The Paradise War (28 page)

Boru’s words hung in the silent hall. I was grateful for his noble act, but it appeared in vain. The sullen faces lining the long boards of the hall were not about to let me escape their contempt so easily, nor yet release me from their scorn.

I glanced around and discovered the reason for their mute disapproval: Cynan stood in the entrance to the hall. He had heard Boru’s speech and was frowning. No one wanted to shame Cynan by lauding me in his presence. So Boru’s generous effort was stillborn. Cynan had defeated me again.

Cynan gazed haughtily at Boru and then at me. He stepped into the hall and marched toward me, his cheeks glowing red as his hair, his small eyes narrowed, his face hard. My stomach tightened. He was coming to challenge me—in front of the whole assembly. I would never live it down.

He walked directly to where I sat and stood over me. I tried to appear calm and unconcerned as I turned to meet his scowl. We gazed at one another for a moment. Boru, knowing full well what was about to happen, intervened, saying, “Greetings, Cynan Machae, we have missed your most agreeable company this evening.”

“I was not hungry,” the surly youth grunted. To me he said, “Stand on your feet.”

Slowly, I rose from the bench, turned, and faced Cynan, desperately trying to think of some way out of this predicament. Boru stepped down from the table to the bench, ready to put himself between us.

Cynan clenched his right hand and slowly raised his fist in my face. With his fist almost touching my nose, he lifted his left hand and held the two fists together in angry defiance. Then he placed a hand to either side of his throat and slowly spread the knobbed ends of his silver torc and removed it—so that it would not be damaged in the fight, I guessed.

Then he reached out and slipped the silver ornament behind my head. I felt the clasp of encircling metal around my throat. Cynan pressed the two ends of the torc together. Then he jerked my arm up, holding it over my head.

He had given me his most cherished possession, the symbol of his royal paternity. He was not at all happy about it, but he was making the gift known before one and all. “Hail, Llyd,” he grumbled threateningly. He released my hand and made to turn away.

“Sit with me, brother,” I called after him. Of all the things I might have said, I do not know why I chose that. Cynan looked so wretched, I suppose I thought to placate him. In truth, I knew it was mere luck that I had won against him. Another day and I might not have fared so well. Besides, I now wore his highest treasure and could afford to be magnanimous.

He whirled on me, instantly furious, both fists clenched. Boru’s hand shot out and gripped him by the shoulder. “Peace, brother. The thing was well done,” he said soothingly. “Do not steal the honor of your noble tribute with an unseemly quarrel.”

Cynan showed what he thought of Boru’s suggestion with a murderously foul glare. “A warrior does not surrender tribute gladly!” he uttered in a strangled voice.

Boru answered lightly: “And I tell you that unless you give gladly, there is no honor in giving at all.”

Cynan hesitated but did not back down.

“Come,” Boru said gently, “do not disgrace yourself by squabbling over a gift once given.”

I looked at Cynan’s flushed and angry face and felt genuine pity for him. Why had he given the torc? He clearly did not want to do it. What compelled him?

“Is this silver trinket worth more than your honor?” asked Boru pointedly. Cynan’s scowl deepened. Some of the onlookers began to murmur, and Cynan felt his support eroding. He was on the point of lashing out, because he knew of nothing else to do.

“You honor me with your gift, Cynan,” I told him, loudly enough for those sitting at the far end of the hall to hear. “I accept it most humbly, for I know I am least worthy of any to receive it.”

This brought a hint of puzzled agreement to Cynan’s scowl. “So you have said,” he replied, neither confirming nor contradicting my words.

“Therefore, in respect of your gift, allow me to give you a gift in return.”

This was unexpected. Cynan did not know what to think. But he was intrigued enough to agree. “If you are determined, I will not prevent you.”

“You are most gracious, brother,” I said and carefully removed the silver torc from around my neck and replaced it on his.

Cynan stared at me. “Why have you done this?” he asked, his voice tinged with awe. “Do you mock me?”

“I do not mock you, Cynan,” I said. “I only seek to honor your gift with one of equal value. And since I own but one torc, I give it to you.”

This answer pleased him, for it allowed him to maintain his self-esteem and also reclaim his valued treasure. The scowl faded from his face, to be replaced with an expression of wary relief and amazement.

“What say you, Cynan?” Boru asked, pointedly.

“I accept your estimable gift,” Cynan answered quickly, “lest I change my mind.

“Good,” I said. “Then I ask you again, will you sit with me?”

Cynan stiffened. His pride did not allow him to bend so far. Boru stepped aside and indicated the bench.

“Come, brother,” he coaxed. “Take my place.”

Cynan fingered the silver ornament at his throat and then caved in. His broad cheeks bunched in a happy grin. “Perhaps I could eat something, after all,” he said. “A place among warriors is not to be spurned.”

We sat down together, Cynan and I, and we ate from the same bowl. And we talked, for the first time as something other than adversaries. “Llyd ap Dicter,” Cynan mused, tearing bread, “Anger, Son of Fury, that is good, Boru. You should be a bard.”

“A warrior bard?” wondered Boru in exaggerated interest. “Never has there been such a thing in Albion. Very well, I will be the first.”

He and Cynan laughed at that, but I did not catch the joke. It did not seem to me such a peculiar union.

Talk turned to other things. I saw Cynan reaching now and again to his treasure—as if to verify that it remained firmly in place. “That is a fine torc,” I told him. “I hope to have one like it one day.”

“There is none like it,” Cynan said proudly. “It was given me by my father, King Cynfarch of Galanae.”

“Why did you give it to me?” I asked, seeking an explanation of the mystery. Obviously, the object meant a great deal to Cynan.

“My father made me vow to give it to the first man who bested me at arms. If I return to his hearth without it, I may not join the war band of my clan.” Cynan stroked the ornament lovingly. “It is the only thing my father, the king, has ever given me out of his hand. I have protected it always.”

He spoke the simple truth, without rancor or self-pity. But I could have wept for Cynan, forced to labor under the terrible burden of perfection. What must his father be like—giving his son a fine gift and then holding the boy hostage to it? It did not make sense, but at least I understood Cynan better.

And I understood that for Cynan to confide his secret to anyone amounted to almost as much of a sacrifice as his gifting of the torc. Yet he was willing to do it—just as he was willing to abide by a vow which only he knew, and which would have cost him his two dearest possessions. Had he simply broken the vow, no one would ever have known.

I could but marvel at Cynan’s extraordinary fidelity. Though his cheek had yet to feel a razor’s edge, he was already a man to be trusted through all things to the death. His loyalty humbled me.

“Cynan,” I said, “I ask a boon of you.”

“Ask what you will, Llyd, and you shall have it,” he answered with careless amity.

“Teach me the spear feint,” I said, making a swinging motion with my hands, as if cracking an enemy skull.

Cynan beamed with his pleasure. “That I will do—but you must guard the knowledge jealously. What benefit to us if every foeman learned its secret?”

We talked long into the night. When at last we rose from the table to make our way to our sleeping quarters, we parted as friends.

19
S
OLLEN

W
inter on the Isle of Sci is windy, cold, and wet. The days are dark and short, the nights dark and everlasting. The land is battered by fierce northern winds, which blast icy rain and snow by day, and gust through the roof thatch by night. The sun rises low—if it rises at all—and hovers close to the horizon, barely skirting the hilltops before losing heart and sinking once more into the icy abyss of night. The season is called
Sollen
, a dreary time when men and animals must remain inside their huts and halls, safe behind protecting walls.

Yet, for all the dismal desolation of that bleak and cheerless season, there are interludes of warmth and comfort: endless fire burning bright in the hearth, embers glowing red in iron braziers, thick woolen mantles and white fleeces piled deep in the sleeping places, small silver lamps aflame with fragrant oils to banish the bitter gloom with sweetness and light.

Days are given to games of subtlety, skill, and chance—
fidchell
and
brandub
and
gwyddbwyll
, played on bright-painted wooden boards with carved pegs. And ever and always there is talk: an ornately woven garment of seamless speech, an unending fountain of heady oration, a merry bubbling cauldron of discourse on all subjects under heaven. As iron sharpens iron, my skill in conversation increased mightily in the good-natured cut and thrust of friendly debate. Time and again I silently thanked Tegid for teaching me so well.

Also during the dull Sollen season our simple fare of bread, meat, and ale was augmented to include pale yellow cheese, honey-sweetened barley cakes, steamy compotes of dried fruit, and the rich golden nectar of mead, the warrior’s drink. To these luxuries were added roast duck and goose, fattened to grace the winter board.

The fellowship of hearth and hall was lavish and lofty—in part because few of Scatha’s pupils remained through the winter. Most had returned to their tribes to winter with their people; those remaining— only a handful of the older youths, Boru among them—used the time to shape a bond closer than all but blood.

Our days were made the more enjoyable by the presence of Scatha’s lovely daughters: three of the most beautiful young women ever to flower beneath fair heaven: Gwenllian, Govan, and Goewyn. They arrived on Ynys Sci with the ship which bore away the homebound students. They had returned to spend the long, somber Sollen season with their mother, each having served in the court of a king as
Banfáith
, or prophetess.

Fortunate the king who could boast a Banfáith; king among kings was he who retained one of Scatha’s daughters for his court. None of them was married—not that it was prevented them—they rather chose loyalty to their demanding gifts. For on the day each gave herself in marriage she would cease to be a prophetess. A Banfáith was exalted among her kind. Like bards they could sing and play the harp, and like bards they were able counselors. But they also possessed an older, more mysterious power: the ability to search the woven pathways of the future to see what will be and to speak to the people in the voice of the
Dagda
.

They adorned the dank cold days with charm bright and warm, softening the generally savage tone of our military existence with feminine grace. Which was part of Scatha’s education too. For a warrior must also master the intricacies of court etiquette and comportment in civilized society. This is why the older pupils stay. The final Sollen or two before a warrior completes Scatha’s instruction, he is tutored in the gentler arts by Scatha’s daughters.

Scatha’s daughters, wise as they were beautiful, lavished affection on us all. It was the sweetest of pleasures merely to be included in the shining circle of their company. The long days in the hall were filled with enjoyable activities. I learned something of harp playing from Gwenllian, and spent many happy days drawing on tablets of wax with Govan; but my preference was playing gwyddbwyll with Goewyn.

What can I say of Scatha’s daughters? That they were more beautiful to me than the fairest summer day, more graceful than the lithe deer frisking in the high mountain meadows, more enchanting than the green-shadowed valleys of Sci, that each was fetching, fascinating, winsome, entrancing.

There was Goewyn: her long hair, softly flaxen, plaited like her mother’s in dozens of tiny braids, an exquisitely crafted golden bell at the end of each braid. When she moved, it was to a fine music. Her smooth, regal brow and fine, straight nose proclaimed nobility; her generous mouth with lips perpetually curved in a secret smile intimated a veiled sensuality; her brown eyes seemed always to hold a hint of laughter, as if all that passed before them existed solely for her private amusement. I very soon came to view our times together, head to head over the square wooden game board balanced on our knees, as a gift from a wildly benevolent Creator.

And Govan: with her ready laugh and subtle wit, and blue eyes, like her mother’s, quick beneath dark lashes. Her hair was tawny and her skin dark, like a sun-browned berry; her body was well-knit, strong and expressive, the body of a dancer. On those few days when the sun lit the sky with its short-lived splendor—a radiance made all the more brilliant for its brevity—Govan and I would ride along the beach below the caer. The fresh wind stung our cheeks and spattered our cloaks with the ocean’s spume; the horses splashed through the surf, rolling white on the black shingle. And we raced: she on a gray mare swift as a diving gull, I on a fleet red roan flying over the tumbled rocks and storm wrack until we were breathless.