The Beginning
Meeting Hall
The sacred isle of Ellan Vannin
Midsummer, AD 48
“Was the bitch worth it?”
Beven’s putrid breath and flecks of spittle hit Turi in the face. He flinched and tried to straighten his exhausted legs, needing to ease the stress on his tethered arms. Suspended from an overhead beam, the harsh ropes that held him gnawed like rats at his wrists, and the wound in his side throbbed as he peered at Beven through swollen eyelids.
“You know she was not.” Turi’s voice grated over his parched throat. “You should have left me there to die with them.”
“I agree.” Beven’s fist slammed into Turi’s side and a sharp spear of pain sliced through his core. Winded, he convulsed, the merciless bonds preventing him from doubling over. A fresh rivulet of blood trailed a warm path over his left hip and down his leg.
Beven’s lip curled. “I have yet to fathom Pendaran’s wisdom in bringing you here. I pray it is because he intends to mete out a more painful punishment than even Rome could contrive. Yours cannot be a quick death. You must suffer. You must scream and beg for mercy as you die, as did our women and children when the flames took them. As did my wife!”
Saliva drooled from Turi’s mouth as he gasped for breath. “Do with me… what you will. No physical pain can equal the anguish I feel in my heart. I shall welcome death when it comes. To live with what I have done would be –”
“I care nothing for your anguish, so spare me your empty remorse!”
Turi heaved as Beven’s fist again found its mark. Agony sliced through him once more and threw his mind into a nauseating spiral. He felt himself sliding toward the edge of a dark abyss and welcomed the merciful plunge. Then, from somewhere above the pounding in his ears, he heard the grind of a hinge on metal. Torch flames flickered and a waft of damp air brushed across his face.
“Leave him be!”
Turi recognized the voice. For as long as anyone could remember, it had passed judgement and law on his people. It belonged to Pendaran, the most revered and feared of all druid priests. This, the sacred isle of Ellan Vannin, was his hallowed domain. Turi was at the priest’s mercy, although there could only be one certain punishment.
Sight blurred by pain and wood smoke, Turi squinted, trying to focus on the hazy outline of the druid as he approached. He was considered to be nothing less than an earthbound god, chosen to walk among his mortal underlings. It was said he even possessed the ability to see and speak with the dead. Draped in robes of rich, sky blue, he appeared to float across the earthen floor.
A sudden and profound sense of sadness darkened Turi’s thoughts further. His life was about to end, and deservedly so, yet he couldn’t help but lament the imminent loss of his future.
At that moment, an unexpected waft of air lifted the hair on his flesh. Its source a mystery, it swept over Turi’s body like a fresh, spring breeze. He inhaled, convinced he imagined the sweet fragrance of thyme that filled his nostrils. Another wisp, akin to the touch of a cool hand, brushed across his fevered brow and the anguish in his head dissipated. He groaned and embraced a sweet sense of peace as a vision arose from the shadows of his mind. What merciful distraction was this?
A fresh, autumn day in what appeared to be an orchard. At least, they looked like apple trees, their leaves edged in gold. A black dog’s excited bark and gales of childish laughter carried on the air. A small, dark-haired boy galloped in circles, the stick between his legs an imaginary horse. What was this? A long-forgotten memory? Or a reminder of the innocent lives lost because of him? Turi swallowed against an urge to weep and tasted blood.
“Great Lord.” Beven’s harsh voice shattered Turi’s vision like a hammer on a clay pot. “I ask you show no mercy to this snake. He deserves to suffer for what he has done.”
“And suffer he shall.” Pendaran grabbed a handful of Turi’s hair and tugged up on his scalp, forcing him to meet the druid’s gaze. “Leave us, Beven.”
“But, Lord, I wish to –”
“Leave us!”
“Very well.” Beven spat at Turi’s feet. “A thousand curses upon your soul, Turi. May it burn in the fires of Uffern forever.”
Only when the door closed with a thunderous bang did Pendaran release his grip. Turi’s chin dropped to his chest, but he gritted his teeth and lifted it again, neck muscles straining as he locked eyes with the priest once more. Pendaran swept a glance over Turi’s naked form.
“Do you challenge me, Setantii?”
Turi gave a sardonic smile. “’Tis clear I’m in no position to challenge anyone.”
A corner of the priest’s mouth twitched. “Most mortals cower before me. You do not.”
“To cower would imply fear. I respect you, Lord, but do not fear you.”
The priest raised a brow. “Do you fear death?”
“Nay.” He grimaced. “By all the gods, I welcome it.”
“Hmm.” Expression thoughtful, Pendaran circled Turi, pausing behind him. “And what of pain? Do you fear that?”
Turi suppressed another surge of nausea as he set his feet flat and tried to straighten his weary legs. “I take no pleasure from the giving or receiving of it.”
Other than the crackle of flame from the torches, the air fell silent. The scent of thyme had dissipated. Now, Turi’s nostrils flared at the stench of his own sweat and blood. Like a war drum, the wound in his side throbbed in time with the pulse in his head. He closed his eyes and cursed his foolishness for the thousandth time.
“Aye, you were a fool,” Pendaran said, still at Turi’s back, “but you are not the first man to suckle on a treacherous breast. Nor will you be the last, I fear.”
Turi’s eyes flew open. Had he voiced his thoughts out loud? “You should have left me there to die,” he murmured.
“At the hands of our enemies?” Pendaran clicked his tongue. “I think not, Setantii. The debt for your foolishness is owed to us, not to them. What, by Arawn’s sacred sword, persuaded you to bring a stranger back to your village?”
An image drifted into Turi’s mind. A forest clearing at dusk. The carcass of an impressive buck, felled with a well-aimed arrow. And the sudden appearance of a young woman with muddied flesh and torn clothes. In little more than a heartbeat, Turi had nocked another arrow and aimed it at the woman’s breast, ready to shoot and kill.
Who was she? What did she want?
The northern forests had long since trembled with tales of the Roman advance. Turi’s village still lay untouched. Hidden. Buried deep within the ancient stands of oak, beech and elm that bordered môr-afon, the great sea-river. Despite the fear of invasion, Turi’s people lived as they always had, at the mercy and with the blessings of the gods.
But he had been warned – they had all been warned – to be vigilant. Suspicious of strangers. To kill unknown visitors rather than take the risk of betrayal or discovery. But the woman had fallen, weeping, to her knees and begged for mercy. She had fear in her eyes – eyes the color of stormy skies. Turi, curse his compassion, had believed her. He had lowered his bow and taken her back to his village.
And to his bed.
“She said she was an escaped slave, a daughter of the Gangani.” A bead of sweat, salty and burning, trickled into his eye. “She spoke our language as one born to it and begged for my help. I had no reason to doubt her.”
“Did she bear marks?”
Turi hesitated. “Marks?
“Those of a collar. Or a lash. Bruises. Scars, even. The common brands of slavery.”
“N-nay.”
“Then you had every reason to doubt her, Setantii.”
Turi swallowed against the bile in his throat. “I know that now.”
“Was she pleasing to look upon?”
“Like a goddess.” A lying, treacherous, goddess.
Pendaran appeared before him again. “A steel cock and a flaccid brain. ’Tis a common affliction among mortal men.”
Turi’s bit back a groan as the ropes bit harder into his arms. As each moment passed, he grew more exhausted. “I submit to all charges, Lord.”
“Those who remain are demanding your blood.”
“Give it to them.”
Pendaran narrowed his eyes and regarded Turi with a thoughtful expression. Then, muttering something under his breath, he drew a bejeweled dagger from beneath the folds of his cloak and ran his thumb along the edge of the blade. The scent of thyme drifted into Turi’s nostrils again, stronger this time. Bewildered, he closed his eyes and inhaled, drinking in the aroma as if seeking to sate some undefined thirst. Peace descended upon him once more, and yet another vision arose, unbidden, in his mind.
Seated on a stone bench beneath a sycamore tree, the woman had a pale, delicate profile. Someone of status, judging by her vestments. The style of clothing was strange to him, yet oddly familiar. Mottled sunlight fell through the overhead branches, capturing the flaxen hues of her braided hair. An unusual color. Rare among his people. The woman’s hands, resting in her lap, captured silver tears that fell from her eyes.
She meant something to him. Something important. But what? The vision was cloaked in silence, so Turi could not hear her weeping. Yet he felt her sorrow. He felt it to the depths of his soul, but knew not the reason for it. Who was she?
“I have watched you over the years.” Pendaran’s voice penetrated Turi’s strange reverie. “Savored your growth from boy to man.”
Turi blinked and the vision of the woman vanished. He was undoubtedly losing his mind. “I am honored by your interest in me, Lord.”
“I remember well the night you were born. A night your mother did not survive.”
Turi shifted and bit down against the resulting pain. “And I, of course, have no recollection of it, though my father placed the blame for her death on my shoulders.”
“Your father blamed no one but himself.” Pendaran stepped closer and settled the point of the blade into the well of Turi’s throat. “You are a fine warrior, possessed of an honest and brave spirit. ’Tis a pity to rid the world of such a man.”
Turi grunted. “There are those beyond the door who would disagree.”
“Indeed.” With deliberation, the priest drew the point of the blade across Turi’s ribs, stopping at last atop his heart. “Finish what you were about to say, Setantii.”
Knowing the instrument of his death sat in readiness to strike, Turi struggled to focus on the unexpected demand. “Say?”
“When Beven was meting out his hatred earlier, he did not allow you to finish your declaration. To live with what I have done would be… what?” Pendaran lowered his voice. “What would it be?”
“It would be the ultimate torture, Great Lord.”
“Then to take your life this night would be no punishment at all.”
“Nay, I mean… my…my life should be forfeit.” Turi’s throat tightened. “I betrayed my tribe. Those women and children died because of me. It would be a sin to let me live.”
“What did you see?” The point of the blade bit into Turi’s flesh. “When you inhaled my essence just now, what visions arose in your mind?”
Turi gasped. “How did you –?”
“Answer me. Tell me what you saw.”
“A-a child. I first saw a child. A boy of maybe three summers.”
“Go on.”
“He was in an orchard, I think. Playing. Pretending to ride a horse.”
“The color of his hair?”
“Dark.”
“Like yours.”
Turi took a breath. “Aye, though I do not think it was me. I do not recall such a day.”
“And the second vision?”
“A woman.”
“Ah.” The priest smiled. “Describe the scene. Describe her. Tell me what you felt.”
Turi was about to die. Why was this relevant? “It… it looked like a courtyard of some kind. She was seated on a stone bench and wore fine clothes of a style unknown to me. She was young, fair of face, and had braided hair the color of ripe wheat. I felt as though I knew her, but I’m not sure from where. She was weeping and I felt her sadness. I felt it to the depths of my –”
Turi’s eyes widened as the blade slid between his ribs and entered his heart. An icy chill shot down his spine. This was it. The end of his life. He drew a breath and held it, as if doing so might allow him a few more moments in the mortal realm. Then he closed his eyes and waited to die.
May the gods grant me exile.
“Nay, open them.” The druid’s cool breath brushed across his face. “Do not look away from me.”
Turi blinked and gazed into eyes that reflected his own. “You are m-merciful, Great Lord.”
Pendaran pulled the dagger free and observed the bloodied blade with a frown. “And you are mistaken, Setantii.”
Turi felt his flesh grow cold as his lungs grew heavy. Yet the druid’s strange words burned into what remained of his consciousness.
Mistaken?
“I do not understand,” he whispered, confused by the continued thud of his heart beneath his ribs.
“It is quite simple.” Pendaran reached up with the dagger and sawed through Turi’s bonds. “Your death serves no valid purpose. And besides, a father should never have to kill his only son.”
Bewildered, Turi collapsed to his knees, grimacing with pain. His only son?
This had to be some kind of delirium. The delusions of a man about to enter the Underworld, dying eyes and ears playing tricks. Merciless tricks, too. The solid rasp of breath in and out of his lungs seemed genuine, as did the hard, measured pulse in his temple. But neither could be real. He had felt the harsh sting of the blade as it gouged a path between his ribs. It had plunged deep and entered his heart.
Killing him, surely.
Trembling, he looked down at his nakedness. Dampened by sweat, the sparse triangle of hair on his chest narrowed to a thin line that trailed over the hard ridges of his abdomen. His manhood rested in its nest of coarse curls at the juncture of his thighs. Strong thighs, also dampened by sweat.
Sweat and grime.
Where was the blood? It should have been cascading over his ribs, blending with the previous flow in a deathly purge that stole the heat from his veins. He felt for the wound and then looked for it. His fingers found and traced a hairless line above his heart and, by the flicker of torchlight, he saw a dark furrow in his flesh. A scar, freshly healed and smooth to the touch.
As for his other wound, the one inflicted by a Roman sword, it pained him no longer. Only a harsh red line gave proof that the injury had existed at all.
What wizardry is this? Or does death heal all in a dead man’s eyes? It must. I felt the blade. Saw the blood upon it. His only son?
“My father was Emlyn,” Turi said, observing his wrists in disbelief, where the marks of his bonds had also faded, “son of Sior.”
Pendaran heaved a sigh. “On your feet, Setantii.”
Drunk on disbelief, Turi rose without trial. His pain and fatigue had vanished. If anything, he felt renewed. Stronger than ever. At least, physically. His poor mind, however, continued to spin in a whirlwind of confusion.
“How can I be healed? Why am I not dead? I felt the thrust of your blade, saw it stained with my blood.” He studied Pendaran’s face, searching similarities to his own. He saw none and demanded an answer to the most puzzling question of all. “Am I not the son of Emlyn?”
“Arianwen was already carrying you when I gave her to Emlyn and no one had touched her but me. You are of my blood, Turi. Why do you think you responded to my aura, my essence? The visions you saw are glimpses of the future, vague reflections of things to come. No son of Emlyn would be capable of such foresight. You are a true descendant of the ancient Setantii line, sired by Pendaran, Head Priest of Ellan Vannin and Ynys Dywyll. And no son of mine will die by my hand.” The priest frowned. “You are not, however, above our laws. Judgment has been made and justice will be served.”
Turi’s heart rattled in his ears as the truth of his lineage continued to filter into his brain. “My fa– I mean, Emlyn was not aware?”
“I’m certain he was, but he cared little. Your mother was a fine gift. He recognized the value of what I had given him.”
“But what justice has been served? It seems I live when I should not. Or am I cursed by some great spell and dead to all but you?”
“You are not dead. To the contrary, you are very much alive.” Pendaran’s attention shifted to the bejeweled dagger still clasped in his hand. He opened his palm, exposing the weapon within, the tip of the blade still stained with blood. The pale hilt, intricately carved and embedded with dark green stones, shimmered with light and shadow. “It is called Gwaed Tragwyddol.”
Eternal blood.
A chill crept over Turi’s scalp. “Why did it not kill me?”
Using his fingertip, Pendaran wiped what remained of Turi’s blood from the blade. “Moments ago, you said your ultimate torture would be to live with what you have done. Have you since changed your mind?”
Turi shook his head. “I have not, but I fail to see –”
“Then live with it you shall, Setantii. What is a fair sentence, do you think? Shall we say fifty years for each innocent soul who died because of your carelessness? Eleven women and fifteen children perished that night. Twenty-six souls in all.” He dragged his bloodied fingertip over the scar above Turi’s heart. “A penance, then, of thirteen centuries.”
“Thirteen centuries?” With a growing sense of dread, Turi placed a hand over the scar as if to deny its presence. “Does it amuse you, this game you play? Is all I see and hear an illusion?”
Pendaran’s eyes darkened. “This is no game. In a short while, you will be banished from this place and sent out into the world with nothing but your memories. Most of them will fade as time passes. These most recent will not. They will remain as fresh as they do now, as will your anguish as you recall them.”
“But no man can live for thirteen centuries, Lord.” Turi rubbed his forehead. “Only a god can do that.”
Pendaran tilted his head and regarded the dagger. “Gwaed Tragwyddol is said to have been stolen from the Underworld, the hilt carved from the claw of a dragon, the blade forged by a dragon’s fire. It grants immortality to those brave or foolish enough to use it. For thirteen centuries, its magic will keep you from mortal harm, but you will never lose the misery of guilt you presently carry. It will gnaw at your conscience without mercy, day and night. This is my justice and your penance.” He pinned Turi with his dark gaze. “Nay, you are no god. But I suggest you use your immortality wisely. Despite your guilt, strive to redeem your soul in readiness for its eventual journey. And pay heed to your visions, my son, however trivial they may be, for they may serve to guide you to your final destiny.”
Turi looked down, his mind still fumbling with his father’s words. This had to be a dream. An illusion brought about by pain or even death. But the scars on his body said otherwise. He knew Pendaran’s magic was great, but… thirteen centuries?
“’Tis some unholy madness,” he said, lifting his gaze. “A man cannot hope to bear such a burden for so long and remain sane. I will surely lose my mind.”
“You are my son,” the priest replied, “and therefore stronger than most men. And you will not be entirely alone. Take some comfort from that, if you wish.”
Turi gave a weak laugh. “You only add to my confusion with your assurances, my lord. Who else will be with me on this journey?”
“The gods, of course. And the one who has been with you from the beginning.” Pendaran gave a humorless smile. “I shall continue to watch you from afar, as I always have. That said, I expect you to be accountable to yourself. Do not think to call upon me and beg for help or with frivolous demands. My intervention will only occur in the direst of circumstances and entirely at my behest.”
Turi let the silence wrap around him as he absorbed his father’s words. They could only mean one thing, of course. “’Tis true what they say, then,” he murmured. “You are, indeed, immortal.”
Pendaran shrugged. “I am not a slave to time,” he replied. “It does not dictate when I live and die.”
“Then you must be a god.” Turi’s head swam. “And I… I am your son.”
“An actuality without advantage. Understand me, Turi. I have shown you no mercy here tonight. To the contrary. Men are meant to die. ’Tis their mortal rite of passage. I have denied you that rite and you will suffer for the lack of it.”
“Thirteen centuries.” Turi touched the scar above his heart again. “I must endure thirteen centuries.”
“You will endure them.”
“And afterwards? What then? Will I simply cease to live?”
“You will bleed.”
Turi frowned. “Bleed?”
Pendaran took Turi’s hand, turned it palm up, and dragged the blade across it. Turi winced at a brief sting of pain, but the wound did not weep. Even as he watched, the flesh began to heal, joining together till only a thin scar remained. He clenched and unclenched his hand in disbelief.
“Such powerful magic ought to be shared,” he said, staring up at his father. “Why do you not gift our warriors with it? We would be undefeated against all enemies.”
Pendaran’s expression darkened. “Your suggestion is an affront. The magic of Gwaed Tragwyddol was never intended for mortal use. It is a weapon of the gods and its power can only be summoned by the gods. After your sentence is complete, any wounds you sustain thereafter will bleed as they should. You will be mortal, your body returned to the mercy of time.” He leaned forward as if to impart some secret. “Until then, heed my words, Setantii. When confronted or challenged, ignore the protection of Gwaed Tragwyddol and fight as a mortal. Fight as if a single blow from your opponent will finish you. Fight to win. Time is now your servant, so use it. Exploit it. Become a master of all weapons. The sword. The bow. The staff. Never take your immortality for granted. I say again, as the son of Pendaran, you must use it to redeem yourself. Once your sentence is complete, the magic will cease to protect you. One day, without warning, you will become as you were. And mark my words, Turi, that day will be upon you sooner than you think.”
He went to a nearby table and poured the contents of a jug into two goblets, mumbling as he did so.
Still uncertain that all he had heard and witnessed was real, Turi looked down at the scar above his heart and touched a fingertip to it. “Thirteen centuries,” he muttered, again.
“It will pass.” Pendaran handed a goblet to him. “Drink.”
A while later, Turi opened his eyes and gazed up at a vast, starlit sky. The grass against his naked flesh felt cold and damp. He sat up, shivering so violently his teeth rattled. Where am I? What is this place?
Images began to emerge from the fog in his head, but the incredulity of them confused him. Had it all been a bizarre dream? The sacred isle. The pain. Pendaran’s incredible claim and his godlike justice.
Had he, perhaps, survived the attack on the village and stumbled away, his mind compromised by pain and anguish? Nay. He’d felt the blade enter his heart. Seen his blood upon it. With the sound of his breath rasping in his ears, he sought out the small ridge of scarred flesh above his heart.
Not a dream. Tears pricked at his eyes. Thirteen centuries. May the gods have mercy.
Teeth still chattering, he glanced about, trying to get his bearings. It appeared he was on a hilltop, but none of the surroundings seemed familiar. He staggered to his feet, hugging himself as he gazed out over the darkness. Shock chilled his blood further as he pivoted, not believing his eyes. He’d expected to see the sea lapping up to the familiar coastline of Ellan Vannin.
“Where am I?” he mumbled, staring in disbelief at the landscape before him. No longer on the island, certainly. He squinted at a shimmering line, way off in the distance. Was it the sea? Below him, a forest stretched out into the darkness like a thick, black pelt. Here and there, a plume of pale smoke was visible, rising upwards from the trees. Signs of life?
“Where am I?” Turi mumbled again, struggling against a sudden and terrible sense of abandonment. He had never felt so lost. So alone.
Seeking direction from the heavens, he lifted his gaze aloft. He soon found y seren gogledd, the single, unmoving star that pointed to the northern lands. Uttering a quiet prayer to the gods, he stretched out his arms and looked to the right. To the east, where the sun would surely rise.
Then, carrying naught but his burden of guilt and shame, Turi, son of Pendaran, took his first steps as an immortal.