Follow me, Tegid. There is something you must see.”
I had found the bard alone, sitting before the fire in the king’s council chamber, cutting the ogham letters into the shaft of a spear Prince Meldron and the battle chiefs intended to use to summon the kings of Albion to the hosting. We both knew it to be a vain gesture. There would be no summons, no hosting, and no glorious battle. Meldryn Mawr’s chieftains could not even agree on who should take the spear; as to how they meant to pass through the swarming Coranyid at our gates and survive the bitter Sollen journey, they had no idea at all.
“There is nothing I care to see,” Tegid growled.
“You should see this,” I told him.
“Can it not wait?”
“No.”
“Oh, very well,” he said irritably, casting the spear aside. It clattered on the flagstones of the empty room. He rose, brushing wood shavings from his breecs. “Show me this thing which cannot wait.”
Despite his complaining, he was not greatly upset at leaving his futile task. He followed me readily. We passed from the chamber into the hall, threading carefully among scores of sleeping people, pausing at the door of the hall to wrap our cloaks tightly around us. Opening the door a crack, I pushed aside the oxhide and stepped out into the storm. Blown across the snow-filled yard, the wind tearing at our clothing, we climbed the steps to the rampart behind the wall. There I pointed to the red fireglow flickering against the rocks. Shreds of sulphurous smoke, torn by the wind, scumbled across the snow, staining it a filthy yellow. “Do you see that?” I said.
“They have made a fire,” he replied.
“Yes. Why, O Keen of Knowledge, have they made a fire?”
Tegid made to answer, then cocked his head to one side. “Why, indeed?”
“Exactly.” I motioned for him to follow me further and led him along the wall to the place where the vessel could be seen. “And there?” I pointed into snow-churned gloom.
“A cauldron,” responded Tegid with mounting interest.
“Yes, it is a cauldron. Now watch this,” I told him and directed his attention to the gate.
We stood looking on for a short while, the cold wind whipping at us. We did not have long to wait, as there soon came another attempt on the gate. These assaults had been regular occurrences for several days and were growing more and more frequent. Four demons were killed this time; they died hideously, screaming and thrashing in the snow. This time, however, the broken bodies were snatched up and carried away by other demons. Tegid admitted that this was curious, but failed to see the significance.
“Wait a moment,” I advised, “and keep watching.”
The broken bodies of the four slain Coranyid were borne away to the enormous fire, where they were heaved over the rim of the great iron kettle; the corpses were tumbled in one by one, and the fire leapt higher. “They eat them!” observed Tegid with a shiver of disgust.
“No, they do not eat their dead. Watch.”
A swell-bellied hunchback with a face like a rat leapt upon the rim of the steaming vessel and thrust a long black paddle into the seething depths. The bloated creature made a few stirring motions, then stopped and withdrew the paddle.
“What—” began Tegid.
“Watch,” I said, not taking my eyes from the fire-wreathed kettle.
The words were no sooner out of my mouth than one of the corpses began to rise from the cauldron: first a hand and an arm, and then the head, shoulders, and torso. The arms moved, and the head. The undead thing clambered to the rim of the vessel, ignoring the flames licking round its gleaming shins, and then sprang to the ground to rejoin the writhing masses of his monstrous companions.
Meanwhile, the second demon had risen from the froth of the massive iron pot, and now scrambled over the rim. The head of the third corpse bobbed to the bubbling surface, mouth open, eyes wide and staring. It grasped the rim with its two horny hands and pulled itself out of the cauldron and fell sprawling onto the rocks outside the circle of flames. The last corpse emerged from the boiling liquid, and rejoined the loathsome horde.
“Crochan-y-Aileni,” muttered Tegid darkly, “the Cauldron of Rebirth. This is how they preserve their numbers. We cannot kill them. We cannot stop them.” His voice rang hollow with resignation and defeat.
“You said the Song would stop them,” I reminded him.
“The Song is lost.”
“Then we must find it.”
Tegid scoffed. “A fool’s errand. It cannot be done.”
I threw a hand toward the imposing vessel. “Only a fool would stay here and wait to be starved and overwhelmed by these fiends and their accursed pot. It seems to me, brother, we are fools either way.”
The bard glowered at me, and I thought he might tip me over the wall. But then he glanced at the cauldron once more, and at the thousands of teeming Coranyid cavorting obscenely around its shimmering, fire-wrapped bulk. “What do you propose?”
“I propose we find the Phantarch. Maybe he is not dead. We do not know that he is dead. We will not know for certain until we find him.”
“Impossible,” grunted Tegid. “And futile.”
“What have we to lose?”
“Must I say it all again? No one, save the Penderwydd, knows where the Phantarch resides,” protested Tegid weakly. “Ollathir knew and—”
“And Ollathir is dead,” I snapped. I had no more patience with Tegid’s pessimism. “So you keep saying. Well, I say someone knows where the Phantarch resides, because whoever killed him knew well enough where to find him.”
Tegid, who had been about to object, jerked suddenly upright, his eyes narrow as he sifted the truth of my words.
“It seems to me,” I continued, “that we have either to find out who killed the Phantarch or find out how they discovered him.”
“It will be difficult.”
“Difficult is not the same thing as impossible.”
“Now you are talking like a bard.” Tegid allowed himself a fleeting smile.
It was meant as a jest, but, even as he spoke these words, I remembered my solemn vow to the Banfáith: It seems to me a task more befitting a bard, I had told her. Yet what may be done, that I will do.
“It is a task for a bard,” I said. “I am no bard, Tegid; we both know it. And yet the Chief Bard’s awen was given to me.”
The smile faded, and his face clouded with the despair that had dogged him since Sycharth. He said nothing.
“Yes, to me, Tegid. It was given to me! It should have been you—I wish it had been you. I know I am no fit vessel. But the fact remains that I was there when Ollathir died, and I was the one who received the awen. That is the way of it.”
Tegid’s mouth twitched unhappily, but he did not respond.
“I am willing, but I do not know what to do. You do. You are a bard. Tell me, Tegid; tell me what I need to know. I remember nothing of what Ollathir told me. But I would like to remember. And, maybe if I could remember it, it would do us all some good.”
Tegid was silent still, but I knew he was considering what I had said carefully. And I could sense that he was even now beginning to put his hurt and disappointment behind him. He stared hard at me—as if I were an untried horse and he a reluctant buyer trying to decide where he could trust me. Finally, he said, “Will you do whatever I tell you?”
“What may be done, that I will do.”
Tegid turned abruptly and said, “Follow me.”