The Grey King Page 8

  “Yes,” said the figure in the lightest blue robe. His face seemed thin in the shadows of his hood, the eyes gleaming, and his voice was light, sibilant, hissing. “Yesssssss . . .” Echoes whispered like snakes out of the dark, as if a hundred other little hissing voices came from nameless shapes behind him, and Will felt the small hairs rise on the back of his neck. Behind him he heard Bran give a muffled involuntary moan, and knew that horror must be creeping like a white mist through his mind. Will’s strength as an Old One rebelled. He said in quick cold reproach, “My lord?”

  The horror fell away, like a cloud whisked off by the wind, and the lord in the light blue robe softly laughed. Will stood there frowning at him, unmoved: a small stocky boy in jeans and sweater, who nonetheless knew himself to possess power worthy of meeting these three. He said, confident now, “It is the day of the dead, and the youngest has opened the oldest hills, through the door of the birds. And has been let pass by the eye of the High Magic. I have come for the golden harp, my lords.”

  The second figure in the sea-blue robe said, “And the raven boy with you.”

  “Yes.”

  Will turned to Bran, standing hesitantly nearer the fire, and beckoned him. Bran came forward very slowly, feet as unwilling as if they swam against treacle, and stood at his side. The light from the torches on the walls shone in his white hair.

  The lord in the sea-blue robe leaned forward a little from his throne; they glimpsed a keen, strong face and a pointed grey beard. He said, astonishingly, “Cafall?”

  At Bran’s side the white dog stood erect and quivering. He did not move an inch forward, as if obeying some inner instruction that told him his place, but his tail waved furiously from side to side as it never waved for anyone but Bran. He gave a soft, small whine.

  White teeth glinted in the hooded face. “He is well named. Well named.”

  Bran said jealously, in sudden fierce anxiety, “He is my dog!” Then he added, rather muffled, “My lord.” Will could feel the alarm in him at his own temerity.

  But the laughter from the shadows was kindly. “Never fear, boy. The High Magic would never take your dog from you. Certainly the Old Ones would not either, and the Dark might try but would not succeed.” He leaned forward suddenly, so that for an instant the strong, bearded face was clear; the voice softened, and there was an aching sadness in it. “Only the creatures of the earth take from one another, boy. All creatures, but men more than any. Life they take, and liberty, and all that another man may have—sometimes through greed, sometimes through stupidity, but never by any volition but their own. Beware your own race, Bran Davies—they are the only ones who will ever harm you, in the end.”

  Dread stirred in Will as he felt the deep sadness in the voice, for there was a compassion in it directed solely at Bran, as if the Welsh boy stood at the edge of some long sorrow. He had a quick sense of a mysterious closeness between these two, and knew that the lord in the sea-blue robe was trying to give Bran strength and help, without being able to explain why. Then the hooded figure leaned abruptly back, and the mood was gone.

  Will said huskily, “Nevertheless, my lord, the rights of that race have always been the business of the Light. And in quest of them I claim the golden harp.”

  The soft-voiced lord in the lightest robe, who had spoken first, swiftly stood. His cloak swirled round him like a blue mist; bright eyes glinted from the thin pale face glimmering in the hood.

  “Answer the three riddles as the law demands, Old One, you and the White Crow your helper there, and the harp shall be yours. But if you answer wrong, the doors of rock shall close, and you be left defenceless on the cold mountain, and the harp shall be lost to the Light forever.”

  “We shall answer,” Will said.

  “You, boy, the first.” The blue mist swirled again. A bony finger was thrust pointing at Bran, and the shadowed hood turned. Will turned too, anxiously; he had half expected this.

  Bran gasped. “Me? But—but I—”

  Will reached out and touched his arm. He said gently, “Try. Only try. We are here only to try. If the answer is asleep in you, it will wake. If it is not, no matter. But try.”

  Bran stared at him unsmiling, and Will saw his throat move as he swallowed. Then the white head turned back again. “All right.”

  The soft, sibilant voice said, “Who are the Three Elders of the world?”

  Will felt Bran’s mind reel in panic, as he tried to find meaning in the words. There was no way to offer help. In this place, the law of the High Magic prevented an Old One from putting the smallest thought or image in another mind: Will was permitted only to overhear. So, tense, he stood overhearing the turmoil of his friend’s thoughts, as they tossed about desperately seeking order.

  Bran struggled. The Three Elders of the World . . . somewhere he knew . . . it was strange and yet familiar, as if somewhere he had seen, or read . . . the three oldest creatures, the three oldest things . . . he had read it at school, and he had read it in Welsh . . . the oldest things. . . .

  He took his glasses from his shirt pocket, as if fiddling with them could clear his mind, and he saw staring up out of them the reflection of his own eyes. Strange eyes . . . creepy eyes, they called them at school. At school. At school. . . . Strange round tawny eyes, like the eyes of an owl. He put the glasses slowly back in his pocket, his mind groping at an echo. At his side, Cafall shifted very slightly, his head moving so that it touched Bran’s hand. The fur brushed his fingers lightly, very lightly, like the flick of feathers. Feathers. Feathers. Feathers. . .

  He had it.

  Will, at his side, felt in his own mind the echoing flood of relief, and struggled to contain his delight.

  Bran stood up straight and cleared his throat. “The Three Elders of the World,” he said, “are the Owl of Cwm Cawlwyd, the Eagle of Gwernabwy, and the Blackbird of Celli Gadarn.”

  Will said softly, “Oh, well done! Well done!”

  “That is right,” said the thin voice above them, unemotionally. Like an early-morning sky the light blue robe swirled before them, and the figure sank back into its throne.

  From the central throne rose the lord in the sea-blue robe; stepping forward, he looked down at Will. Behind its grey beard his face seemed oddly young, though its skin was brown and weathered like the skin of a sailor long at sea.

  “Will Stanton,” he said, “who were the three generous men of the Island of Britain?”

  Will stared at him. The riddle was not impossible; he knew that the answer lay somewhere in his memory, stored from the great Book of Gramarye, treasure book of the enchantment of the Light that had been destroyed as soon as he, the last of the Old Ones, had been shown what it held. Will set his mind to work, searching. But at the same time a deeper riddle worried at him. Who was this lord in the sea-blue robe, with his close interest in Bran? He knew about Cafall . . . clearly he was a lord of the High Magic, and yet there was a look about him of . . . a look of . . .

  Will pushed the wondering aside. The answer to the riddle had surfaced in his memory.

  He said clearly, “The three generous men of the Island of Britain. Nudd the Generous, son of Senllyt. Mordaf the Generous, son of Serwan. Rhydderch the Generous, son of Tydwal Tudglyd. And Arthur himself was more generous than the three.”

  Deliberately on the last line his voice rang echoing through the hall like a bell.

  “That is right,” said the bearded lord. He looked thoughtfully at Will and seemed about to say more, but instead he only nodded slowly. Then sweeping his robe about him in a sea-blue wave, he stepped back to his throne.

  The hall seemed darker, filled with dancing shadows from the flickering light of the fire. A sudden flash and crackle came from behind the boys, as a log fell and the flames leapt up; instinctively Will glanced back. When he turned forward again, the third figure, who had not spoken or moved until now, was standing tall and silent before his throne. His robe was a deep, deep blue, darkest of the three, and his hood was pulled so f
ar forward that there was no hint of his face visible, but only shadow.

  His voice was deep and resonant, like the voice of a cello, and it brought music into the hall.

  “Will Stanton,” it said, “what is the shore that fears the sea?”

  Will started impulsively forward, his hands clenching into fists, for his voice caught into the deepest part of him. Surely, surely . . . but the face in the hood was hidden, and he was denied all ways of recognition. Any part of his senses that tried to reach out to the great thrones met a blank wall of refusal from the High Magic. Once more Will gave up, and put his mind to the last riddle.

  He said slowly, “The shore that fears the sea . . .”

  Images wavered in and out of his mind: great crashing waves against a rocky coast . . . the green light in the ocean, the realm of Tethys, where strange creatures may live . . . a gentler sea then, washing in long slow waves an endless golden beach. The shore . . . the beach . . . the beach . . .

  The image wavered and changed. It dissolved into a green dappled forest of gnarled ancient trees, their broad trunks smooth with a curious light grey bark. Their leaves danced above, new, soft, bright with a delicate green that had in it all of springtime. The beginnings of triumph whispered in Will’s mind.

  “The shore,” he said. “The beach where the sea washes. But also it is a wood, of lovely fine grain, that is in the handle of a chisel and the legs of a chair, the head of a broom and the pad of a workhorse saddle. And I dare swear too that those two chests between your thrones are carved of it. The only places where it may not be used are beneath the open sky and upon the open sea, for this wood loses its virtue if soaked by water. The answer to your riddle, my lord, is the wood of the beech tree.”

  The flames leaped up in the fire behind them, and suddenly the hall was brilliant. Joy and relief seemed to surge through the air. The first two blue-robed lords rose from their thrones to stand beside the third; like three towers they loomed hooded over the boys. Then the third lord flung back the hood of his deep blue robe, to reveal a fierce hawk-nosed head with deep-set eyes and a shock of wild white hair. And the High Magic’s barrier against recognition fell away.

  Will cried joyously, “Merriman!”

  He leapt forward to the tall figure as a small child leaps to its father, and clasped his outstretched hands. Merriman smiled down at him.

  Will laughed aloud in delight. “I knew,” he said, “I knew. And yet—”

  “Greetings, Old One.” Merriman said. “Now you are grown fully into the Circle, by this. Had you failed in this part of the quest, all else would have been lost.” The bleak, hard lines of his face were softened by affection; his dark eyes blazed like black torches. Then he turned to Bran, taking him by the shoulders. Bran looked up at him, pale and expressionless.

  “And the raven boy,” the deep voice said gently. “We meet again. You have played your part well, as it was known you would. Hold your head in pride, Bran Davies. You carry a great heritage within you. Much has been asked of you, and more will be asked yet. Much more.”

  Bran looked at Merriman with his catlike eyes unblinking, and said nothing. Listening to the Welsh boy’s mood, Will sensed an uneasy baffled pleasure.

  Merriman stepped back. He said, “Three Lords of the High Magic have for many centuries had guardianship of the golden harp. There are no names here in this place, nor allegiances in that task. Here, as in other places that you do not know yet, all is subject to the law, the High Law. It is of no consequence that I am a Lord of the Light, or that my colleague there is a Lord of the Dark.”

  He made a slight ironic bow to the tall figure who wore the robe of lightest blue. Will caught his breath in sudden comprehension, and looked for the thin face hidden in the hood. But it was turned away from him, staring out into the shadows of the hall.

  The central figure in the sea-blue robe stepped forward a pace. There was great quiet authority about him, as if he were confident, without pomp, in knowing himself the master in that hall. He put back his hood and they saw the full strength and gentleness of the close-bearded face. Though his beard was grey, his hair was brown, only lightly grey-streaked. He seemed a man in the middle of his years, with all power undiminished, yet wisdom already gained. But, Will thought, he is not a man at all. . . .

  Merriman inclined his head respectfully, stepping aside. “Sire,” he said.

  Will stared, at last beginning to understand.

  At Bran’s side, the dog Cafall made the same small sound of devotion that he had before. Clear blue eyes looked down at Bran, and the bearded lord said softly, “Fortune guard you in my land, my son.”

  Then as Bran looked at him perplexed, the lord drew himself up, and his voice rose. “Will Stanton,” he said. “Two chests stand between our thrones. You must open the chest at my right, and take out what you will find there. The other will remain sealed, in case of need, until another time that I hope may never come. Here now.”

  He turned, pointing. Will went to the big carved chest, turned its ornate wrought-iron clasp, and pushed at the top. It was so broad, and the carved slab of wood so heavy, that he had to kneel and push upward with all the force of both arms; but he shook his head in warning refusal when Bran started forward to help.

  Slowly the huge lid rose, and fell open, and for a moment there was a delicate sound like singing in the air. Then Will reached inside the chest, and when he straightened again he was bearing in both his arms a small, gleaming, golden harp.

  The hint of music in the hall died into nothing, giving way to a low growing rumble like distant thunder. Closer and louder it grew. The lord in the lightest, sky-blue robe, his face still hooded and hidden, drew away from them. He seized his cloak and swung it round him with a long sweep of the arm.

  The fire hissed and went out. Smoke filled the hall, dark and bitter. Thunder crashed and roared all around. And the lord in the sky-blue robe gave a great cry of rage, and disappeared.

  Eyes That See the Wind

  They stood silent in the dimlit darkness. Somewhere out beyond the rock, thunder still rumbled and growled. The torches burned, flickering and smoky, on the walls.

  Bran said huskily: “Was he the—the—”

  “No,” Merriman said. “He is not the Grey King. But he is one very close to him, and back to him he has now gone. And their rage will mount the higher because it will be sharpened by fear, fear at what the Light may be able to do with this new Thing of Power.” He looked at Will, his bony face tight with concern. “The first perilous part of the quest is accomplished, Old One, but there is worse peril yet to come.”

  “The Sleepers must be wakened,” Will said.

  “That is right. And although we do not yet know where they sleep, nor shall till you have found them, it is almost certain that they are terribly, dangerously close to the Grey King. For long we have known there was a reason for his hard cold grip on this part of the land, though we did not understand it. A happy valley, this has always been, and beautiful; yet he chose to make his kingdom here, instead of in some grim remote place of the kind chosen by most of his line. Now it is clear there can be only one reason for that: to be close to the place where the Sleepers lie, and to keep their resting-place within his power. Just as this great rock, Craig yr Aderyn, is still within his power. . . .”

  Will said, his round face grave, “The spell of protection, by which we came here untouched, has run its course now. And it can be made only once.” He looked ruefully at Bran. “We may have an interesting reception out there, when we leave this place.”

  “Have no care, Old One. You will have a new protection with you now.”

  The words came deep and gentle from the top of the hall. Turning, Will saw that the bearded lord, his robe blue as the summer sea, was sitting enthroned again in the shadows. As he spoke, it seemed that the light began gradually to grow in the hall; the torches burned higher, and glimmering between them now Will could see long swords hanging on the stone.

  “Th
e music of the golden harp,” said the blue-robed lord, “has a power that may not be broken either by the Dark or by the Light. It has the High Magic in it, and while the harp is being played, those under its protection are safe from any kind of harm or spell. Play the harp of gold, Old One. Its music will wrap you in safety.”

  Will said slowly, “By enchantment I could play it, but I think it should rather be played by the art of skillful fingers. I do not know how to play the harp, my lord.” He paused. “But Bran does.”

  Bran looked down at the instrument as Will held it out to him.

  “Never a harp like that, though,” he said.

  He took the harp from Will. Its frame was slender but ornate, fashioned so that a golden vine with gold leaves and flowers seemed to twine round it, in and out of the strings. Even the strings themselves looked as if they were made of gold.

  “Play, Bran,” said the bearded lord softly.

  Holding the harp experimentally in the crook of his left arm, Bran ran his fingers gently over the strings. And the sounds that came from them were of such sweetness that Will, beside him, caught his breath in astonishment; he had never heard notes at once so delicate and so resonant, filling the hall with music like the liquid birdsong of summer. Intent, fascinated, Bran began to pick out the plaintive notes of an old Welsh lullaby, elaborating it gradually, filling it out, as he gained confidence in the feel of the strings under his one hand. Will watched the absorbed musician’s devotion on his face. Glancing for an instant at the enthroned lord, and at Merriman, he knew that they too were for this moment rapt, carried away out of time by a music that was not of the earth, pouring out like the High Magic in a singing spell.

  Cafall made no sound, but leaned his head against Bran’s knee.

  Merriman said, his deep voice soft over the music, “Go now, Old One.” His shadowed, deep-set eyes met Will’s briefly, in a fierce communication of trust and hope. Will stared about him for a last moment at the high torchlit hall, with its one dark-robed figure standing tall as a tree, and the unknown bearded lord seated motionless on his throne. Then he turned and led Bran, his fingers still gently plucking a melody from the harp, towards the narrow stone staircase to the chamber from which they had come. When he had set him climbing, he turned to raise one arm in salute, then followed.