Ch. 2: Premonitions
Some months later, Taliesin and Cerys sat in the gardens behind the Hall of Lore. Winter had given way to summer, providing the couple with the opportunity to spend hours outdoors. Cerys's nausea had improved but never wholly left her, and it eased her to breathe the soft warm air. Despite the queasiness, she was able to eat well enough, though some once-enjoyed foods now inspired loathing. On this day she sat on a comfortable chair Taliesin had carried out to the garden, a bowl of fruit—something she could still savor—close to hand. Eyes closed, one hand cradling her now-swollen stomach, she reminded her husband of nothing so much as a plump-bellied cat purring in the noon sun.
On this day, however, Cerys had not been quite so cheerful as usual. Taliesin suspected this was due less to the strains of pregnancy—added weight, swollen ankles, and assorted ills—than to their dinner conversation the night before. The couple had dined privately with the royal family, aged King Math and his nephew and war leader Lord Gwydion. The latter was still a youngish man but seemed older than his years. Reminding Taliesin of a lean lone wolf, Gwydion, with his green-flecked eyes and sun-browned face, was as always preoccupied by anxiety about the encroaching power of Arawn. Last night the Prince of Don had been about to leave Caer Dathyl with a group of warriors to investigate a report of attacks by the Cauldron-born, slaves created from bodies of the slain steeped in the cauldron kept for the purpose in Annuvin. Lacking all memory of their lost humanity, the Cauldron-born were ruthlessly efficient killers who could not themselves be killed, a worrisome combination. Gwydion had not spoken much of his upcoming mission, but Taliesin could tell that Cerys was troubled by what he had said. She had been subdued the next morning, and now, even though she looked tranquil in the midday sun, Taliesin could tell her mind was not wholly at ease—and nor, indeed, was his.
As he regarded her, she opened her eyes and smiled, more tentatively than usual.
"You have been troubled today," he told her gently. "Is it because of what Lord Gwydion said last night?"
She nodded, no longer trying to smile. Then, looking up at the soaring towers of Caer Dathyl sparkling white in the sun, she asked softly, "We're living on borrowed time, aren't we?" When he did not immediately reply, she continued. "It hasn't happened yet, and it may not happen for years. But, then again, it could happen tomorrow. One day it's all going to come to a head. Arawn will try to get Prydain to himself once more, and it will be a battle to the death with the rest of us, won't it?"
"I fear so," he said quietly.
"Have you ever thought," she asked him, "what would happen if Arawn won?"
"Often," he replied. "And most frequently when I cannot sleep, in the middle of the night." Then, reaching forward and placing a hand on hers, he spoke, his voice urgent. "But we cannot let such fears rule us, Cerys. It would be like listening overlong to the horn of Gwyn the Hunter. We have to live—and simply be as ready as we can be if, or when, the time comes."
"I know," she replied. She looked up again at the castle, rising protectively behind them against the snow-capped mountains. "But have you thought, Taliesin, what would happen to all of this? If he won, Arawn would never let Caer Dathyl stand, would he? He'd raze it to the ground, and with it everything the Sons of Don have created over the years. Have you thought," she looked at him searchingly, "what it would be like to watch Caer Dathyl burn—everything, including the Hall of Lore, even the Hall of Bards?" She spoke of the treasured archives beneath the Hall of Lore, which none but bards could enter.
"Yes," said Taliesin, his gray eyes scanning the castle walls. "I have imagined what that would be like." A characteristic wry smile lifted the corners of his lips. "But if Caer Dathyl burned to the ground, the loss of a few books would be the least of our problems." Catching her shocked look, he could not help but smile again. "Oh, I know, a few books' doesn't really describe it, does it? But what I mean is, if it got to that point we probably wouldn't be around to watch the castle burn. Or, if we were, our lives would be in such danger we couldn't spare much thought for lost libraries."
"Furthermore," he went on, "yes, we'd lose incalculable riches. But we wouldn't lose everything, would we? After all, our songs live on in the hearts of our people. We could gather at least some of them again."
"If we survived," pointed out Cerys, "which would mean that in the end Arawn would not have won after all."
"Well, yes," Taliesin said. He looked at her again. "But should we think about this now, with happier events at hand?"
"Taliesin," she warned him, smiling, "you know I am not too fragile to deal with these things—even in my delicate condition."
He laughed. "Who said you were fragile, love? Not I! No, I simply meant that—Arawn notwithstanding—we should relish the joys in our lives." He placed a hand gently on her stomach. "How is the little one today?"
"Can't you tell?" Cerys grinned. They loved to feel the baby moving beneath their hands. Right now, it was swimming vigorously. They could actually see Cerys's body rippling in places kicked by small feet.
"A strong fellow," Cerys murmured. Taliesin raised an eyebrow and she smiled. "Oh, I know it could be a strong girl, too."
"Not surprising," interrupted Taliesin, "given her mother . . . "
"Of course I'd be equally happy with either a boy or a girl. I just think it's a boy, that's all." She looked down at her swelling stomach. "I only wish," she said sadly, "I were bringing this child into a safer world."
"Ah yes," said Taliesin, removing his hand. The baby had quieted down. "Yes, I do too."
They were silent a few moments. Then Cerys took a deep breath. "I'm sorry to keep bringing this up," she said, "but imagining the loss of our lore—of our memory, as a community—reminds me of the Cauldron-born. What is it like for people to forget their humanity? Have you seen them, Taliesin?"
"Yes," he admitted. "In my younger days, when I did some fighting."
Cerys teased. "I remember hearing stories about those days . . . "
Taliesin shook his head with his self-deprecating humor. "Whatever you've heard, fighting is not where my talents lie. Nor is warfare my favorite activity. I'd much rather read a good book. But yes, I have seen the Cauldron-born. If ever I'd been cornered by them," he smiled wryly again, "you'd have heard a lot fewer songs about me."
She shuddered. He regarded her with compunction. "Forgive me for jesting about such matters." She left her chair, moving to the bench where he was sitting, and they nestled in each other's arms.
"It would be terrible, " she said finally, sitting up and looking at her husband, "not to be able to feel."
"It is terrible," he agreed. "But I tell you, Cerys, it is not only the Cauldron-born who do not feel. In war the ability to feel—with and for others—is the first of our losses. We must learn to live at peace, without succumbing to the lust for blood or power. I have heard Lord Gwydion himself say that perhaps the worst of Arawn's crimes has been to make war seem like a good idea."
He sighed. "Indeed, if you speak of the lust for blood, perhaps the foulest of Arawn's creatures are not the Cauldron-born but the Huntsmen of Annuvin. The Cauldron-born are slaves, puppets in the hands of their Puppet-master. The Huntsmen of Annuvin choose to indulge their basest instincts." His voice, normally gentle, grew hard as he gazed in the distance. "The Huntsmen dress in animal skins, but they are worse than beasts. No beast kills for pleasure. The Huntsmen kill purely for the joy they take in destroying life."
He glanced back at Cerys and stopped, alarmed. Body rigid, face white, she seemed to have gone into a trance, her haunted gaze far from the sunlit garden. One hand clutched her breast as if it pained her.
"Cerys!" The sound of his voice wrenched her back from whatever nightmare she was inhabiting. She breathed hard, like a drowning person who unexpectedly reaches shore. "Sorry about that," she finally managed, "I did not mean to frighten you, love. That has not happened for a long time."
"What was it?" he whispered.
She smiled ruefully. "Enchantress blood," she admitted. "Doesn't it seem that there's an enchantress or two on every family tree in Prydain? My people have a couple, and every once in a while that happens. Oh, magic doesn't interest me any more than it does you." Here she referred to her husband's marked indifference to developing his own latent magic powers. "But then one day I'll suddenly find myself surrounded by swirling mist, and I'm desperately trying to see through it. I never quite do, although it always seems I come close. This time, it happened when you mentioned the Huntsmen. It's strange, as I've heard of them plenty of times before. But this time, the mist surrounded me again, and it was worse than usual, for it seemed to choke me. And I felt a sharp pain, here." She looked down at her hand, as if noticing for the first time it was clutching the bosom of her dress. Slowly, she unclenched her fingers, releasing the bunched-up fabric, and rested her hand protectively on her stomach.
"Well," she said, endeavoring to sound casual, "who knows what that was all about? What's the saying? Someone walking on my grave."
"Don't say that!" Taliesin flung his arms around her. She gently prised herself loose, then smiled at him, looking more like her usual self.
"I'm sorry, love," she teased. "I keep forgetting how terrified men are of childbirth. That's why we women do all the work, you know."
Taliesin laughed. "You're right—we men are the real babies."
They passed the rest of the afternoon companionably enough, though each kept shooting clandestine glances to make sure the other was all right. After dinner, Cerys asked to go back out to the garden and watch the moon rise. Donning light cloaks, they stepped into the cool night air and sat on the bench as dusk deepened around them, turning bright flowers ghostly silver.
Taliesin sneaked a peek at Cerys and found her looking at him. They laughed.
"You needn't worry," she told him. "I'm all right. In fact, I'm feeling much better."
"I rejoice to hear it," Taliesin told her, placing his arm around her shoulders. She looked at him.
"You know," she said, "I've been thinking. The answer is love."
"The answer to what?" Taliesin queried. She smiled again.
"Well, everything," she said. "But, more specifically, to the problem of Arawn. Maybe"—she spoke softly—"it will not be bloodshed or violence that defeats him. Maybe it will be love. You spoke earlier," she turned to her husband, "of the Huntsmen and how they choose a life of hatred. Maybe someone who chooses love will finally tip the balance the right way."
"You know," she continued, "battle is the one male preserve I never wanted to enter. You men can have it! But I've always marvelled at one thing—the ability that some have, in wartime, to lay down their lives for a comrade. Oh, I'm not speaking so much of loyalty, the oath warriors take to die for their liege lord. That's all very well, but it's not so wondrous as love. It seems in one regard the most natural thing to do, to give your life to save one you love, the way a mother"—she laid her hand on her belly—"would unthinkingly sacrifice herself for her child. Yet if it's the easiest thing to understand in one way, in another it's the hardest and most mysterious. How does one give so greatly of oneself for someone else? There may come a day," she concluded, "when someone who could have chosen to live chooses instead to die, in order to save a friend. And that may be the beginning of the end for Arawn."
He could not speak, only hold her more tightly in his arms. And so they sat quietly, as night fell and spangled the sky with bright stars.
