The High King

"Would any have lingered, seeing himself threatened?" replied Pryderi. "Men answer only to an iron fist or a sword at their throats. Those who bear you allegiance bear it as it serves their own ends. Among themselves, these cantrev rulers are never at peace, but each is eager to profit from the weakness of his neighbor. In their secret hearts, are they less evil than Arawn Death-Lord?"

Shocked and angry murmurs arose from the cantrev kings. Math silenced them with a quick gesture.

Then Gwydion spoke: "It is beyond any man's wisdom to judge the secret heart of another," he said, "for in it are good and evil mixed. But these are matters to ponder over the embers of a campfire, as you and I have often done; or at the end of feasting, when the torches burn low. Our deeds now must safeguard Prydain. Come, Pryderi Son of Pwyll. Your place awaits you and we have many plans to set."

"You summoned me, Prince of Don," Pryderi answered in a hard voice. "I am here. To join you? No. To demand your surrender."

Chapter 11 The Fortress

FOR AN INSTANT, none could speak. The silver bells at the legs of Pryderi's hawks tinkled faintly. Then Taran was on his feet, sword in hand. The cantrev lords shouted in rage and drew their weapons. Gwydion's voice rang out, commanding them to silence.

Pryderi did not move. His retainers had unsheathed their blades and formed a circle about him. The High King had risen from his throne.

"You sport with us, Son of Pwyll," Math said severely, "but treachery is no fitting matter for a jest."

Pryderi still stood with arms folded. His golden features had turned the color of iron. "Call it no jest," he answered, "and call me no traitor. This I have pondered long and closely and with much anguish of heart. I see now that only thus can I serve Prydain."

Gwydion's face was pale and his eyes grave. "You speak in madness," he replied. "Have Arawn's false promises blinded you to reason? Would you tell me that a liegeman of the Death-Lord serves any realm but Annuvin?"

"To me, Arawn can promise nothing I do not already have," answered Pryderi. "But Arawn will do what the Sons of Don failed to do: Make an end of endless wars among the cantrevs, and bring peace where there was none before."

"The peace of death and the silence of mute slavery," Gwydion replied.

Pryderi glanced around him. A harsh smile was on his lips. "Do these men deserve better, Lord Gwydion? Are all their lives together worth one of ours? Crude brawlers, these self-styled cantrev lords are unfit to command even their own households.

"I choose what is best for Prydain," he continued. "I do not serve Arawn. Is the axe the woodcutter's master? At the end, it is Arawn who will serve me."

With horror, Taran listened to the words of Pryderi as he spoke to the High King.

"Lay down your arms. Abandon the weaklings who cling to you for protection. Surrender to me now. Caer Dathyl shall be spared, and yourself, and those I deem worthy to rule with me."

Math raised his head. "Is there worse evil?" he said in a low voice, his eyes never leaving Pryderi's. "Is there worse evil than that which goes in the mask of good?"

One of the cantrev lords sprang from the council table and, blade upraised, started toward Pryderi.

"Touch him not!" cried Math. "We welcomed him as a friend. He leaves as a foe, but he shall leave in safety. If any harm even a feather of his hawks, his life shall be forfeit."

"Go from here, Pryderi Son of Pwyll," Gwydion said, the coldness of his tone making his wrath the more terrible. "The anguish of my heart is no less than yours. Our comradeship is broken. Between us there can be only the lines of battle, and our only bond the edge of a sword."

Pryderi did not answer, but turned on his heel and with his retainers strode from the Great Hall. Even as he mounted his steed, word spread among the warriors, and they stared silently in their ranks. Beyond the walls, the armies of Pryderi had lit torches and the valley flamed as far as Taran's eyes could see. Pryderi rode through the gates, the crimson and gold of his raiment shimmering like the torches themselves, and galloped toward his waiting host. Taran and the Commot men watched, sick with despair; they knew, as did all in Caer Dathyl, this glittering King, like a hawk of death, had snatched their lives and now bore them away with him.