The Paradise War Read online

  Paladyr continued to the foot of the king’s throne and threw himself down before it. Meldryn Mawr gazed upon the prostrate man impassively. Tegid hurried to the king’s side and, after a quick consulation, said, “What do you seek by coming before your king in this way?”

  The former champion remained facedown before the throne; not a muscle twitched. The king whispered to Tegid, who nodded and addressed the prostrate warrior. “Rise, Paladyr,” the bard said. “If you have something to say, stand on your feet and speak it out.”

  At this, Paladyr rose to stand before the king. He appeared humble, but not altogether humiliated, as he stretched forth his empty hands to the king. “What wrong do you lay on my head that I should be thrust aside in this way?”

  “Do you suggest that your king has treated you unfairly?” Tegid asked.

  “I demand to know why I have been cast aside,” he replied sullenly.

  “It is not your place to demand, Paladyr,” the bard observed. “It is your place to obey. Nevertheless, the king is mindful of your loyal service, and for this reason he will answer you.”

  “Answer, then,” Paladyr said, barely containing himself. “But I would hear it from the king’s mouth—not yours, bard.”

  Meldryn Mawr inclined his head toward Tegid, who bent to hear him, then straightened and said, “By reason of the king’s geas, this cannot be. But hear the king’s word and receive it, if you will. Thus says your king: those who serve me must remain true to me, and to me alone. You, Paladyr, were first in loyalty. So long as your fealty remained true, you were champion to the king. But you put your loyalty aside when you chose to follow Prince Meldron. Therefore, I have put you aside.” Tegid paused. “Your king has spoken.”

  These words seemed to have great effect on the man. Instantly, he appeared humble and contrite. “This rebuke is hard, O King,” he said. “But I accept your judgment; only allow me to swear again the oath of fealty and pledge again my loyalty.”

  King Meldryn nodded slowly, and Paladyr stepped forward, his head low, his arms limp. He sank to his knees before the throne and fell upon the king in a great show of repentance and remorse. He placed his head against the king’s chest and cried out in a loud voice, “Forgive me, O King!”

  Meldryn Mawr raised his hand and seemed about to speak. But the hand faltered and fell away; the king closed his mouth and bowed his head over his once-esteemed champion. It was a most affecting display, touching all who looked on.

  After a moment, Tegid said, “Paladyr, speak again the oath of fealty.” And he began to recite the words which the former champion was to say.

  But Paladyr did not answer. He did not even wait for Tegid to finish. Instead, he rose to his feet, stood over the king for a moment, and then turned his back on the throne. All eyes watched him as the former champion hastened from the hall.

  The chorus of murmured astonishment which followed Paladyr’s baffling behavior quickly turned to cries of shock and disbelief when someone shouted, “Murder! The king is slain!”

  The words were sharp as knives. Like everyone else, I had been watching Paladyr. At the first cry of murder, I whirled back to see Meldryn Mawr still sitting on his throne, head bowed forward, hands in his lap. He appeared in the same attitude as a moment before. He had not moved.

  And then I saw it: Paladyr’s knife jutting out of the middle of Meldryn’s chest, just below the breastbone. Blood, spreading in a brilliant crimson bloom, seeped slowly from the wound. The king was dead.

  For the space of three heartbeats, the hall held its breath in a horrified hush. Then everything happened at once.

  Tegid shouted, “Stop him! Seize him!”

  The crowd surged toward the throne. Someone screamed.

  In the crush, I fought to join Tegid. More screams. Cries of outrage. Panic. The door to the hall slammed shut. The sound echoed like thunder. Warriors shouted confused orders. The air shimmered with the ring of drawn weapons.

  Prince Meldron materialized from nowhere, holding up his hands and loudly proclaiming, “Peace! Peace! Do not be afraid! I am here! Your king is here!”

  And there was Siawn Hy—standing beside the prince, brandishing an upraised sword, as if he would protect his lord from attack. Attack from whom? I wondered. Fortunately, the sight of Meldron in control had a reassuring effect. The panic and confusion subsided at once.

  “Wolf Pack!” Meldron called, and the warriors of his elite war band pushed through the crowd at the foot of the throne. “Ride after Paladyr. Hunt him down and bring him back. But bring him to me alive. Do you hear? He is not to be harmed!”

  The warriors, all except Siawn, who stayed by the prince, pledged themselves to the task and hurried away. The prince turned to Tegid, who was bending over the king’s body. “He is dead?” the prince said, less a question than a statement of an obvious fact.

  The bard straightened; his face, drained of color, appeared ashen and grim, and his voice trembled—but whether with sorrow or anger, or some other emotion, I could not tell. “The knife pierced his heart,” Tegid intoned. “The king is dead.” To me, he said, “Gather some men. We will move the king to his chamber.”

  Three warriors joined us, and we carefully raised the body and bore it between us. We carried the king to his chamber and laid him in his sleeping place. Tegid removed his cloak and spread it over the king; he then dismissed the warriors and commanded them to guard the door.

  I looked at Tegid standing over the body, chin in hand, deep in thought. I hardly knew what to say or think. It seemed so unreal, so dreamlike. Yet there lay Meldryn Mawr . . . dead. And, as his champion, it was my duty to protect him.

  “Tegid—I . . . I am sorry,” I stammered, coming to stand beside him.

  “Did you know what was in Paladyr’s heart?” he asked coldly.

  “Well . . . no, I—”

  “Could you have prevented it?”

  “No. But I—”

  “Then you have no cause to reproach yourself.” Though his voice was soft, his tone was adamant. “Neither do I reproach you.”

  “But I was his champion!” I insisted. “I stood by while Paladyr killed him. I did nothing. I—I should have . . . done something. I should have protected him.”

  The bard stooped to smooth the cloak over the corpse. He straightened abruptly and took hold of my arm. “Hear me now, Llew,” he said quietly, but firmly. “The king’s life belongs to his people. If one of his own determines to take that life by treachery, no force on earth can prevent it.”

  Tegid spoke a hard, hard truth. I understood him, but it would be a long time before I could accept it.

  “What are we to do now?”

  The bard turned once more to the king. “The body must be prepared for burial. Once we have observed the death rites, a new king will be chosen.”

  “Prince Meldron said—”

  “Prince Meldron has overreached himself,” Tegid replied coldly. “Meldron must submit to the will of the bards.”

  In Albion the Derwyddi chose the king, and the kingship did not routinely pass from father to son. Rather, any worthy member of the clan could become king if the bard chose him. They valued the kingship more highly than to hand it down like a used garment. Instead, the king was chosen from among the best men in the clan.

  “I see,” I told him. “But you are the only bard left among the Llwyddi—the only bard left in Albion, for all we know.”

  “Then I alone will choose.” He offered a bleak smile and added, “I hold the kingship now, brother. I bestow it where I will.”

  38

  THE JOURNEY HOME

  The body of the Great King lay in Findargad for three days, as the days of feasting turned instead to mourning. During that time, Tegid prepared the body for its eventual burial and directed preparations for the journey home to Sycharth. The king would not be buried in the mountain fortress, but would be laid to rest in the Vale of Modornn, in the gravemound of the Lwyddi kings. The body was washed and clothed in his fine
st garments. His sword and spear were burnished bright; his shield was painted fresh, the circular bosses polished so that they shone like suns.

  On the fourth day, the corpse was carried from the king’s chamber and placed on a wagon piled high with furs. Then, when all who had survived Lord Nudd’s onslaught had assembled in the yard, Tegid led the wagon out through the gates, and we began the long journey home. Six warriors walked on either side of the funeral wagon carrying spears. Prince Meldron rode behind the wagon, dour and mournful, and all the rest of the Llwyddi followed after.

  Thus we left Findargad. At Tegid’s behest, I walked at the head of the horse, opposite him. The first day we did not speak at all. Tegid, eyes fixed on the trail ahead, stumped along lost in thought, his brow creased in a reflective frown. I do not know what occupied him, and he did not say.

  In the days that followed, however, he began to share the substance of his ruminations with me. Solemn and somber, his musings formed a bleak assessment of the future he saw stretching before us: the future described in the Banfáith’s terrible prophecy.

  “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,” he said gloomily. We were standing beside a mountain stream, waiting for the retinue to cross so that we could continue. “Look at them.” He indicated the long lines of people splashing through the water. “They are lost and do not know it. There is no one to lead them. A people without a king are worse than sheep without a shepherd.”

  “They have Prince Meldron,” I pointed out. The prince sat his horse in the center of the stream while the people crossed before him. It was as if he were indeed watching over his flock. Siawn, I noticed, stood nearby, leaning on his spear. In the last days he had never been out of the prince’s sight, so I had not been able to speak to him alone.

  Tegid cast me a sidelong glance, his mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. “Prince Meldron will never sit his father’s throne.”

  I asked him what he meant, but he gave me to know that it was not something he cared to voice aloud at the moment. And he warned me: “Speak of this to no one.”

  I considered this to be the end of the matter, until a little while later, when we were on the trail once more. “The king will be buried properly.” The bard spoke so softly, I thought he was speaking to himself. “I may not be able to prevent what is to come, but at least I will see my king laid in his tomb in a rightwise manner. We are not sunk so low that the ancient rites are to be abandoned.”

  “Tegid, tell me. What do you think is going to happen?”

  He raised his head, gazing into the cloud-wrapped distance. “That you already know,” he replied.

  “If I knew, I would not ask.” I was growing tired of his evasive manner.

  “You know,” he repeated, and added, almost as a challenge, “Llew would know.”

  Before I could wheedle any more out of him, we were halted by the return of the Wolf Pack. The warriors under Prince Meldron’s command had ridden hard and traveled far by the look of them. Their clothing was dirty, and their horses were lathered and muddy. The prince saw them approaching, left his place behind the funeral wagon, and rode ahead to meet them.

  “I wonder what they found,” I remarked, watching the prince and his warriors conferring a little way ahead of us in the trail.

  “Why do you wonder?” Tegid asked tartly. “Are you blind?”

  “I suppose I must be,” I snapped.

  “Open your eyes! Must I describe what is before your very nose?”

  “The Wolf Pack has returned,” I said in exasperation. “The prince is talking to them.”

  “Is Paladyr with them?” Tegid asked snidely.

  “No—no, he is not.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, they did not find him. Paladyr must have escaped.”

  “Paladyr escaped.” Tegid rolled his eyes. “These men can track a boar through the depths of the darkest wood. They can run a deer until it drops from exhaustion. They can follow an eagle in flight and find its eyrie. How is it, then, that Paladyr has escaped?”

  “They let him go? But why would they do that?”

  “Why indeed?”

  That was all I got out of him before the prince turned his horse and trotted back to his place behind the funeral wagon and the cortege continued on its long, difficult way. I sifted Tegid’s insinuations carefully in my mind as we traveled, weighing each word before adding it to the others.

  Clearly, he was preoccupied with the Banfáith’s prophecy, and he was determined to see it fulfilled through me. That was unsettling enough, but even more alarming was his intimation that Prince Meldron had caused his father’s death. Because if Prince Meldron was involved, Simon surely was as well. The two were rarely apart! It was unlikely the prince could plan something so treacherous, and so devastating, without Simon knowing about it. Perhaps Simon had participated . . . perhaps he had done more than that . . .

  The thought chilled me to the marrow. What had Simon done?

  I pondered this, turning it over in my mind for a long time. But the day was bright and good, and the sun warm where it touched the skin. Despite my apprehension, I was slowly drawn once more to the clear vistas before me. The snow still lay deep on the mountainsides, and the trail was mostly snow-covered. It had begun to melt, however; brown and gray stone poked through the white, and occasionally even some green could be seen.

  As if to soothe the Sollen-ravaged land, Gyd was quickly reasserting its gentle claim. The streams and freshets ran with melting snow, and water dripped from every rock. The sky remained clear for the most part, and the sun warm. The nights were chill and the ground wet, but we built fires high and slept on ox skins. A complement of warriors stood watch over the king’s corpse, taking it in turn through the night.

  On the night I took my turn with the first watch, it chanced that Simon was also in the group. I waited until our replacements came to relieve us, and then went to him. It was the first opportunity I had had to speak to him privately in a very long time.

  “Siawn,” I said, using the name he preferred. I touched him on the arm.

  He whirled around, his fists ready, his face hard in the light of a rising moon. His eyes played over my face, but he betrayed no sign of recognition. Neither was he awed by my presence, as so many seemed to be. “Llew,” he said, and his lips formed a sneer. “What does the mighty Llew want with me?”

  His sneer angered me. “I want to talk to you,” I replied. He turned away, but I followed, falling into step with him.

  “Simon, what is happening? What are you involved in?”

  He swung toward me, angry once more. “I am Siawn Hy!”

  “Siawn,” I said quickly, “what do you know of Paladyr?”

  At mention of the fugitive’s name, his eyes narrowed. “Nothing,” he said, his voice bristling with menace. He made to turn away, but I caught him by the arm and held him fast.

  “I am not finished,” I told him.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” he spat. “Go your way, Llew.” He put his hand to my wrist and removed my hand. Keen, virulent hatred flared in his eyes. Anger flowed from him in waves. He stepped slowly away.

  “Wait!” I said, desperate to hold him. “Siawn, wait, I want to join you.”

  He halted, rigid. “Join us? What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean,” I told him, and, though my heart raced, I heard my voice cool and insinuating. “Do you think I am stupid? I can see what is happening. I want to join you.”

  Suspicious, he glared at me, trying to discern the intent behind my words. “The prince listens to you,” I persisted. “I have seen the way he depends on you, Siawn. He would be nothing without you.”

  He stiffened, and I thought he would turn away. But he was intrigued. “Speak plainly,” he said. “I am listening.”

  “Meldron wants to be king,” I said. “I can help.”

  “How?”

&
nbsp; “Tegid will not allow it. He will prevent it.”

  “Tegid is not important. If he stands in our way, we will kill him.”

  “No,” I said, “you need him alive.”

  “Bards!” The word was a curse on his lips. “Meldron would be king now if not for the meddling of bards. Things will change when Meldron takes the throne.”

  “The people would rebel,” I pointed out. “They would never support a king who killed their bard. But there is an easier way. If Tegid were seen to deliver the kingship to Meldron outright, the people would not question it.”

  “You could do this?”

  “I could help. I have Tegid’s trust; he tells me things. I could help you a great deal,” I said. “But I want something in return.”

  Simon understood that. “What do you want?”

  “I want a place with Meldron when he is king,” I said simply. “I want to join the Wolf Pack.”

  “It is true the prince listens to me,” he said, for he could not help boasting. “I will speak to him for you. I will tell the prince of your interest.” He lowered his voice. “It may be that Meldron will require some assurance of your loyalty.”

  “What might that be?”

  He thought for a moment, eyes sly and glinting in the moonlight. “Find out what Tegid plans to do when we reach Sycharth.”

  “That will take time,” I lied. “I will have to coax him without raising suspicion.”

  “It should not be difficult for mighty Llew.” The sneer of contempt was back in his voice.

  “Very well, I will do it.”

  Simon reached out and gripped me by the shoulder. My flesh crawled under his touch. “Good,” he said. “The prince will be pleased.”

  He lifted his chin arrogantly, and then turned away. I peered through the darkness at his disappearing form; he swaggered as he walked.

  The next morning, as we readied ourselves for the day’s march, I went to Tegid and asked him, “When is Beltain?”

  The bard thought for a moment—as well he might, for the unnaturally long Sollen had played havoc with the regular observances of sun and season. “It is”—he paused again, rethinking his calculations— “the third dawn from this one.”