The Giants' Dance (7 page)

Dimmet's eyes rolled as he made the last remark. The last reason anyone would come to the Plough, Will thought, was to be alone. He looked to Gwydion again in puzzlement, but then followed the wizard into the passageway and along a swept stone floor that was so footworn it shone.

They passed a great oaken table that was stacked with platters and bowls as if a celebration had only just been cleared away. In the middle was a trencher decked with flowers and a large pig's head with a red apple in its mouth. The head seemed to be grinning. It reminded Will of Lord Strange.

When they came to the great empty hearth with its stone chimney and inglenooks on either side, Gwydion paused and raised his arms. Then he muttered words and laid a spell on the little room that lay behind the chimney breast.

‘What are you doing?' Will mouthed, suddenly anxious about what might be lying in wait for them inside.

The wizard looked around, then whispered, ‘Calling down a defence against eavesdroppers.' Then he ushered Will through the hidden entrance.

The snug was cool and dark, for it was summer and the little grate was empty. The only light came from a small window and the polished oak boards that made it seem like a ship's cabin gave the room a rare cosiness. At the table sat a man Will was delighted to recognize.

‘Tilwin!'

The dark-haired travelling man rose with a heartening
greeting and gave him a bear hug. His eyes were as blue as chips of summer sky. ‘How are you now, Willand?' he said. ‘And Master Gwydion, well met, my old friend!'

Then Will heard Tilwin utter words half under his breath to the wizard, and something made him think that a formula had been spoken in the true tongue, words of recognition, a greeting between men who stood tall in one another's esteem. He watched them embrace briefly, then all three sat down together.

‘You're the last person I expected to meet here,' Will said.

‘Whereas I've been waiting for you to turn up like a bad penny all this fine afternoon!' Tilwin grinned, and there was laughter in his eyes, but also, Will thought, a deeper gleam that spoke of troubles.

In all the years of Will's childhood Tilwin the Tinker was the only outsider who had ever come up the Vale as far as Nether Norton. He was a knife-grinder and a trader who travelled far across the Realm. He had always helped take the tithe down to Middle Norton, and he had brought many necessaries to the Vale – tools, medicines, bolts of cloth, pretty gems and love tokens too, for he knew all the different kinds of precious stone and what could be done with them. One day he had given Will a black stone to put under his pillow to ward off nightmares. Another time he had cracked a glassy pebble for Breona, cutting it with a series of skilled blows, and so had made a false diamond for her to wear as a brooch on high days.

Some of the Valesmen swore it was Tilwin who had thought up the game of cards, and as if to prove them right he always carried a faded card stuck in the band of his hat. He usually put wayside flowers there too, to lift the spirits of those he met. Today, as Dimmet had said, there were primroses but, like Tilwin, they seemed a little worse for wear.

‘Tell us why you've stopped coming to the Vale,' Will said. ‘We've all missed you, you know.'

Tilwin glanced at Gwydion, and some more of his smile faded. ‘I've had a deal to do lately, and little time to do it.' Then his smile came bravely again, and he poked Will's shoulder. ‘Besides, there's less need for me to come to the Vale these days. Now the tithe has stopped and Nether Norton can afford its own grinding wheel. That was hero's work you did for your folk, Willand. I hope they appreciate you.'

Will reddened, embarrassed.

‘I sent word for…Tilwin…to meet us here,' Gwydion said. ‘But a word of warning to you: do you recall my saying that Tilwin the Tinker is not necessarily what he seems?'

Will looked uncertainly from the wizard to Tilwin and back. ‘I've long known there was something rare about him, but I never knew quite what.'

‘My name is not Tilwin – it is Morann.'

Gwydion smiled. ‘He is, among other things, a lord of the Blessed Isle.'

‘I can see that now you mention it,' Will said. And it was true, there had always been an assured manner about the man. Will jumped up and took his tankard in both hands. ‘Allow me to greet you properly in your own name: here's to you, Morann, Lord Knife-grinder, as keen a blade as ever there was!'

‘And here's to the meadows and mists of the Blessed Isle, where strange tales begin!' said Gwydion, rising and lifting his tankard also.

Then up got Morann. ‘And here's to you, Willand of the Vale. And to you, Master Gwydion Pathfinder. You're both of you no better than you should be!'

They clashed tankards and supped, then all laughed together and sat down again as one.

‘You're a loremaster like Wortmaster Gort,' Will said. ‘Isn't that it?'

Morann made a modest gesture. ‘Where old Gort's learning concerns all the forests and all the herbs of the field, mine only touches bits of pebbles and such like.'

Gwydion laughed. ‘He gives himself no credit. He's a “magical lapidary” – the greatest jewelmaster of latter days.'

Like Wortmaster Gort, Morann was another of the ageless druida who had wandered abroad, collecting magical knowledge for a hundred generations and more. They had no homes, but attached themselves here and there as circumstances arose. They were not quite wizards, but their magical skills were great, and they had lived long.

Will thought immediately of the strange red fish he had found at Little Slaughter. How could it be that a thing so exactly like his own talisman had been there for the finding down in the dust? Surely a jewelmaster as knowledgeable as Morann would be able to cast light upon its origin.

But as Will put a hand down towards his pouch a powerful feeling came over him that he should not tell Morann about the talisman any more than he had told Gwydion, which was nothing at all. He examined the feeling suspiciously, and had almost decided to put his doubts aside and draw out the red fish, when Duffred arrived with cheese and bread and apple jam.

Then Morann unsheathed his favourite long, thin knife and in deference to Gwydion laid it handle inwards on the table before him. He said to Will, ‘Be it hidden or carried openly, in former days it was thought a deadly crime to wear a blade in the presence of a druid, much less a person of Master Gwydion's standing.'

‘I'm thinking you'll be cutting no flesh, nor even bread with that knife, Morann,' Gwydion said, his eyes twinkling.

‘Indeed not, Master Gwydion. However I like to respect the Old Ways when I can.'

Will saw that a wonderful pattern like knotted cord was worked into the old steel. He wondered what was so special
about the knife, but he could not ask after it for the two old friends were already busy with one another's memories.

They munched and drank as they talked about former times. Will listened more than he spoke and the three wore away most of the golden light of evening in remaking their friendship and gilding old memories. Morann told of recent travels, and of his adventures in the land of his fathers. Gwydion spoke of his wanderings in the wilds of Albanay, and of voyages he had made in frail coracles far out into the Western Deeps. Then they asked Will to tell of his wedding, and to speak of his life with Willow and the joy he had felt at his daughter's birth.

He told them as well as he could, but when a pause came in their talk the fears that had been banished for a while began to crowd in on him. Again he began to reach for the red fish, but then he told himself that he did not want to be the first to speak of troubles, and so once more he chose to lay the matter aside.

Instead, his eye caught the ring on Morann's finger. A ring of gold, it was, and the stone in it one of emerald green. Will had seen it many times before, but now its colour seemed to capture his attention and he felt prompted to ask about it.

‘It's the ring of Turloch of Connat,' Morann said. ‘It bears the great
smaragd
emerald of my ancestors. The tale says that Turloch used to wear it when trying suspected traitors. He would strike in the face any follower who was accused of treachery against him. If the man got up and kissed the ring then he was innocent. But if he could not bring himself to kiss the ring then he was guilty.'

Will wanted to hear more, but Gwydion cleared his throat and said, ‘We could listen all night with great pleasure to the deeds of your forebears, Morann, but I fear that darkness is pressing. Let us not forget that we are met for a more solemn purpose.'

They pushed their empty trenchers away and sat back. Then Gwydion laid out matters concerning the battlestones, and as the sun set he began to make a summary of what was presently known.

‘According to ancient writings, there were nine channels of earth power made by the fae long ago. These channels are called “ligns” – and collectively “the lorc”. The battlestones are planted on the lorc. There are two kinds of battlestone – the greater and the lesser. The greater sort come to life one at a time. Each of them has the power to raise bloodlust in the hearts of men and draw them to battle. We have tracked down five battlestones so far—' Gwydion raised a stark finger, ‘—the first was the Dragon Stone, which we found just a few leagues to the east of here.'

‘Gwydion put it into Castle Foderingham for safekeeping,' Will added. ‘It's one of the greater sort.'

‘And you hope it's still entombed there,' Morann added dubiously. ‘Hope, but do not know? Is that it?'

‘Quite so.' Gwydion unfolded his thumb. ‘The second of the stones was the Plaguestone, which was left by us in the cave of Anstin the Hermit.'

A cloud passed fleetingly across Morann's face. ‘Surely stones such as these will not be safe in castles and hermits' caves.'

Gwydion said, ‘Indeed. But I judged they would do better when placed in fresh lodgings than when left to rot in the ground. Foderingham's walls are thick and I counted its master to be a stalwart friend. As for Anstin's cave, no man dares go there for fear of leprosy. It is hardly spoken of locally, and not at all elsewhere, therefore it is one of the most secret places in the Realm.'

Morann shook his head. ‘Would the Plaguestone not have been better mortared into Foderingham's foundations alongside the Dragon Stone?'

‘Yes, Gwydion,' Will agreed. ‘Surely Maskull, with all his arts, would not fear the leper's touch. If to get at a stone, even one of the lesser sort, is his aim—'

Gwydion held up a hand at mention of the sorcerer's name. ‘Hear me out. Of the Plaguestone I shall say more presently. Meanwhile, let me speak of the third stone.' He unfolded another finger. ‘This is the Stone of Aston Oddingley, whose malignant power Willand first felt in his bones as we combed the land in search of the lign of the rowan. That stone, which he says is probably of the greater sort, remains undisturbed, for when we found it we had another quarry in mind, and my advice was that we should leave it be for the moment.'

Will turned to Morann. ‘That's because the Aston Oddingley stone was planted on lands controlled by mad Lord Clifton, who Gwydion said would never bid us welcome. It was true. He was killed at Verlamion.'

Gwydion looked to Morann and the many charms hanging at the wizard's chest rattled together. ‘I wanted to show Will here that according to the redes of magic some problems, though they are insoluble in themselves, in time often turn into different problems which may be solved.' He raised another finger. ‘Fourthly came the stone we found near the Giant's Ring. Our triumph over it was accomplished at great risk, for it was a stone of the greater sort, though its nearness to the King's Stone had muted it. Its downfall was complete, and now its stump has been returned whence it came. Henceforth it will do good service for a mutual friend.'

Gwydion now unfolded his little finger and tapped it significantly. ‘And that brings us to the final stone of which we have sure knowledge, the Doomstone of Verlamion, the same one that Will may have destroyed.'

‘
May
have…' Will repeated.

The wizard took a deep breath. ‘That stone, I believe
to be the controlling stone, and without it the power of the others will be so diminished that they cannot complete their tasks. But when Will made his brave attack he was young and untried, so it is possible that the Doomstone was not destroyed after all. Perhaps it only suffered a disabling shock, one which temporarily shattered its power into many parts. But perhaps those parts have been growing together again like drops of lead in the bottom of a fiery crucible.'

‘And when enough drops are gathered into one?' Will asked.

‘Then we shall know if I am right.'

Gwydion's mouse-brown robes had merged with the shadows of the snug. Will had been aware of a bumble bee buzzing at the trellis, but now even this tireless labourer had gone to its burrow and the climbing flowers that had listened in all around the window had closed their trumpets for the night.

Morann, whose chin rested on his hand, said, ‘So, of the stones you know about, one has been drained, two are stored, one lies yet undisturbed, and the master of them all, the Doomstone, has been attacked but may be repairing itself. The sites of the other battlestones – if there are others – you have not yet learned.'

‘We do know something.' Gwydion clasped his hands before him. ‘When Willand was at Ludford Castle he felt himself affected by a strange melancholy. He thought it may have been caused by the emanations of a powerful stone, but in such a fortified place it was hard to tell exactly where they were coming from.'

Will thought back to the morbid feelings he had endured while staying at Ludford. ‘I was certain it was a battlestone, Morann. At first I believed it to be the Dragon Stone, and I suspected Duke Richard of having carried it there for his own purposes. But then Gwydion explained to me that my
thinking was out of kilter. The Dragon Stone was still at Foderingham, and my state of mind must have been roused up by another stone.'