To Discover His Truth

The Longest Night

Geraint and Nijal rode out on the early morning hunt. Andri rode near the forefront, attending Brynnan in his new role of Winter King. The actual ruler, Rhydian of Redmark, rode his horse by the Bard’s right hand, for the two men had developed a friendship. They were spared the presence of Kian-Hen, King Rhydian’s chief counsellor, who stayed in his tower on these occasions.

For two days, the court had feasted and hunted. In the evenings, the Winter King had played his harp and sang. Andri was a welcome part of the celebration and charmed all with his deep voice blended with the Bard’s rich tones. But now, as the members of the hunt paused to rest their dogs and horses, Geraint and Nijal conversed with one another.

“I have scarce had two words with him,” complained Geraint. “Any time he has free, he seems to spend it closeted with that old Ruithin. A “mage” they refer to him as, and I can well believe it. What enchantment has he cast about our Bard that keeps him on this mad course?”

“We have to both trust Brynnan and keep watch on him. I have not tried to interfere because there is a sense of purpose in all this. If Kian-Hen is trying to extract information from our companion, he won’t succeed,” said Nijal.

“In nearly two years, even m’Lord Samir could not get the lad to break his silence. I witnessed the last parts of it, and Brynnan endured what no normal man could. I was convinced the bullwhipping would break him, and I think it nearly did, but no, not even that. So I won’t bet on this ‘Ancient Mage’s luck in doing better. But, by the Great Mare’s Tits, why didn’t the lad consult us first!”

“Unfortunately, I believe Brynnan is under some compulsion, or he would have. As for the transference of the King’s power, it has long been done in that manner. The land is invested in the King, so his cum holds the power of the land. It’s an old belief,” Nijal mused thoughtfully.

“Well, I’ll forgive him for his lack of asking if he can reverse the process on the new day of the winter solstice. I suppose he must fuck the King to give back the power, or something like. It’s all too mystical for me. Just say you’re horny and have at it without the land being involved. Human sexual relationships are complicated enough.”

Nijal laughed shortly, “Would that it was so simple. But I have a feeling that the conclusion of Brynnan’s Kingship won’t be. There must be something else that Kian-Hen is after.”

“Power. What else, Nijal? It always comes down to power. That’s what starts most wars, anyhow. I’ve had my fill of power-mad would-be rulers. So what if this Ruithin mage is the power behind the throne?”

Nijal clapped his hand on Geraint’s shoulder. “We continue to watch. At least at these hunts, we have an excuse to stay armed.”

A deep, croaking sound drew their attention. High in a nearby oak tree, a white raven perched. It looked around and croaked again.

“Even his cursed bird is out spying on us!” Geraint exclaimed.

“Come, mount up and do not let it worry you. The hunt is moving again.”

 *    *    *

Brynnan hated hunting. The huntsmen and beaters ranged ahead with their dogs, the mounted nobles following behind. They took various game for the tables at the King’s Hall, and finally, three huntsmen deployed a net on a cornered deer and captured it alive. The stag was destined to be tomorrow’s sacrifice and feast.

“You don’t approve, my brother,” Rhydian commented.

“That is not a fitting end for a beast of the woods. A clean-cast spear or a swift arrow in the heart, I can understand. But to be captured, strung up and bled-out is barbaric,” Brynnan said.

“But death is death, whichever way you look at it,” said Rhydian.

“I used to think so once, but now I know there is death, and there is Death. And the manner of one’s death does matter. I understand this.”

“I would not argue with you, friend Brynnan. It is said that the Marec Mavrenn can call death, and the Winter King is also a King of the Dead.”

A sudden cold feeling ripped through Brynnan as certain facts slipped into place. The Wanderer and Seer, Eleni, had given the Bard a prophecy; a King would crown him King, and his realm would be death. He bent over Rhiannon’s silver-tipped black mane, feeling as if he had been punched in the gut. Why had his thoughts been clouded to this fact? Why had he not realized it even before he’d accepted the terms of Kingship?

“Are you alright, my friend?” said Rhydian, concern colouring his voice.

Andri immediately closed in on his other side, black Kalo fretting and dancing. Andri reined her in. “Brynnan?” he queried.

The Bard answered with one short word to Andri, “Eleni,” he breathed. Then, he mastered himself and straightened in the saddle, taking a deeper breath. Turning to Andri, he said in a low voice, “Ride back and tell Nijal and Geraint I think I am in trouble. Repeat Grandmother’s name. They will understand. Bid them ride closer.”

Andri did not question Brynnan – he had learned that lesson at least – but turned his horse and cantered back.

Brynnan called an early end to the hunt. The day was cold and grey, and more snow threatened. The huntsmen called in their dogs. They had a goodly take of game in any case: there would be plenty of meat for the table. And tomorrow, the court would feast on the stag.

Back at the keep, Brynnan was glad to bathe and change. He put on a silk robe, lay on the King’s bed in his chambers, and turned his gaze on Mavrenn. She was placed in a harp stand that kept her upright. Uncased, her purple wood gleamed. The bone carving on the harp’s pillar was partly in shadow, but the figurehead’s ruby eyes gleamed in the light. Some stray current of air passed in the chamber, and there was a soft chiming of sound from the strings. “What are you telling me, my Lady Harp?” Brynnan asked.

Another current of air and the strings gave voice again. It was faint, but it brought to mind the first notes of the song ‘The Raven and the Warrior.’ Brynnan arose from the bed, took his harp and began to play. He let the notes linger on the phrases, recalling the warrior bleeding out on the battlefield, dying of his injuries, while the raven waited for his demise. Not only scavengers of the dead, ravens were also said to lead the soul to the afterworld. Brynnan reflected on his own role as spirit guide.

The door from the antechamber opened, and Rhydian stepped in. He also wore a silk robe. His red braids were still damp from bathing. He stood and listened quietly. Then he crossed to the bed and sat. The music wrapped around them both. Brynnan turned to Rhydian as he played, an invitation in his eyes. Then he played the closing phrase and the last lingering high note denoting the warrior’s surrender to the raven and to death.

 Rhydian waited patiently, unspeaking, while Brynnan put away his harp. Then he turned and approached the Bard. Kneeling before him, Rhydian placed his hand on the Bard’s cock over the silk robe and looked up. Brynnan dipped his head in acknowledgement, and Rhydian opened the robe, exposing the Bard’s stiffening shaft. He lightly stroked the smooth skin, running his fingers down to the head and then down to Brynnan’s balls, where the skin of his sac tightened over the swelling testicles in response. Brynnan breathed slowly and deeply, accepting the touch.

Cupping the testicles in one hand while holding the Bard’s cock in the other, Rhydian leaned in and began to lick and suck. He took it all down to the root and began to work his mouth back and forth. Brynnan touched the King’s head lightly and surrendered to the sensations. Letting time flow as it would, he felt his orgasm building. With a long sigh, he ejaculated into Rhydian’s throat.

“Lie down, my friend,” he said to Rhydian afterwards, “and let me take your cum. We must keep the balance of power, after all.” He smiled as he followed the King onto the bed. Rhydian stretched out on his back, opening his robe fully and presenting his naked body to his counterpart, the Winter King. Brynnan revelled in the feel of Rhydian’s hard muscles and the light covering of red-gold body hair. He moved down to the stiff rod of the man’s cock and took it in his mouth. Thus King sucked King until Rhydian came with a low moan and shuddered as he ejaculated. Brynnan briefly released the cock from his mouth to watch the creamy cum spill over the head before sucking it all in, being gentle this time. Rhydian clenched his hands in Brynnan’s hair. Afterwards, they lay together for a time, occasionally kissing each other.

“How are you feeling now, my brother?” asked Rhydian. “I was concerned for you in the hunt today.”

“I am reconciled,” said the Bard, and Rhydian looked puzzled.

“It was both a memory and a realization of what was to be. Don’t worry; we Ruithin get those feelings occasionally.”

“A foretelling? Something you see that will happen?”

“Something I hoped would not be. But the Lord of the Wood will look after his own.”

“I pray that he will. This should be a time of celebration, not doom. But I will leave you to rest awhile now lest I be tempted to love you more. I will not be far – call on me if you need me.”

“You are a good man, my Lord King,” Brynnan replied.

*    *    *

The nobles and warriors of the court exhibited high humour at the evening’s feast. The buzz of talk and laughter filled the air. Brynnan made an effort to be gracious and sociable to his companions. Again, Kian-Hen sat at his left hand, but to counterbalance this, Brynnan requested of Queen Eirlys that Geraint and Nijal be seated across from him. They could not talk openly in front of the Ruithin counsellor, but their mere presence reassured the Bard.

Geraint addressed Kian-Hen, “Lord, what will happen to Bry–, to our Winter King this night?”

“You are his guardian, are you not? His faithful companion?”  Somehow, Kian-Hen’s tone managed to sound condescending.

Geraint was not deterred. “Yes, we guard him and are faithful. Is that not to your liking, Lord?”

“No, indeed; a King should have his faithful companions. I am sure you will guard him well.” There seemed to be laughter in the Ruithin’s eyes.

Geraint took up the challenge. “Many have underestimated us, to their cost. I trust you will also guard the King in your lofty position as counsellor and Ruithin mage – both Kings.”

“They are both in my keeping, Warrior.”

Geraint could not miss the double meaning, but he chose not to be provoked. ‘We shall see,’ he thought.

“But to answer your question, the Winter King spends the night alone in meditation for the morning sacrifice and ceremony, then he gives back the Kingship to the new Summer King – our Lord Rhydian.”

The feast continued until Brynnan stood and addressed the court. “Now is the time I must withdraw from your company, fair nobles. It is time for me to stand vigil this night. I wish you all the grace of the Winter King and the Huntsman that we spare your families and your beasts and that you all will prosper in the coming year as the days once again grow longer. I bid you attend me in the dawn when we offer the Winter Sacrifice at the great oak tree.” With that, Brynnan stepped away and, followed by Andri, left the hall.

In the King’s chamber, Andri stretched out on the bed and watched Brynnan as he changed from light feasting robes into warmer clothing. “Must you go out alone, Brynnan? I don’t like it.”

“Yes, alone, lad. I will be at the oak grove, and it will be guarded by its keeper, Kian-Hen. Any intruders will be put to death. This is an ancient lore that is apparently still followed here. We must respect it for now.”

“But you will be at risk!”

“Perhaps. But just before dawn, the people will gather to witness the sacrifice of the stag. You and Geraint and Nijal must come as early as is allowed. Come armed for hunting because there will be a ride afterwards to greet the new sun. That’s all we can do, but be assured I will be on my guard.”

Andri was reluctant, but he embraced Brynnan. “Until then, I will lie here and wait with you.”

Presently, Andri fell asleep. Brynnan brooded. He had eaten scarcely anything at the feast, but he had a cup of wine now. Then he heard a tapping at the window. A fluttering shadow was barely visible through the stained glass. He opened the window, and the white raven was there. It hopped onto his shoulder and gave its bell-like call of greeting, followed by a croak.

‘I am summoned,’ thought the Bard.

“Tell Kian-Hen I am coming,” he told the raven and cast the bird back into the air. It croaked once and flew away towards the tower.

Brynnan leaned down and lightly kissed the sleeping Andri. Then he cloaked himself with the King’s red cloak and slipped away. The halls were strangely empty of servants or guards, and the Bard reached the tower door without incident. He climbed the winding steps, past three levels, until he reached the top. Entering the door, he faced Kian-Hen.

The Ruithin mage sat in a high-backed chair, his white robes covered by a black, ermine-trimmed cloak. The Ancient One rested his chin on his fist and stared at Brynnan. His white raven perched on the back of the chair and bobbed its head at the Bard.

“You arrived quickly. Bronwen is a good messenger. You did not bring your harp?”

“I have no need of her in the wood. She is safe in the King’s chamber.”

“Perhaps,” said Kian-Hen.” He rose from the chair and poured two goblets of wine, bringing one to Brynnan. “Drink, O King of Winter.”

“And King of the Dead. Will Arawn ride tonight on his wild hunt, my Lord Ruithin?”

Kian-Hen laughed without humour. “That King. I have sought to serve him, but he will have none of me.”

Brynnan was surprised at the mage’s unaccustomed frankness of speech. He took a sip of the golden wine and paused. “Do you really need to drug me, Lord?”

Kian-Hen shrugged, “One can but try. You seem to resist my potions. I wonder how? And I am disappointed you did not bring your harp, Marec Mavrenn – you who are dedicated to Mavrenn. But no matter. Soon she will have a new servant - or, rather, master. One who knows how to use her power to the fullest.”

“You will never play her.”

“Prophecy?” Kian-Hen smiled crookedly.

“Maybe. But she will not sound for one who has violated his oaths.”

“That old superstition! I have my ways. If necessary, I will cut the harp strings and replace them. People will not know the difference. Her mere appearance will awe them and lend further authority to my power.”

Brynnan shook his head. “Your hubris astounds me, Ancient One. When one involves the Gods, as you have done, all bets are off.”

“Gods! Demons! Powers of Dark and Light! All nonsense, of course. The only power is in a man’s mind, and I had developed mine for countless years before you were born, Brynnan. Even now, you are under my influence.”

It was true that the Bard felt a lassitude as if it were easier to obey Kian-Hen than to fight and to agree with all his arguments. But he also thought of his encounters with the Angel of Death and knew that the old powers truly existed. The Ancient One would ignore them at his peril.

“But now, let us go to the grove. You must… stand… vigil for the night.” Kian-Hen chuckled as at a private joke.

He stood up abruptly. He lightly touched the Bard’s arm, then took his staff and his bag. Thrusting a long, curved knife in his belt.  “Follow me,” he commanded.

They passed through the keep and outside into the night. The dapple grey mare Rhiannon and Kian-Hen’s white horse were tied to a post by the stables. The raven, Branwen, came winging out of the night and settled on the mage’s shoulder as he sat on his horse, waiting for Brynnan to mount. They rode down the winding road and past the gates, which two guards opened. Everywhere seemed unusually deserted, but Brynnan knew that on this longest night, people remained indoors.

They branched from the main road and followed the forest path, reaching the grove where the giant oak stood. Brown leaves still clung to its mighty branches. It was here that Brynnan would keep watch and here also that the stag would be ritually slain the following morning. Brynnan was now more aware that he was under some powerful compulsion, but whenever he thought about resisting, his thoughts would flow away from him.

Kian-Hen dismounted under the great oak and placed a white orb on a rock. Brynnan slipped from Rhiannon’s back, and the horse moved into the shadow of the trees. The mage stood before him and placed the palm of his hand on Brynnan’s head, and the Bard fell into the snow. He couldn’t move.

The Ancient One removed Brynnan’s cloak, then he took a rope from the bag he had brought and bound the Bard’s hands behind his back. Next, he tied another rope to Brynnan’s ankle, making many turns around it to distribute the pressure. He fastened his other ankle behind the opposite knee. He hummed as he worked.

He straightened up, putting his hands on his hips and regarded the Bard. “That will do, I think. One more thing….”

Kian-Hen tossed the dead end of the rope over a branch of the oak, then led it around a young birch growing close, wrapping it twice. He pulled hard on the rope just before it wrapped around the birch, then took up the slack from behind, friction on the young tree holding the strain. He continued in the jerk-tugs until his victim hung in the air, suspended between heaven and earth, then he tied off the rope.

“There. Now I will leave you alone to commune with the forest. Your vigil will be long and cold. In the morning, we will sacrifice the stag together. If you had succumbed to my potions, you would not now be aware of what I am doing – a small mercy I would have granted you. Now you will suffer, unfortunately. But it is said that one acquires wisdom through suffering. I trust you will gain much wisdom.”

Kian-Hen turned, picked up the orb, and began to walk away. He raised his arm for his raven to come, but the bird had other ideas. It stayed perched in the oak tree, bobbed its head and cawed, the harsh noise piercing the windless night.

The mage turned one last time to Brynnan. “It seems that my Branwen would rather keep vigil with you. Pray to the Forest God that she doesn’t take out your eyes before it is time.”

Brynnan could not reply. He felt utterly passive and accepting – and the thought came to him that it was more than Kian-Hen’s cruel machinations at work. Now darkness and stars surrounded him, and he wondered what the remainder of the night would bring.

*    *    *