The Two Tanists (A Bard Without a Star, Book 2) (10 page)

“I will not give you time to
escape my judgment.”

“I’m not trying to escape!”
Gwydion yelled. “I’m trying to do the right thing. Why can’t you see that?”

Math did not say anything,
but Gwydion saw him fill with power, turning as dark as a thundercloud. The
winds returned, howling with desire to taste his blood, and threw the young man
across the room.

He responded instinctively,
calling them by name and turning them away one by one until he could stand on
his feet again. His head throbbed, but he forced a laugh and said, “You'll
have to do better than that, old man.”

Without taking his eyes off
of his nephew, Math said, “Goewin, my love, I think you should leave. Tell
everyone else as well.”

“Yes, Math,” she said, and
quickly scurried down the stairs, pausing to look back for just a moment.

Gilventhy made a hesitant
move to follow her, but the winds pinned him to the ground like a bug. “You
will stay,” Math said, looking at him contemptuously. “I am not finished with
you yet.”

He did not stand, but his
demeanor became even more stern and authoritative. “Gwydion ap Don, as the
Lord of Caer Dathyl, I hereby proclaim you guilty of treason and rape, along
with your cousin, Gilventhy ap Don. The punishment is death. Do you have
anything to say?”

“That is not justice,”
Gwydion said.

“It is, and I will enforce
it,” Math said.

“You should look to
yourself,” Gwydion said, gathering the winds and hurling them at his uncle.

Math did not even flinch, but
turned them away before they could disturb a single hair. “Ah, nephew,” he
said with a tight smile. “You always did want to learn more. It looks like
today you finally get your wish.”

The air turned thick around
Gwydion. He felt like he was being crushed, and he could not find the names of
the winds. There was a tangle in his mind, voices high and low that would not
listen to him. He gritted his teeth and called in the high winds.

Math grunted in surprise as
the tower shook, and the pressure on Gwydion eased somewhat. “You've been
experimenting,” he said.

“You told me to find my own
way,” Gwydion replied. He still couldn't find the wind that was overwhelming
him, but he managed to pull his harp around.

“Indeed I did,” Math said. A
flagstone split with a loud report, and sweat was standing out on his
forehead. “It's been a long time since I heard these voices.” The shaking
suddenly stopped. “But not that long.”

Gwydion cried out as the
attack resumed. He dropped to his knees and bowed over his harp, weeping with
frustration. “I will not give up!” he yelled.

Math looked at him. “You
have caused a war, and the rape of my foot holder. You have not learned the
most important lesson, which is that power and skill are only effective with
wisdom and humility.” He sighed. “And now I'm afraid that you have too much
power, and that I cannot let you live.”

Gwydion looked up, furious.
“Your power is not the only one in the land.” He strummed a chord, and felt
the magic well up inside him.

Math looked uncertain as his
nephew rose to his feet. “Impossible,” he whispered.

“Nothing is ever truly
impossible,” Gwydion said, picking out a quick sword dance and feeling the
magic build like a wave.

“Who taught you this thing?”
Math demanded.

“No one. I taught myself.”

The old man narrowed his
eyes. “Interesting. But in the end, pointless. You see, my power is still
greater.”

Gwydion said, “I do not want
to fight you, uncle.”

“And yet you do.”

“I know I was wrong!” Gwydion
yelled. “I admit it, and I know that I am probably not worthy to be your
Tanist! But why won’t you let the bards render the appropriate judgment?”

“The bards know nothing of
this power,” Math replied.

Gwydion felt the winds gather
around him, pressing on the shields the he had built. “No, but they do
understand power.”

“They are not Cymry.”

Gwydion had a sudden
insight. “You accuse me of treason because I have defied you, and you cannot
let that happen. You’ve never acted like a cantref lord, because you think
you’re better than everyone else.”

Math said, “No, I pledge
allegiance to the Prince of Cairnecht, and the Ard Righ.”

“Prove it,” Gwydion said.
“Let me be judged by the bards.”

“You’re in no position to be
asking anything,” Math said. “I have made my mind up, and you must die.”

The winds began battering him
even harder than before. Gwydion began sweating and shaking as he struggled
with the magic arrayed against him. “I will not die for this!”

He began playing. The magic
responded from the first note, and he pushed back against his uncle. The tower
shook with their battle, as Math continued to pound against Gwydion with the
winds. Cracks appeared on the walls; the broken flagstone became a gaping
chasm. Gwydion felt the floor tilt, saw Gil sliding towards the wall, but as
he tried to hold his cousin, a well-trained wind pushed his cloak over his
head.

He could barely see, but
dared not stop playing to move his cloak. He felt himself slipping, and
concentrated all his efforts on just remaining whole. Stones began falling
from the walls, and chunk of roof crashed down beside him. “You’re going to
kill us both!” he screamed, but if Math heard him, he gave no sign. The old
man sat completely still, eyes unfocused, face set in concentration.

The tower tilted further, and
Math’s throne began to slide as well. Math finally seemed to notice that the
caer was falling apart around him, and he began yelling, but Gwydion couldn’t
make out what he was saying. He concentrated on his music, plucking each note
grimly, trying to protect himself from crumbling masonry. He couldn’t see Gil
anywhere, and then even his uncle was gone, having slid through a window that
looked more at the ground than the sky.

Gwydion clung to his harp and
to his music. The floor was almost vertical, but he had come up against a
wall, one of the few remaining. He placed his feet on it, braced for any
impact. There were bricks and stones flying all around, and he did not know how
none had hit him.

The tower hit the ground with
a roar, and the shock knocked him off his feet. He clutched his harp tight to
his chest, as he tumbled over and over, never sure which way was up. He
couldn’t catch his breath; he couldn’t even focus enough to shape shift.

He crashed against something
hard and smooth, and he lay still for a long while. He didn’t want to open his
eyes, but the thunder of the tower’s fall gave way to eerie silence. Dust
filled the air, making it hard to catch his breath, but he pulled his cloak
back, and stood up slowly, looking around in horror.

Math’s tower lay shattered,
along with half of the great hall, and many lesser buildings. Even the walls
had crumbled, looking like ruins from a distant time. Nothing moved; all the
inhabitants had fled, except for two. Gil lay under a slab of wall, only his
legs and one arm protruding, all three bent unnaturally. And several feet
away, Math lay on the ground, his head in a pool of blood, staring blankly at
the sky.

Gwydion began to shake
uncontrollably. Tears streaked lines through the dust on his face, and he
gasped each breath. He sank to his knees, sobbing like a child.

In the gap of a wall, shapes
appeared, resolving slowly into the outline of a group of people. Gwydion expected
to see the people of the caer, but instead recognized Ollave Aodhgán. The bard
looked around, his harp in his hands playing a gentle tune. His face showed
nothing, but the bards with him looked shocked and uncertain.

“Ollave,” Gwydion said, and started
coughing.

“Gwydion ap Don,” Aodhgán
said, his deep voice filling the desolation. “What happened here?”

When the coughing passed,
Gwydion looked at his uncle. “We fought. I killed him. And my cousin.”

Aodhgán glanced at the
bodies, but seemed distracted. “There is so much power in the air,” he said.
“It’s hard to sort through it all…”

“What’s to sort through?”
Gwydion said, suddenly angry. “I have killed the two people I loved most in
the world! It does not get any clearer!”

Aodhgán stopped playing
suddenly, and softly said, “You are not telling me everything.”

“What are you talking about?”
Gwydion yelled. “I fought my uncle. Gil was there. I caused the tower to
fall.”

“But why?” Aodhgán said.
“Why did you fight?”

Gwydion hung his head again.
“Because I have been stupid, and caused the deaths of many men in a war between
Gwynedd and Dyfed.”

“Is that truly all?” the bard
asked. Around him, the other members of his company began playing. Gwydion
felt the power in their music, and it caused him to flinch.

“Yes,” he said. “It is all
my fault.”

Aodhgán stood over him. “We
cannot make a fair judgment without the whole truth,” he said.

“There is no truth,” Gwydion
said.

“We were on our way to help
celebrate the end of the war, and to sing songs of praise,” Aodhgán said. “We
felt the magic of the battle between you and your uncle, first with magic that
was outside of our ken, and then with magic that made us spur our horses
forward, because we could tell a bard was fighting for his life. And then we
get here, the caer destroyed, and the only living thing is you, holding a
harp. Gwydion ap Don, did you use bardic magic?”

Gwydion swallowed hard.
“Yes.”

Aodhgán nodded. “Gwydion,
you must tell me the truth. Were you trying to kill your uncle and your
cousin?”

“No,” Gwydion said, breaking
into tears again. “I just didn’t want to die.”

Aodhgán released his breath
in a deep sigh. He put his hand under Gwydion’s arm and lifted him to his
feet. “You must come with us.”

“But Math—Gil—the caer—”

“There is nothing you can do
here,” Aodhgán said. “But before you do anything at all, you must talk to the
Pen Bardd. May I take your harp?”

“What?” Gwydion said, but he
let the Ollave take his instrument. “The Pen Bardd? I don’t understand.”

“And it is not for me to tell
you everything,” Aodhgán said. “You must trust me.”

“But my uncle…”

“Come,” Aodhgán said, putting
his arm around his shoulders and guiding him towards the collapsed wall the
bards had entered through. The other bards ringed them, still playing.

Gwydion looked back at his
uncle, and then let them lead him wherever they wanted him to go.

Gwydion spent the next week
riding generally north, always surrounded by bards. He didn’t care, and said
nothing to them.

He could not hear the winds.

The land around them changed
from rock and drizzle to rolling fields full of sunlight. Instead of flocks of
sheep overlooked by dour shepherds, they passed waves of wheat and barley, and
friendly farmers who asked if they had a moment to stop and chat. Aodhgán
gently refused each time, although he did allow the bards to play in every
place they stopped for the night.

The other bards did not speak
to Gwydion, but Aodhgán tried several times to draw him into a conversation.
Gwydion responded with monosyllables or grunts of acknowledgement. Only the
music reached him, and when the Ollave played his harp occasionally, Gwydion
would stir like he had heard the voice of a friend. But it still was not
enough to draw him back into the land of the living.

The company turned west, and
the landscape changed again, becoming more mountainous. But before they got
into any severe terrain, they came to wide valley. Rich green fields with
several small duns surrounded the squat remains of some ancient fortress, a
blight on the otherwise fair scene.

Gwydion thought they might be
heading for the ruins, but the company turned to one of the small duns
instead. They stopped at the gate, and Aodhgán played a tune. A face appeared
at the wall, bald and clean shaven, but neither old nor unkind. “What seek ye,
travelers?”

“We are a bardic company,”
Aodhgán replied. “We would like to play for the dun, in return for food and
shelter.”

“These things are given, and
freely,” the man replied. His face disappeared from the wall, and the gates
creaked open, pulled by the same man they had talked to. “You are welcome to
Dun Gareth, Ollave Aodhgán,” he said. He looked over the company, and stopped
at Gwydion. “And this must be the young man that has brought you here.”

Gwydion squirmed under the
scrutiny, but manners forced him to speak. “I am—”

“Hush now,” the man said with
surprising force, even though he had not raised his voice. “We have many
things to speak of, including who you are and what you have done. I am Gareth,
your host here.”

“And also the High Druid of
Glencairck,” Aodhgán pointed out.

“Well, yes, that too.” He
gestured to the stables. “Settle your horses, and come to the hall.”

Gwydion had heard of the High
Druid, but the man walking away wearing no cloak and shooing chickens out of
the way was not what he had expected. He felt a certain curiosity reassert
itself, along with some trepidation. If the High Druid had expected him, his
situation could be even worse than he thought.

The company stabled their
horses, and walked to the hall, which was not much bigger than one of the
outbuildings at Caer Dathyl. Gwydion wondered if the whole company would fit
inside, but only Aodhgán went in with him.

Several trestle tables
flanked a long open fire pit, currently banked. At the far end, a table sat
perpendicular to the rest, but was not raised like a traditional high table.
It was very much like the halls Gwydion had visited all over Gwynedd, but there
was a power that filled the room so palpable that Gwydion began to sweat.

Aodhgán led him to the high
table where Gareth was talking softly to a man who wore a cloak made of bird
feathers, arranged in six stripes of color. Gwydion recognized the Tuigin from
tales he knew even though he had never met the man wearing it. He stopped
short and bowed low. “Pen Bardd,” he said.

Columb mac Col, Pen Bardd of
Glencairck, said, “’Tis myself. Have a seat.” He had enough hair for Gareth
and several others, dark blonde waves that fell over his shoulders. Even his
beard and moustache looked silky.

Gwydion looked at the two
men, arguably the most powerful people in Glencairck besides the Ard Righ,
sitting at a plain table with no one else around. Gareth indicated a pitcher
and several cups. “Help yourself,” he said. “It’s only apple cider, but it is
freshly pressed.”

“I don’t understand,” Gwydion
said, sinking into a chair as plain as the table. “I thought I was going to be
judged…”

“Oh, you are,” Columb said,
pouring a cup and passing it to Aodhgán.

“But just the two of you…”
Gwydion said.

“Do you doubt our ability, or
our authority?” Gareth said gently.

The gentle tone did not
soften the sting of rebuke for Gwydion. “My apologies. It’s just not what I
expected.”

“We hear that more than you
know,” Columb said. He poured another cup of cider and pushed it towards
Gwydion.

The smell made his mouth
water, but he didn’t touch it. “So what happens now?” he asked.

“We talk,” Columb said with a
shrug.

Gareth said, “Specifically,
you tell us what you think has brought you here. And there is one warning I
will give you: both Columb and I are very adept at spotting a lie. So please
give us only the truth. It will make it a lot easier for all of us, but
especially for you.”

Gwydion had expected
something more formal, but he knew that he would have to tell his story, so he
squared his shoulders and began, starting with his desire to get Arianrhod
alone for a while, and all the actions that had come from that. He told about
himself, Gil, Math, and Bran; how he had come up with the idea of drawing Dyfed
into war. He told of his hatred of Kyrnin, and how that hatred had culminated
in Kyrnin’s death. He spoke of returning to Gwynedd, wounded, and being left
at Caer Don, where he was able to fulfill his lustful desires. And he told
about how Gilventhy fulfilled his, and how he knew.

He paused to take a long
drink, before telling about the tower battle. He had thought about it so often
since it happened that the telling came out more impersonal and impassionate than
he felt. He avoided the eyes on him, of three men who he was sure despised
him. He told of the tower’s fall and the bardic company’s arrival before he
looked up.

Aodhgán was nodding his head,
and Gareth looked sadly sympathetic. The Pen Bardd looked like he was carved
from stone, however, and it scared Gwydion. As he sat silently, Gwydion got
more and more nervous. Columb finally roused himself, and said, “I have a few
questions.”

Gwydion took a gulp of cider,
and said, “I will answer as best I can.”

“Yes, you will,” Columb
said. “First of all, what happened to Bran? Did he die?”

“No, I healed him.”

“How?”

“With music.”

“And how did you get him back
to Caer Don?”

“A woman named Ruchalia
helped me.”

“And who is Ruchalia?”

So Gwydion told him about his
training, and how he had met the boar, and the things she had taught him.

“But she didn’t teach you how
to heal Bran?”

“No, she just guided me.”

“I see.” Columb tapped the
edge of his cup. “Do you have anything, Gareth?”

“A few questions come to mind,
yes,” the High Druid said. The two of them proceeded to pepper him with
questions about the hows and the whys of his actions, always trying to get
deeper into both his motivation and his specific action. Gwydion answered them
as completely as he could; the telling of his story had drained him emotionally
and he found it hard to concentrate. When they finally finished, Aodhgán led
him out of the hall, and Gwydion was surprised to find the sky dark and
peppered with stars. He tried to figure out how long he had been in with the
High Druid and the Pen Bardd, but it turned out to be too difficult. He just
followed Aodhgán to room containing a simple pallet and rough woolen blanket.
Gwydion laid down gratefully and full into a deep sleep.

Gareth woke him the next
morning. Gwydion could see the sunlight through the open doorway, and he said,
“How long have I slept?”

“Not as long as you might
wish, but we have things to do,” Gareth said.

“We do?”

Gareth nodded. “Despite the
tragedy that you have lived through, life goes on, and so must we.”

Gwydion wanted to protest,
but instead got up and followed Gareth into the yard of the dun. He saw a few
people doing small chores: mending a rope, feeding the chickens, carving a
spoon. None of them wore cloaks, and he realized with a start that they were
all priests.

Gareth led him out of the dun
and into one of the surrounding fields. The High Druid gave him a sack and
they spent the rest of the morning harvesting carrots. Gwydion spent the first
hour worrying about his fate, but then he fell into the rhythm of the picking,
and let himself just drift without thought.

Gareth touched his shoulder,
and Gwydion followed him to a spot under a shady tree where they ate a simple
meal of bread and cheese, washed down by more cider. The ruins lay before
them, dark and ugly, and Gwydion couldn’t help but ask, “What was that place?”

“Caer Cadia,” Gareth said.
“Have you heard of it?”

“I don’t think so,” Gwydion
answered.

“It’s a good story, rather
appropriate for you right now,” Gareth said. “Caer Cadia used to be the home
of the High Druid, before Cathbar. It was a grand place, with high towers and
many artisans, who spent their days decorating. It was said that every stone
was a sculpture, and every post a work of art. Even after Cathbar overthrew
the Ard Righ and the bards, the High Druid at the time, Imchad, thought that
Cathbar wouldn’t dare attack the druids, and basically ignored the situation.”

Gareth sighed. “It really
caught Imchad off guard when Cathbar came here with his army and demanded that
the High Druid bless him as rightful ruler of Glencairck. Imchad found himself
caught in a dilemma: give in to a powerful man, or honor his commitment to the
truth. He asked for time to pray and reflect, and Cathbar gave him a day.
When Imchad returned and said that he could not bless him since he was not the
rightful ruler, Cathbar attacked the caer, and killed everyone he found
inside. Then he burned it, not just with flame, but with bael fire as well,
melting away all the beauty, and reducing it to the monstrosity you see now.”

“But that was hundreds of
years ago,” Gwydion said. “Why haven’t you rebuilt it yet?”

Gareth smiled sadly. “As
beautiful as Caer Cadia was, it was also a distraction and a source of pride.
We prefer to live simply now, in the shadow of the ruins, where we can see for
ourselves everyday what can happen when we forget our sacred obligations.”

Gwydion looked at the ruins,
but saw only the fallen tower. “Am I destined to be the monster that Cathbar
was?”

“Oh, hardly,” Gareth said.
“Not even Cathbar was destined for it. Like most of us, he faced hard choices,
and he made the decisions based on his own free will. But his understanding of
right and wrong was perverted by his power; he thought that since he could do
something, that he should do it.”

“A wise man once told me that
winning a battle meant controlling the outcome, even if that meant that you
lost, it the traditional sense.”

“That’s right,” Gareth said,
wiping a hand across his bald head. “Cathbar thought that he knew the best way
to run things, which was his first, and gravest mistake. He had the power of
the bards, as well as the Cymry, just like you; he could have had a longer
effect, or at least a more positive one. He could have made meaningful changes
that improved everyone’s life. Instead he chose to dominate and control, and
ruined not just individual lives, but the whole country for a generation.”

“That’s what I fear for
myself,” Gwydion said softly.

“Sure, but it’s not just
you,” Gareth said. “All of us who use, or are able to use, power find
ourselves concerned with how to do so safely.” A priest waved to them from the
gate of the dun, and Gareth raised his hand in acknowledgement. “It’s time to
go in now. It looks like Columb is ready for us.”

The Pen Bardd sat at the head
table, stroking his moustache. Gwydion approached him hesitantly, and Gareth
stayed at his side the whole time. Gwydion stopped in front of the table and
bowed deeply. “I await your judgment, Pan Bardd,” he said.

Columb leaned forward.
“Gwydion ap Don,” he said. “Why are you here?”

Gwydion straightened. “To
answer the charges against me,” he said.

“And what are the charges?”

“Treason.”

“Against whom?”

“Math ap Mathonwy, Lord
Gwynedd.”

Columb said, “You do realize
that treason cannot be committed against a cantref Lord, do you not?”

Gwydion blinked. “I did
not.”

Columb leaned back. “So you
tricked a fellow Tanist and stole his prize cow.”

“I did.”

“And when he tried to kill
you, which he had sworn to do the first time you met, you defended yourself at
the cost of his life.”

Gwydion wanted to protest,
but said, “Yes, that’s what happened.”