This Present Past Page 15

  ‘It’s getting harder,’ Owain confessed quietly to Gwion between gulps from the mead skin.

  ‘It’s your hate,’ Gwion gave his opinion. ‘It’s exhausting you. Instead of trying to exact revenge on these men, try thanking them for their service to you before you release them to their maker. Love will always carry you further than hate.’

  ‘You want me to appreciate my enemies?’ The King was starting to get angry again.

  ‘Our enemies teach us more about ourselves than our allies do . . .’ Gwion eyed the field – half dead and motionless, the other half seething and beckoning release. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Only a god could be so stoic.’ Owain drank some more.

  ‘Then be a god . . .’ Gwion lifted the chain from around his neck from which hung the vial of glowing purple brew. ‘Just for today.’

  ‘What is that?’ The King had been too riled to query this earlier. ‘The Goddess gave you this?’

  ‘It is mind magic.’ Gwion placed the chain around the King’s neck. ‘And aye, Keridwen gave it to me prior to leaving Castell Tegid.’

  ‘How does it work? Do I drink it?’ The King’s eyes widened as he examined the contents more closely.

  ‘No!’ Gwion emphasised. ‘Wear it next to your skin, where it will warm your heart and grant you the compassion, strength and wisdom of the Gods.’

  ‘Is this why you have been so dauntless this day?’ Owain did as instructed, and dropped the vial down beneath his layers.

  ‘Of course.’ Gwion was proud that the King thought him brave, for in truth the vial had no such power. If he had learned anything of the mystical arts during his short induction, it was that magic was just as mutable as any artistic pursuit and could be transformed into whatever was desired. Gwion was quietly counting on the power of Owain’s belief in the Goddess to see him through this trial. Gwion felt no need to ingest the brew now a negotiation was under way, and the unnatural trinket had far more power as an unknown quantity. To Hengist it appeared a weapon of Saxon destruction, like the curse of the undead on this field, but to Owain it was a direct link to the Goddess he claimed to serve.

  A wee glow of vitality registered on the young king’s miserable, blood-splattered face as he pressed the place where the vial sat beneath his sodden attire. ‘I feel it.’ Owain handed Gwion back the mead skin. ‘Thank you. I shall not forget your support this day.’ Owain retrieved his sword from where he’d staked it in the ground, hilt upright, and as he returned to execute his sentence with renewed vigour, Dyrnwyn blazed to life.

  PART 2

  A TROVE OF TREASURES

  BREWING

  Steam rose off the glassy water – not even his breath disturbed the surface any more. Eyes transfixed upon the reflection, Gwion’s focus turned inward to revisit the shock of bearing witness to King Owain’s meeting of the debt to the Night Hunter.

  Even submerged in hot water the recollections sent a chill through his being, disturbing the water’s surface, but not his train of thought. Ever since the event, every time his mind stilled and was at peace his thoughts returned to that accursed field of blood, rain and bodies. The horror he would never forget, and if it had left such a mental scar on his mind, he couldn’t imagine how deeply Owain must have been affected. The young king would certainly never make another deal with Gwyn ap Nudd – Gwion had never seen a man so filled with remorse and repentance than Owain was by the end of the gory marathon. He did confess that, if given the option to kill Hengist in that moment, he could not, and wished never to raise his sword again. Sadly for Owain there was still the matter of the lives owed in return for the resurrection of his countrymen, five hundred and forty-two, or forty-three – depending on whether or not Bran had been counted among those resurrected by Gwion.

  It was Gwion’s greatest hope that the united lands of the Cymry would not see a battle for some time to come, so that the young lads of the Sons might find some peace and happiness while they still had the youth to enjoy it.

  Keridwen had been most impressed to have her vial of mind magic returned to her unopened. ‘I told the King it was an amulet that would give him the compassion of the Gods to complete his quest.’

  Keridwen had found this most amusing. ‘Just as I told you it would give you the wisdom of the Gods if you drank it. Bravo!’

  ‘Are you saying the potion did not have that power?’ he’d asked, bemused; though it made him smile now.

  ‘Belief is power.’ The Goddess had summed up the lesson beautifully – but from this day forth he was going to have trouble trusting any enchantments the Goddess gave him. Which in itself was a lesson – only the magic you wove yourself could be relied upon.

  Today they were to start work on Keridwen’s year-long project, and he was looking forward to this venture very much. Once they began, the Goddess would not allow any earthly matter to drag him from Castell Tegid, and that thought blew away the darkness of the past weeks. Warm excitement filled his being at the prospect of getting to know the family Tegid; he longed to understand their mysteries and their Otherworldly ways. The prospect was motivating enough to drive him from the steamy water of his bath, and with a thought he was dry and dressed.

  ‘Unreal.’ He walked over to peruse his reflection, and decided he should wear his wavy mop of hair strapped back today. His wee moustache and goatee had thickened up since he’d aged and regressed again – or maybe they hadn’t and it was just the way he wanted them to appear? In any case he looked neat and felt ready for this next pivotal stage in his life. If he could impress the Goddess with his service and aptitude to learn then there was no limit as to where their association might lead. It was actually daunting – the Goddess had never taken on a student before, not in living memory. Just get through the day without screwing up, Gwion told himself, and reeled his focus back to the present. With a deep breath, he headed out into the main house to report for duty.

  The halls of Castell Tegid wore their grand Atlantean adornments today, and it felt very fine indeed to descend the gold velvet stairway knowing this was home – at least for the next year and a day.

  The doors to the Goddess’s audience chamber were closed and no one was about. ‘Hello? Anyone here?’

  The front doors in the entrance hall were also closed, so there was only one other way to go – down the hallway that led off from the left at the bottom of the main staircase.

  It was well lit, but had no doors, only ornate columns and an enclosed stairwell at the end that wound downward. Over the banister, Gwion counted at least ten levels, before he couldn’t be bothered counting any more and just descended, down and around, down and around – no doors, just candles burning in their sconces.

  Twenty-two flights of stairs later, feeling giddy and dreading the thought of scaling the stairwell to get back out, Gwion came to a landing with double doors. If this was Keridwen’s sanctum he’d be using the stairs several times daily. ‘No job is perfect,’ he concluded, and fronted up to the doors and knocked.

  ‘Come,’ granted a male voice – it wasn’t Morvran; perhaps it was Morda?

  Gwion opened a door, stepped inside, and was overwhelmed to find himself in a very splendid sitting room for which he was way too small. I’ve shrunk! The fear of it passed over him in waves, but looking back behind the door into the stairwell the world appeared proportional to his stature.

  There was a huge sitting chair in front of an even more massive fireplace that burned like a whole forest before him.

  The giant.

  Gwion gulped, realising he’d unwittingly wandered into the lair of the fabled Lord Tegid, who stuck his head around the side of his chair to spot Gwion loitering by the wee doors that were framed in the skirting boards of the colossal room. ‘Hello there?’

  The giant spoke gently and still Gwion near jumped out of his own skin – it was just so strange to see something so large talking at him.

  ‘I have that effect on people,’ the Lord chuckled, and waved Gwion forth. ‘Come
here where I can see you, my old neck doesn’t like to turn so far.’

  ‘Of course, my apologies, Lord.’ Gwion walked towards the blaze that was keeping the giant’s feet warm.

  ‘Take the stairs!’ The giant pointed to a staircase that led up the side of a footstool alongside his.

  Once Gwion stood on top of the vast green field of velvet cushion, he could see the Lord much better. He was old, clean-shaven, with a balding head framed by white hair, and grey, smiling eyes. His form, although large, did not seem at all overweight for his size, and he was attired in the casual fashion of a gent on holiday. He placed the scroll he’d been looking at on a side table, and raised both sagging brows to observe Gwion better. ‘You must be the new apprentice.’

  ‘Aye, Lord, I am. May I say I am very grateful for your generosity and hospitality. I am honoured to be a guest in your house.’

  The titan found this amusing. ‘You create your own room, your own food, your own experience here . . . accommodating you is really no bother. It is, however, novel to have new company.’

  Gwion smiled graciously, forgetting himself for a moment as he marvelled at the man’s stature.

  ‘I wasn’t always this big,’ he informed. ‘I was once barely bigger than you. My people grow as we get older, and I am very old. Three hundred thousand years, give or take a few centuries.’

  Now Gwion’s jaw was gaping. ‘You really don’t look a day over sixty.’

  The giant roared with laughter. ‘Flatterer! You can stay.’

  ‘My name is Gwion, Lord Tegid.’ He bowed respectfully, and the giant waved him up.

  ‘I am Tacitus, and as you are my guest, you may address me by my name. Family don’t bother with titles.’

  Gwion was truly honoured to be so considered. ‘Tacitus, do you know where I might find the Goddess this morning?’

  ‘Oh yes, they’ll all be down in the sanctum.’ Tacitus sounded very unimpressed. ‘They’re brewing up some mystical talents for Morvran.’

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘We are who we are, and should be content with that,’ he grunted, retrieving his reading scroll. ‘No good shall come of it.’

  ‘So where do I find the sanctum?’ Gwion queried meekly.

  ‘Has no one taken you down there yet?’ Tacitus sounded astounded by the oversight. ‘How are you to be expected to get there without first having guidance?’

  ‘I have an awful feeling you are going to tell me that the way is back up the stairs.’

  Tacitus burst out laughing again, and had to wipe away a tear. ‘Priceless,’ he wheezed. ‘No, no . . . you just think of being at the top—’

  In a blink of his eye, Gwion was at the top of the staircase once more. ‘Of course.’ It annoyed him that he hadn’t thought of that, and he’d rudely left Tacitus hanging in mid-sentence. Then imagine you return to his company before the Lord even notices you missing.

  ‘—and you’ll be there. But if you haven’t been to where you are going then how are you to imagine being there?’

  ‘That makes perfect sense to me, Lord. Tacitus.’ Gwion replied to his address, having returned before the Lord had noted his absence.

  ‘You shall find the entry you are looking for to the right of my lady’s audience chamber,’ the Lord informed.

  ‘Where the banquet hall was . . . is sometimes?’ Gwion hadn’t noticed a doorway there this morning, or perhaps the prospect of investigating down the hall distracted him, and so it had escaped his notice.

  ‘Exactly,’ Tacitus awarded. ‘But come back when you have some time and I’ll show you all the treasures of my palace.’

  ‘You have a palace hidden down here?’ Gwion couldn’t fathom how big that might be.

  ‘Oh yes.’ Tacitus grinned. ‘But I like this cosy little room best . . . it’s the closest to the family.’

  The room was cosy, but little? The prospect of seeing Tacitus’s palace was very exciting indeed. ‘I shall certainly return as soon as I am at leisure.’

  ‘You are working for my lady now; you won’t know the meaning of the word leisure. See you in a year, Gwion,’ the Lord jeered, and with a chuckle went back to his scroll.

  Upon arrival outside the closed doors to Keridwen’s audience chamber, Gwion discovered that in place of the double doors to the feasting hall there was in fact a wall, just as he’d observed this morning. What he hadn’t noticed was the picture hanging there that was so lifelike he felt that he was staring through a window.

  The image depicted a room filled with all sorts of amazing things – scrolls, vessels, implements, herbs drying from the rafters, more growing beneath a domed skylight that appeared to be underwater judging by the school of fish depicted swimming beyond the glass in the ceiling.

  This is it! His heart began pounding with excitement, eyes fixed on the frozen school of fish beyond the dome in the picture. This is where I want to go!

  The fish broke from their depiction and kept on swimming, which startled Gwion.

  ‘Gwion! Excellent timing. You got my message.’

  He swung about to find Keridwen at a long bench grinding ingredients with a pestle and mortar. She wasn’t so much working the mixture as watching the tools grind the mixture by themselves.

  ‘Why not just imagine the mixture already ground?’ Gwion wondered, his eyes drifting back up to the dome. The feeling of being underwater was completely surreal.

  ‘The same reason I cannot simply imagine forth the fuel I need to keep the cauldron burning, or make the pot stir and tend itself.’ She took hold of the pestle – perhaps in quiet admittance of her cheating and continued to grind herself. ‘This is earth magic, and therefore everything for this potion must be produced by physical means.’

  The room was super warm and the aromas bombarded Gwion’s nostrils – spice, wood, flowers, charcoal, damp earth and herbs. The support walls of the sanctum were of curved stone, like those in a wheelhouse, but central in the room in place of a fire pit a large round bed of herbs and flowers grew beneath the watery window.

  Gwion’s attention returned to the Goddess grinding away. ‘Shall I do that for you, Mistress?’

  ‘No, no. All the ingredients must be prepared and gathered by me. Your job is wood; good, regular, burning wood.’

  ‘But the wood will need to cure to be, as you say, good burning wood.’ Gwion didn’t fancy any tree from the sodden landscape was going to burn immediately.

  ‘We have stores in the barn,’ Keridwen explained, ‘but you’ll need—’

  ‘To chop some to cure for later in the year.’ Gwion understood. ‘Should I do that first, or split what is in the barn?’

  ‘Hunt for wood while the good weather holds,’ Keridwen advised. ‘You can split wood in the barn, raining or no. I’m in no rush at this point.’ She directed him towards her wall hearth, where Morda stood loading buckets of water into a cauldron. ‘You’ll find your axe over there.’

  When Gwion spotted the tool he’d briefly had the pleasure of working with during battle resting against one of the sandstone blocks supporting the lintel, he jumped for joy. ‘Thank you, Goddess!’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  The response sobered Gwion for a moment; he still wasn’t used to having a deity he worshipped in the same room. ‘I thought I’d lost it,’ he explained as he proceeded in a calmer fashion to claim it.

  ‘Gwion, you made it.’ Morvran, wearing his monster form, appeared with three buckets of water in each hand. He placed them all down and collected the empties.

  ‘Was there any doubt?’ Gwion smiled, pleased to see him, as he repossessed his axe and admired it.

  ‘You appeared rather shattered when you returned from your quest.’ Both Morvran’s devilish red brows were raised in concern. ‘You can take a few more days of rest if you need to? I can cover your work here.’

  Gwion was touched. ‘I find rest not especially restful at present; I’d rather find something constructive to occupy my thoughts.’

 
‘Hello, Morda . . .’ the little man grumbled, slamming down an empty bucket. ‘How is blindness treating you? Nah! Old Morda’s just part of the scenery now.’

  ‘I am sorry, Morda, I did see you there and was going to ask—’

  ‘Not important.’ He waved off Gwion’s attempt to apologise. ‘But I am doing as best as could be expected, thanks for your lack of concern.’ He forced a huge grin and went back to bucketing water into the cauldron.

  ‘Are you keeping count, Morda?’ Keridwen quizzed.

  ‘Twenty-six,’ he counted off the bucket he was emptying.

  ‘Very good,’ Keridwen said with a smile in her voice. ‘Fifty buckets and no more, to begin.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’ Morda, although grumpy, was clearly happy to be back to work.

  ‘I’ll see you out there then.’ Morvran ticked his head and vanished.

  ‘That’s right, just bugger off . . .’ Morda mumbled to himself. ‘Out where you are free to roam in the beauty of nature . . .’

  Gwion couldn’t listen to the groaning any more, and so envisioned the stairs that led up to the portico beyond the entrance doors to Castell Tegid.

  The Tegid valley was a glorious sight this morning. The mountains and trees, having shaken off most of the winter frost, were tinged green. Sunlight pierced through the grey blanket above, sending golden shafts of light streaming across the misty lake and surrounding mountainside. When the sun’s rays lit up the valley mist, causing vapour to rise and swirl off the watery surface of the lake, the reflected warmth and divine majesty of the display made Tegid truly appear to be a dwelling of the Gods.