The Endless Knot (51 page)

On and on it sped, inundating all of Tir Aflan in a rolling flood of bright silver-white fire that consumed all it touched with a keen and brilliant flame. The grass and rocks blazed. And as the conflagration spiraled higher and higher, leaping skyward in dazzling plumes, igniting the very air, there came a sound like a crystal chime. And it rang with a song, the matchless Song of Albion:

Glory of sun! Star-blaze in jeweled heavens!
Light of light, a High and Holy land,
Shining bright and blessed of the Many-Gifted;
A gift forever to the Race of Albion!

Lifted high on the wings of the wind, the cleansing fire streaked through the sky, kindling the clouds and gloom-laden vapors, scouring the heavens. Gray and black turned to glowing blue and then to white. The airy firmament glowed with a light more brilliant than starlight, brighter and more radiant than the sun. The Song rang through the heights and raced on:

Rich with many waters! Blue-welled the deep,
White-waved the strand, hallowed the firmament,
Mighty in the power of One,
Gentle in the peace of great blessing;
A wealth of wonders for the Kinsmen of Albion!

Reaching the shore, the fire sped out across the sea. From wave-top to wave-top, leaping in liquid tongues, spreading over the sea-swell. The sea began to boil, and then flashed from turgid green to jade and then the color of white gold in the crucible. The waters became molten flame, and the great, glowing sea resounded like a bell to the Song, blending its deep-voiced toll to the high tone of the heavens. And the Song raced on:

Dazzling the matchless purity of green!
Fine as the emerald's excellent fire,
Glowing in deep-clefted glens,
Gleaming on smooth-tilled fields;
A Gemstone of great value for the Sons of Albion!

Down the broad headland the bright fire flew, a towering wall of blistering, shimmering flame, raking the wasted valleys of Tir Aflan, flashing across the wasted expanse of moorland. The filth-crusted settlement exploded at the first touch of flame; the mudmen in the mines saw the flames streaking toward them and threw themselves into their pits. But the cunning flame-fingers searched out the dark, small places and set them ablaze, streaking across the mud, scorching the earth, turning every boulder in Cwm Gwaed into a pillar of fire.

And the Song raced on:

Abounding in white-crowned peaks, vast beyond measure,
The fastness of bold mountains!
Exalted heights—dark wooded and
Red with running deer—
Proclaim afar the high-vaunted splendor of Albion!

The mountaintops round about sprouted crowns of silver-white flame, blazing like titanic beacons. Each mountain became a fiery volcano; rock and snow, moss and ice fed the ravenous fire. Heat waves flowed out in every direction. The mountains' stone skin turned glassy, and their stony hearts glowed white. Sheets of flame danced among the stars. And the Song raced on:

Swift horses in wide meadows! Graceful herds
on the gold-flowered water-meads,
Strong hooves drumming,
A thunder of praise to the Goodly-Wise,
A boon of joy in the heart of Albion!

Golden the grain-hoards of the Great Giver,
Generous the bounty of fair fields:
Redgold of bright apples,
Sweetness of shining honeycomb,
A miracle of plenty for the tribes of Albion!

Silver the net-tribute, teeming the treasure
Of happy waters; Dappled brown the hillsides,
Sleek herds serving
The Lord of the Feast;
A marvel of abundance for the tables of Albion!

Following the rivers and streams, setting the myriad waterways alight, stretching across the Foul Lands with fingers of fire, the bright flames flew, striking deep into the heartland of Tir Aflan, kindling the fields and meadows. Marshlands steamed and then smoldered, then became lakes of fire. Reeds and grasses, gorse thickets and gnarled trunks, whole forests burst into flowering flame. By blade and twig the hungry fire devoured the wasted heartland. And the Song raced on:

Wise men, Bards of Truth, boldly declaring from
Hearts aflame with the Living Word;
Keen of knowledge,
Clear of vision,
A glory of verity for the True Men of Albion!

Bright-kindled from heavenly flames, framed
Of Love's all-consuming fire,
Ignited of purest passion,
Burning in the Creator King's heart,
A splendor of bliss to illuminate Albion!

Silver-white columns of fire danced and leapt—high, high, burning with the intensity of ten thousand suns, scourging both the land below and the heavenly places above, filling the black void of night with blazing light. And the Song raced on:

Noble lords kneeling in rightwise worship,
Undying vows pledged to everlasting,
Embrace the breast of mercy,
Eternal homage to the Chief of chiefs;
Life beyond death granted the Children of Albion!

Kingship wrought of Infinite Virtue,
Quick-forged by the Swift Sure Hand;
Bold in Righteousness,
Valiant in Justice,
A sword of honor to defend the Clans of Albion!

Formed of the Nine Sacred Elements,
Framed by the Lord of Love and Light;
Grace of Grace, Truth of Truth,
Summoned in the Day of Strife,
An Aird Righ to reign forever in Albion!

No one could stand before the ferocity of the fire. The frail human frame vaporized in the heat; the flesh and bone dissolved, spilling their molecules into the fiery atmosphere. The All- Encompassing Song raced on and on in ever-widening rings of purifying fire.

And everything touched by the holy fire was scoured, consumed, melted, and reduced to the very core elements, and then further reduced to atoms. The released atoms ruptured, fused, and recombined in new elements of being. Deep in the white-hot heart of the fire, I saw the Swift Sure Hand moving, gathering unformed matter and molding it into pure new forms.

I alone saw this, and I saw it with the eye of the True Aird Righ, the sacred, eternally self-sacrificing king. I saw it with the unblinking eye of the Everliving One, whose touch quickens the insensate soul, who swallows death in life. Out of the molten heat, I saw the foul land of Tir Aflan recast, reshaped, and in fire reborn.

Nothing escaped the refining fire of his irresistible will: all ugliness, all imperfection, all weakness and defect, every fault and failing, every blight and every blemish, every flaw effaced, purged, and purified. And when the last scar had been removed, the cleansing flames diminished and faded away. All this might have taken eons; it might have happened in the blink of an eye; I cannot say. But when the fire at last subsided, Tir Aflan had been consumed and its elements transmuted in a finer, more noble conception: recreated with a grandeur as far surpassing its former degradation as if an old garment had been stripped away and not merely restored, but replaced with raiment of unrivaled splendor. It was not a change, but a transformation; not a conversion, but a transfiguration.

The mudmen, whores, slaves, and prisoners—all the Foul Land's wretched—were gone, and in their places stood men and women of stature and grace. The empty fields and forests were empty no longer; animals of very kind—deer and sheep, wild pigs, bears, foxes, otters, badgers, rabbits, squirrels, and mice, as well as kine, oxen, and horses— filled the meadows and glens and browsed the forest trails and ran among the hills and watermeads; trout and salmon, pike and perch, sported in the lakes and streams; the shining blue skies were full of birds, and the treetops delighted in birdsong; the forlorn mountainsides, moors, and blasted heathlands wore a fresh glory all their own in the form of wildflowers of every shade and hue; the rivers ran clean and uncorrupted, the water crystalline and pure.

Tir Afaln was no more, Tir Gwyn stood in its place.

Tegid Tathal was the first to revive. He opened his eyes, stood up, and looked around. Scatha lay nearby, dressed now in a mantle of holly green with a belt of cornflower blue and a crimson cloak edged in green and gold. Gwion lay at Tegid's feet, and Bran beside him, and around Bran the Raven Flight as Tegid remembered them—but now the Ravens' cloaks were midnight blue and each wore a torc of thick-braided silver. Cynan lay a little distance away, his hand stretching toward Goewyn.

And all of them, Tegid himself included, reclothed in the finest apparel—of such material and craft, such color and quality as had never been known. Tegid, Scatha, the Ravens, every member of the Gwr Gwir and their prisoners—all arrayed in clothes of the most splendid color and craftsmanship.

The warriors' weapons had changed too. The luminous luster of gold and bright-gleaming silver shone in the light of a dawn as clear and fresh as the first day of creation. The spears, both shaft and head, were gold, and golden too every sword blade and hilt. Shield rims, bosses, and rings shone with silvery brightness.

Tegid turned his wondering eyes from the warriors and their weapons. He gazed skyward and saw the radiant heaven, alive with a living light. He saw the Foul Land made fair beyond words, and he began to understand what had happened.

Shaking, trembling in every part, he knelt beside Bran Bresal and touched him gently. The Raven Chief awoke and Tegid helped him to stand. He woke Scatha next, and then Cynan; Bran awakened the Ravens who, with Cynan and Tegid, began to wake the Gwr Gwir.

Scatha, her heart beating fast, ran to her daughter and knelt down beside her. Goewyn's hair was brushed bright and plaited with tiny white and yellow flowers. She wore a gown of hyacinth blue with a mantle of pearly white over it, and a henna-colored cloak sewn with plum purple figures. Cupping a hand to Goewyn's cheek, Scatha gently turned her daughter's head. Goewyn drew a deep breath and awoke.

“Llew?” she asked. Then memory rushed in upon her. “Llew!”

She jumped to her feet and ran to me. My body lay where Paladyr had left it. Arrayed like a king in siarc, belt, and breecs of deep-hued scarlet, with scarlet buskins on my feet, I lay wrapped in a scarlet cloak; woven into the cloak in silver thread was the Môr Cylch, the Life Dance.

Goewyn lifted a cool hand to my forehead, then touched my face. Tears welled in her eyes as she felt my cold, lifeless flesh. Scatha came to stand beside her, and Cynan; Bran and the Raven Flight gathered around. As Tegid joined them, Goewyn raised tearful eyes. “Oh, Tegid, I thought . . .” She began to weep.

“He is dead, Goewyn,” Tegid said softly, kneeling beside her. The bard placed his hand upon my still chest. “He will not come back.

“Look,” said Bran, “his silver hand is gone.”

They raised my right arm and saw that my silver hand was indeed gone, the metal replaced by a hand of flesh. Goewyn took the hand and clasped it to her. She pressed the unfeeling flesh to her warm lips and kissed it, then laid it over my heart.

“Where is Siawn Hy?” asked Cynan suddenly. “Where are Tángwen and Paladyr?”

Until that moment, no one had thought to look for them, nor, now that they did make a search, could they find them. The wicked ones had vanished, but not completely.

“Here!” shouted Cynan, closely scanning the place where Siawn was last seen. “I have found something.”

The others joined him as he examined a curious spot on the ground. “What is it?” he asked, pointing at a small pile of powdery residue.

Teigd bent down and examined it. “All that remains of Siawn Hy,” the bard announced at length.

It was the same with Paladyr and Weston, and all those who had willingly followed Siawn. The refining fire had burned away the dross and, when it had finished its purifying work, there was nothing left. Nothing, that is, save a handful of ashes soft and white as snowflakes.

Cynan wanted to gather the ash and throw it in the sea, but Tegid counseled otherwise. “Leave it,” he advised. “Let the wind take it. There shall be no resting place for these.”

“What has happened?” asked Bran, trying to comprehend the changes that had been wrought in them and in the world around them. He spoke for many—especially the defectors who, in surrendering to me, had escaped the fate of their lord. Remade men, they simply stared in mute wonder at their transformed bodies and the world recreated around them, unable to comprehend it or their own good fortune.

Tegid lifted the rod of gold that now replaced his rowan staff. Raising his other hand over his head, he addressed the bewildered gathering: “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 Sons 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.”

Lowering the rod, he stretched it over my body. “So it was spoken, so it is accomplished,” Tegid said. “The Great Year is ended, the old world has passed away and a new creation is established.” Indicating my crimson-clothed body, he said, “The Aird Righ of Albion is dead. The Hero Feat for which he was chosen has been performed. Behold! He has reclaimed Tir Aflan and brought it under his sovereign rule. Thus, all lands are united under one king: from this day, Albion is one. This is the Reign of the Silver Hand. The prophecy is fulfilled.”

Back through the mountains, now remade: glistening, silver-crowned giants bearing the wide, empty skybowl on their handsome shoulders. Pure white clouds graced the slopes like regal robes and raiments; sparkling streams sent rippled laughter ringing through the valleys, and mist-shrouded falls filled the heights with rainbows. The road was no longer; instead, a grassy path curved up through the high places and joined them with the lowlands beyond . . .

Back through the moors, transformed into meadows of vast aspect, dotted with trees and brimming with sparkling spring-fed pools. Herds of deer and wild sheep grazed the grassy expanse; birds passed overhead in chattering flocks, or trilled their songs to a sky so fair and blue it made the heart ache to see it . . .

Back through the hills and valleys, now made new: gently sculpted mounds rounding to grand crests and descending to shade-sheltered glens of solitude. The greens of the hills and glens were as verdant and various as the shifting hues of golden light that played on the cloud-dappled knolls . . .