ of Albion,” he said, his voice a lash of authority. “This day you will receive the justice you have long eluded.”

At Tegid's mention of the High Kingship, Paladyr's eyes flicked from Tegid to me. He seemed somewhat taken aback by that, and it produced the first hint of anything approaching fear I had ever seen in Prydain's former champion. Or was it something else?

The Chief Bard, acting as my voice, continued, grave and stern. “Who brings grievance against this man?”

Several women—the mothers of suffocated infants—cried out at once, and others—the wives of the dead warriors—added their voices to the chorus. “Murderer!” they screamed. “I accuse him! He killed my child!” some said, and others, “He killed my husband!”

Tegid allowed the outcry to continue for a time, and then called for silence. “We have heard your accusations,” he said. “Who else brings grievance against this man?”

Scatha, cold and sharp as the blade at her side, stepped forward. “For the murder of my daughter, Gwenllian, Banfáith of Ynys Sci, I do accuse him. And for his part in the murder of my daughter, Govan, Gwyddon of Ynys Sci, I do accuse him.” These words were spoken with icy clarity and great dignity; I realized she had rehearsed them countless times in anticipation of this day.

Bran Bresal spoke next, taking his place beside Scatha. “For stealing the Treasure of Albion, and killing the men who guarded that treasure, I do accuse him.”

Stepping forward, Cynan shouted, “For starting the fire that took my father's life and the lives of innocent men, women, and children, I do accuse him.”

His voice cut like a sword stroke through an atmosphere grown dense with pent-up rage, and his words brought another outburst, which Tegid patiently allowed to play itself out. Then he asked for silence again. “We have heard your accusations. For the third and last time, who brings grievance against this man?”

When no one else made bold to answer, I stood. I did not know if it was proper for me to speak in this way, nor did I care. I had a grievance that went back further than any of the others, and I wanted it heard. “I also bring grievance against this man,” I said, pointing my finger in Paladyr's face. “It is my belief that you, with the help of others now dead, sought out and murdered the Phantarch, thereby bringing about the destruction of Prydain.”

This revelation sent a dark murmur coursing through the tight-pressed crowd. “However,” I continued, “as I possess no proof of your part in this unthinkable crime, I cannot bring accusation against you.” Raising my silver hand, I pointed my finger directly at him. “But with my own eyes I saw you murder Meldryn Mawr, who held the kingship before me. While pretending repentance you took the Great King's life. For this act of treachery and murder, I do accuse you.”