The Silver Hand Read online

  ACCLAIM FOR STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD’S PAST WORKS

  “[T]he narrative has the excitement of a fantasy novel, a vivid historical setting, and a lengthy, credible, and satisfying plot—just the right elements, in fact, that have made Lawhead a commercial success time and again.”

  —Publishers Weekly review of Byzantium

  “In a style reminiscent of Tolkien, Lawhead presents a world of vivid imagery. This book is a delight.”

  —Bookstore Journal regarding The Paradise War

  “Patrick is unfailingly sympathetic and believable, and his story of losing and finding his faith will resonate with a wide spectrum of readers.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Celtic twilight shot with a brighter, fiercer light, and tinged with modern villainy . . . savagely beautiful.”

  —Michael Scott Rohan, author of the Winter of the

  World trilogy regarding The Endless Knot

  “Though Lawhead brilliantly creates an authentic and vivid Arthurian Britain, he never forsakes the sense of wonder that has graced the Arthurian legend throughout the ages.”

  —Publishers Weekly regarding Pendragon

  “Lawhead invests his often poetic vision of a Celtic land living ancient laws with charm and dignity.”

  —Publishers Weekly review of The Silver Hand

  “An epic struggle between Light and Darkness . . . well paced, exciting and well researched.”

  —Mick Norman, author of

  Forbidden Planet regarding The Silver Hand

  “This graceful combination of Atlantean legend, Celtic myth, and Christian message reminiscent of C. S. Lewis. Highly recommended.”

  —Library Journal review of

  Taliesin: Book One of the Pendragon Cycle

  “Lawhead’s [The Iron Lance] displays the author’s deep convictions as well as his storytelling expertise.”

  —Library Journal

  “Rich in historical detail and peopled with a wide variety of believable characters, this novel of simple faith and high adventure should appeal to fans of Christian fantasy.”

  —Library Journal review of

  The Black Rood: The Celtic Crusades Book 2

  “Lawhead pulls off a genuinely moving parable of good and evil.”

  —Publishers Weekly regarding

  Avalon: The Return of King Arthur

  THE SILVER HAND

  OTHER TITLES BY STEPHEN R. LAWHEAD

  The Dragon King Trilogy:

  In the Hall of the Dragon King

  The Warlords of Nin

  The Sword and the Flame

  Dream Thief

  Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra

  Empyrion II: The Siege of Dome

  The Pendragon Cycle:

  Taliesin

  Merlin

  Arthur

  Pendragon

  Grail

  Avalon

  Song of Albion trilogy:

  The Paradise War

  The Silver Hand

  The Endless Knot

  Byzantium

  The Celtic Crusades:

  The Iron Lance

  The Black Rood

  The Mystic Rose

  Patrick, Son of Ireland

  Hood

  SONG OF ALBION ~ BOOK 2

  THE SILVER HAND

  STEPHEN R.

  LAWHEAD

  Visit www.stephenlawhead.com

  © 1992, 2006 by Stephen R. Lawhead.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

  Lawhead, Steve.

  The silver hand / Stephen Lawhead.

  p. cm. — (Song of Albion ; bk. 2)

  ISBN 978-1-59554-220-5 (softcover)

  1. Mythology, Celtic—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Lawhead, Steve. Song of Albion (WestBow Press) ; bk. 2.

  PS3562.A865S55 2006

  813'.54—dc22

  2006014184

  Printed in the United States of America

  09 10 11 12 QW 10 9 8 7 6

  To Donovan Welch

  CONTENTS

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  1. DOOMSAYER

  2. RETURN OF THE HERO

  3. TÁN N’RIGH

  4. THE CAPTIVE PIT

  5. HUNTED

  6. SAFE HAVEN

  7. BLACK BELTAIN

  8. THE LAST GORSEDD

  9. CAST ADRIFT

  10. THE NEMETON

  11. GOFANNON’S GIFT

  12. DRUIM VRAN

  13. THE CRANNOG

  14. VISITORS

  15. DEADLY ALLIANCES

  16. A FLIGHT OF RAVENS

  17. GLORIOUS SCHEMES

  18. THE CHALLENGE

  19. INVASION

  20. GREAT HOUND OF HAVOC

  21. ASSAULT ON SCI

  22. THE RESCUE

  23. ESCAPE

  24. VALE OF MISERY

  25. DINAS DWR

  26. DEAD WATER

  27. THE GIANT’S STONE

  28. DYN DYTHRI

  29. BLIGHT

  30. WHERE TWO ROADS CROSS

  31. TRAFFERTH

  32. FIRESTORM

  33. THE WORD ALREADY SPOKEN

  34. ENIGMA AND PARADOX

  35. THE GWR GWIR

  36. DEADLY RIVER

  37. DEFEAT

  38. SILVER HAND

  39. ORAN MÔR

  INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  Many of the old Celtic words and names are strange to modern eyes, but they are not as difficult to pronounce as they might seem at first glance. A little effort—and the following rough guide—will help you enjoy the sound of these ancient words.

  Consonants – As in English, but with the following exceptions:

  c: hard – as in cat (never soft, as in cent)

  ch: hard – as in Bach (never soft, as in church)

  dd: a hard th sound, as in then

  f: a hard v sound, as in of

  ff: a soft f sound, as in off

  g: hard – as in girl (never soft, as in George)

  ll: a Gaelic distinctive, sounded as tl or hl on the sides of the tongue

  r: rolled or slightly trilled, especially at the beginning of a word

  rh: breathed out as if h-r and heavy on the h sound

  s: soft – as in sin (never hard, as in his); when followed by a vowel it takes on the sh sound

  th: soft – as in thistle (never hard, as in then)

  Vowels – As in English, but generally with the lightness of short vowel sounds

  a: short, as in can

  á: slightly softer than above, as in awe

  e: usually short, as in met

  é: long a sound, as in hey

  i: usually short, as in pin

  í: long e sound, as in see

  o: usually short, as in hot

  ó: long o sound, as in woe

  ô: long o sound, as in go

&n
bsp; u: usually sounded as a short i, as in pin

  ú: long u sound as in sue

  ù: short u sound as in muck

  w: sounded as a long u, as in hue; before vowels often becomes a soft consonant as in the name Gwen

  y: usually short, as in pin; sometimes u as in pun; when long, sounded e as in see; rarely, y as in why)

  The careful reader will have noted that there is very little difference between i, u, and y—they are almost identical to non-Celts and modern readers.

  Most Celtic words are stressed on the next to the last syllable. For example, the personal name Gofannon is stressed go-FAN-non, and the place name Penderwydd is stressed pen-DER-width, and so on.

  Since all the world is but a story,

  it were well for thee to buy

  the more enduring story rather than

  the story that is less enduring.

  THE JUDGMENT OF ST. COLUM CILLE

  (ST. COLUMBA OF SCOTLAND)

  Hear, O Son of Albion, the prophetic word:

  Sorrow and be sad, deep grief is granted Albion in triple measure. The Golden King in his kingdom will strike his foot against the Rock of Contention. The Wyrm of fiery breath will claim the throne of Prydain; Llogres will be without a lord. But happy shall be Caledon; the Flight of Ravens will flock to her many-shadowed glens, and ravensong shall be her song.

  When the Light of Derwyddi is cut off, and the blood of bards demands justice, then let the Ravens spread their wings over the sacred wood and holy mound. Under Ravens’ wings, a throne is established. Upon this throne, a king with a silver hand.

  In the Day of Strife, root and branch shall change places, and the newness of the thing shall pass for a wonder. Let the sun be dull as amber, let the moon hide her face: abomination stalks the land. Let the four winds contend with one another in dreadful blast; let the sound be heard among the stars. The Dust of the Ancients will rise on the clouds; the essence of Albion is scattered and torn among contending winds.

  The seas will rise up with mighty voices. Nowhere is there safe harbor. Arianrhod sleeps in her sea-girt headland. Though many seek her, she will not be found. Though many cry out to her, she cannot hear their voices. Only the chaste kiss will restore her to her rightful place.

  Then shall rage the Giant of Wickedness, and terrify all with the keen edge of his sword. His eyes shall flash forth fire; his lips shall drip poison. With his great host he will despoil the island. All who oppose him will be swept away in the flood of wrongdoing that flows from his hand. The Island of the Mighty will become a tomb.

  All this by the Brazen Man is come to pass, who likewise mounted on his steed of brass works woe both great and dire. Rise up, Men of Gwir! Fill your hands with weapons and oppose the false men in your midst. The sound of the battleclash will be heard among the stars of heaven and the Great Year will proceed to its final consummation.

  Hear, O Son of Albion: Blood is born of blood. Flesh is born of flesh. But the spirit is born of Spirit, and with Spirit evermore remains. Before Albion is One, the Hero Feat must be performed and Silver Hand must reign.

  Banfáith of Ynys Sci

  1

  DOOMSAYER

  We carried the body of Meldryn Mawr down from high Findargad to be buried in the Hill of Kings. Three horses pulled the wagon: a red and a white to draw the bier, and a black to lead them. I walked at the head of the dark horse, guiding the great king’s body to its rest.

  Six warriors walked on either side of the bier. The horses’ hooves and the wagon’s wheels were wrapped with rags, likewise the spears and shields of the warriors. The Llwyddi followed, each man, woman, and child carrying an unlit torch.

  Burial of a king has been observed in this way from time past remembering. The wheels and hooves are muffled, so that the bier may pass silently through the land; the weapons are covered and the torches unlit so that no eye will mark the passing procession. Secrecy and silence are maintained so that the grave mound will never be discovered and desecrated by an enemy.

  As night drew its cloak of stars across the sky, we arrived at Glyn Du, a narrow valley tributary to the Vale of Modornn. The funeral procession entered the black glen, moving beside the still, dark water. The deep-folded valley was darker even than the sky above, which still glimmered in blue twilight. The grave mound loomed on its hill as a mass of thick-gathered shadow.

  At the foot of Cnoc Righ, the Hill of Kings, I kindled a small fire to light the torches. As the people took their places, forming two long lines on either side of the path leading up the hill to the entrance of the cairn, the flame was passed from torch to torch. This is the Aryant Ol, the radiant way along which a king is carried to the tomb. When the people had assembled, I began the funeral rite, saying:

  “The sword I bear on my thigh was a wall, high and strong—the bane of marauding enemies! Now it is broken.

  “The torc I bear in my hand was a light of keen judgment—the beacon of right-wise favor shining from the far-off hill. Now it is extinguished.

  “The shield I bear on my shoulders was a platter of plenty in the hall of honor—the sustenance of heroes. Now it is riven, and the hand that upheld it is cold.

  “The pale white corpse will soon be covered, under earth and blue stones: Woe my heart, the king is dead.

  “The pale white corpse will soon be covered, amidst earth and oak: Woe my heart, the Ruler of Clans is slain. “The pale white corpse will soon be covered, under the greensward in the tumulus:Woe my heart, Prydain’s chieftain will join his fathers in the Hero Mound.

  “Men of Prydain! Fall on your faces. Grief has overtaken you. The Day of Strife has dawned! Great the grief, sharp the sorrow. No glad songs will be sung in the land, only songs of mourning. Let all men make bitter lament. The Pillar of Prydain is shattered. The Hall of Tribes has no roof. The Eagle of Findargad is gone. The Boar of Sycharth is no more. The Great King, the Golden King, Meldryn Mawr is murdered. The Day of Strife has dawned!

  “Bitter the day of birth, for death is its companion. Yet, though life be cold and cruel, we are not without a last consolation. For to die in one world is to be born into another. Let all men hear and remember!”

  So saying, I turned to the warriors at the bier and commanded them. The horses were unhitched; the wagon was raised and its wheel removed. The warriors then lifted the bier shoulder high and began to walk slowly toward the cairn, passing between the double line of torches, moving slowly up the radiant way to the grave mound.

  As the bier passed, I took my place behind it and began the “Lament for a Fallen Champion,” singing softly, slowly, allowing the words to fall like tears into the silence of the glen. Unlike other laments, this one is sung without the harp. It is sung by the Chief Bard and, although I had never sung it, I knew it well.

  It is a strong song, full of bitterness and wrath at the way in which the champion’s life has been cut short and his people deprived of his valor and the shelter of his shield. I sang the lament, my voice rising full and free, filling the night with harsh and barren sorrow. There is no comfort in this song; it sings the coldness of the tomb, the obscenity of corruption, and the emptiness, waste, and futility of death. I sang the bitterness of loss and the aching loneliness of grief. I sang it all, driving my words hard and biting them between my teeth.

  The people wept. And I wept, too, as up and up the Aryant Ol and slowly, slowly we approached the burial cairn. The song moved to its end: a single rising note becoming a sharp, savage scream. This represents the rage of the life cruelly cut short.

  My voice rose to the final note, growing, expanding, filling the night with its accusation. My lungs burned, my throat ached; I thought my heart would burst with the effort. The ragged scream burst and faltered in the air, dying at its height. A truncated echo resounded along the sides of Glyn Du and flew up into the starry void—a spear hurled into the eye pit of night.

  The warriors bearing the king’s body halted at the sound. Strength left their hands, and the bier pitched and s
wayed. For an instant I thought they would drop the body, but they staggered, steadied themselves, and slowly raised the bier once more. It was a dreadful, pitiful moment, speaking more forcefully than the words of my lament the anguish and heartbreak of our loss.

  The bearers moved to the entrance of the cairn, where they paused while two men with torches went ahead of them into the tomb. The bier entered the grave mound next, and I followed. The interior was lined with stone niches, small chambers containing the bones of Prydain kings whose shields covered the openings.

  Meldryn’s body was laid in the center of the cairn, on its bier, and the warriors saluted their king, each man touching the back of his hand to his forehead, honoring Meldryn Mawr for the last time. Then they began filing out one by one. I lingered long, looking upon the face of the lord I had loved and served. Ashen white, sunken-cheeked, and hollow-eyed, pale his brow, pale like bone, but high and fair. Even in death it was a noble countenance.

  I considered the shields of other kings on the walls of the cairn: other kings of other times, each a lord of renown who had ruled Prydain in his turn. Now Meldryn Mawr, the Great Golden King, had relinquished the seat of power. Who was worthy to take his place?

  I was the last to leave, consigning the king’s body to its long sleep. One day, when death’s handmaidens had finished their work, I would return to gather the bones and place them in one of the empty niches. For now, however, I bade Meldryn Mawr a final farewell and stepped from the cairn. Passing slowly down the shimmering pathway of the Aryant Ol, I raised my voice in the “Queen’s Lament.”

  As I sang, the women joined in, blending their willowy voices with mine. There is a measure of solace in the song, and as I sang I became the Chief Bard in more than name only. For I sang and saw the life of the song born in my people; I saw them take strength and sustenance from its beauty. I saw them live in the song, and I thought: Tonight I grasp Ollathir’s staff, and I am worthy. I am worthy to be the bard of a great people. But who is worthy to be our king?