Free The Silver Hand by Stephen Lawhead Page A

sunlight—it is like nowhere else.”
    Boru went before us into the hall, throwing aside the oxhide covering the doorway and calling loudly. It was not Scatha who answered, however, but Goewyn, her golden-haired daughter. She rose from her seat at the hearth, surprise giving way to pleasure as she hastened to welcome us.
    â€œWelcome, Tegid. It is good to see you. It seems an age since you left here, yet it is but one season.”
    She turned politely to Llew. Her smile faltered as her eyes played over his features.
    â€œGoewyn . . . I—” Llew began.
    At the sound of her name on his tongue, she said, “Llyd?”
    He nodded. She stepped hesitantly nearer, raising her hands to touch him but holding back.
    â€œLlyd he was,” I explained, “but no longer. The man you see before you is now named Llew, and he is king of Prydain.”
    â€œIs this so?” Goewyn’s eyes grew wide. “A king?”
    â€œIt was Tegid’s doing,” Llew admitted. “It is a long story.”
    â€œThat is a tale I want to hear! King of Prydain?” Boru hooted in genuine surprise. “Who would have guessed it?”
    â€œYou have changed,” Goewyn said softly. “And in more than name only. You are not the same man who left here only a season ago.” She lifted a hand to touch his hair, his face. Then, as if reassured that the man standing before her was the one she remembered, she embraced him. “I have missed you.”
    This last was said to Llew alone—truly, the welcome in her soft brown eyes was for him alone. I saw how easily she gave herself to him, and knew that through the dark, snow-plundered days of Sollen, she had carried a glowing ember within her heart. This ember kindled a flame the moment she embraced Llew, and it began burning brightly from that moment.
    And why not? They knew each other well. Llew had spent seven years on the island: training as a warrior through three seasons of the year, and resting during the cold fourth season— taking his ease with Scatha’s three beautiful daughters, each of whom returned to winter on Ynys Sci when most of the warriors-in-training had gone home to clan and kin.
    Obedient to Meldryn Mawr’s command, however, Llew had not returned to Sycharth, but spent the wild, cold Sollen seasons on Sci with those few whose privilege it was to remain in that bright company.
    I turned to Boru. “How many warriors are here?”
    â€œSixteen,” he replied. “They have gone hunting on the far side of the island and will not return until they have run the legs off their horses. No others have arrived yet.”
    â€œWhere is Scatha?”
    â€œShe is riding,” Goewyn replied. Remembering her courtesy, she moved away quickly. “You are tired from your journey. Sit, please, and rest. I will bring food and drink.”
    She hastened away, and Llew watched her until she disappeared from sight behind a screen at the far end of the hall. “It is good to be here. I feel as if I have been away forever.”
    â€œSit, brothers,” said Boru, drawing together chairs for us. He lowered himself into a seat and folded his long arms over his chest. “What tidings from Meldryn Mawr? Where are your warrior-cubs?” he asked, beaming at us.
    I wondered at this. Could it be that those on the island knew nothing of what had passed in the world beyond their shores?
    â€œWhat have you heard from Prydain?” I asked, taking my place.
    â€œNot a whit; not a whistle,” Boru answered. “But that is not surprising. The sea froze between Sci and the mainland this year. I have never seen it so cold—I thought it would never end.”
    Just then Goewyn reappeared, with Govan fairly dancing behind her. Sisters they were, but as unlike as two women may be. Goewyn’s hair was golden and fine as flax, her skin fair and white; Govan’s hair was tawny and her skin deep hued, as if