Robert Carter - The Giants’ Dance

‘Gwydion, where’s the stump gone?’

‘Stump?’

‘The big piece of battlestone that was left.’

‘I took it away.’

He inclined his head, surprised. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘I wanted to give it to my friend Cormac.’

‘It’s a strange gift for a friend.’

‘Strange, perhaps, but useful certainly. Cormac is Lord of the Clan MacCarthach. He is a lord of the Blessed Isle, and a great builder of castles. Once drained, the battlestones are changed from deadly to mildly benign. Once the harm is gone there remains a small residue of kindness that works much as a charm does. I believe the stone will sit well once it is mortared into the ramparts of Cormac’s castle of An Blarna.’

‘What power will it confer, there? Invulnerability?’

‘Ha! Not that. Cormac will have to look to his own security as ever he did. But now he will be able to defend himself with the gift of diplomacy, for it seems that this particular stump gives those who touch it a fine way with words.’

‘Then you yourself must have slept seven nights upon it, I’d say.’

Gwydion laughed. ‘Did I never tell you that mockery is a very childish skill? I will have you know that many is the night since last we met when I have wished myself upon a bed that was as soft as a castle parapet.’

‘I’m wishing myself abed at this very moment.’ Will stretched again and yawned. ‘As sorry as I am for your poor old spine, it’s time I rested mine. I really should be going home.’

At this Gwydion looked silently away, and Will knew the wizard had more to say for himself. They sat until the skylarks began singing, until the eastern sky had turned a fragile blue above the pale mists of a summer dawn. Long, low streamers of cloud hovered close by the eastern horizon, as pink as the boiled flesh of a salmon. They turned slowly to fiery gold as the sun rose to burn off night mists that still clung to the land.

‘Did you ever find the Black Book?’ Will asked, meaning the ancient scroll that Gwydion had often spoken about, the one that told of the history of the battlestones.

The wizard stiffened. ‘I did not, and perhaps I never will. But I have not been idle. I have learned something of what the Black Book might once have contained. There are here and there snippets to be found, lines taken from fragments, copies of copies, translations made from memory long after the Black Book was lost. My gleanings have been meagre; still they have given me some much-needed clues regarding how best to set about the perilous task of draining a battlestone.’

‘Surely you don’t think—’

‘My first attempt was foolhardy. I am aware of that now. But if I had been wiser sooner, then I should not have done as I did. And where would that have left us?’

Will grunted. ‘All decisions must be made on the basis of imperfect knowledge, I suppose.’

The wizard’s chin jutted. ‘I will say that now I believe I have almost learned enough to try again.’

There was a noise then, and Will turned. ‘Look! The Sister. She stirs.’

They went to attend the Wise Woman as she came out of sleep. First her eyes opened and rolled in her head, then she struggled weakly and spoke like one in a fever. Gwydion lifted her head and made her drink from a small leather bottle. Then he said firmly, ‘Where are you from, Sister?’

‘My home is at Fossewyke, Master,’ she said in the voice of a young girl.

‘That is by Little Slaughter, is it not?’

Her eyes roamed, but then she said, ‘Yes, Master. It is in the vale of the Eyne Brook.’

‘Well, get you home now without delay. Do not eat or drink again until night falls. By which time you will be wholly yourself again. Do you promise to do as I bid you?’

‘Yes, Master.’

Will hid the sheathed blade away from her as Gwydion pointed a warning finger in her face. ‘To thine own self be true – now promise me that also.’

‘I promise, Master.’

‘Go now! Prosper under the sky, and do not be tempted to meddle again with crafts that lie beyond your scope.’

And with that the Sister rose to her feet and skipped away as briskly as a lamb, leaving Will in awe of the power that lay in Gwydion’s words.

‘Is she in her right mind again?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘Not yet. But by sundown she will be, save for a strong cider headache. And that might teach her to go more slowly in high matters. I did not chastise her further, for she must have acted in fear to save her life. By rights great magic such as she used should have killed her, but it did not, and that is a discrepancy which troubles me.’

‘Discrepancy?’ Will asked, his heart sinking. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Come, Willand, I have a favour to ask of you.’

He followed, going towards the lign and out along it to the west until Gwydion said:

‘Slaughter great,

Slaughter small!

All slaughter now,

No Slaughter at all!

‘Do you know what that means?’

Will shook his head. ‘Should I?’

‘It is the answer to the lights that burned last night over the Wolds.’

‘How could that be an answer?’

Gwydion sat down on the ground. ‘I will tell you, but first you must tell me again what happened to the Doomstone of Verlamion, the same which you think you destroyed – but cannot say how.’

Will sat down too. He thought back to the desperate moment when he had struggled against the Doomstone. He told all he could remember of what had taken place in the cellar under the great chapter house of the Sightless Ones. The Doomstone had been none other than the slab that covered the Founder’s sarcophagus.

‘In the end I used this to break it,’ he said, hooking a finger inside the neck of his shirt.

He had meant to draw out his fish talisman and show it to Gwydion, but it was not there. He patted his chest in puzzlement, then remembered how the day before he had washed his hair and replaited his braids ready for the Lammas celebrations. He had hung the fish on a nail and had forgotten to put it back on. It was only the figure of a fish, no bigger than his thumb, carved in green and with a red eye, but he missed it.

‘No matter,’ he said regretfully. ‘It’s probably not important.’

Gwydion’s grey eyes watched him. ‘The power of magic is often made greater by tokens. Much strength may be drawn upon in time of peril if a true belief lies within your heart. You knew what to do without being taught. I have said it many times, Willand, you are the Child of Destiny. The Black Book has said so.’

He chewed his lip, a heavy weight burdening him. ‘I don’t know where I come from, and that scares me, Gwydion.’

The wizard touched him with a kindly hand. ‘Willand, I must interfere as lightly as possible where you are concerned. I know little enough about the part you are to play, except a pitiful portion revealed by the seers of old. Believe me when I say that I am hiding nothing from you that it would serve you to know.’

He sighed and hugged his knees. ‘I’ve been having the same nightmare over and over lately. An idea comes to me in shallow sleep – that Maskull is my father.’

Gwydion shook his head. ‘The Doomstone traded in fear and lies. The planting of deceits in men’s minds is the way all such stones make a defence of themselves.’

‘Then how do you explain what Maskull himself said when I faced him on top of the curfew tower? That was something else I can’t forget. He said, “I made you, I can just as easily unmake you.” I’ve wondered too many times what he meant by it.’

Gwydion said gently, ‘Maskull is not your father. Be assured of that.’

‘Then why did he say what he did?’

‘Try to forget about it.’