Free The Silver Hand by Stephen Lawhead Page B

kissed by the sun. Govan’s eyes were blue where her sister’s were brown. And whereas Goewyn was tall and elegantly graceful, Govan was nimble, lithe—a delight in motion. She was rarely quiet, and never still. Wherever Govan was there was laughter—or tears, it is true—but seldom silence.
    Accordingly, they came laughing into our presence. Govan approached Llew directly. She raised wide eyes to meet his, searching his face, fascinated by the change she saw there. “Llyd?” she whispered in a voice made small by awe. “What has happened to you?”
    â€œIt was a hard winter,” Llew replied.
    â€œMy sister told me you were changed, but . . .” Delighted by the alteration in Llew’s appearance she laughed, letting the words go.
    â€œIt is good to see you too, Govan,” Llew replied.
    â€œYou were ever welcome here,” Govan told him, suddenly solemn— suppressed laughter tugged at the corners of her mouth. “And you shall be no less welcome now that you are a king.”
    We heard the hollow sound of hoofbeats outside and, almost before they ceased, she was there—Scatha, clothed in a scarlet cloak and mantle, with a girdle of plum purple. Her long, golden hair was unbound and wind-tossed from her ride. Her cheeks glowed with her exertion, and she entered the hall with eyes alight, for she had seen our boat on the beach and knew she had guests to welcome.
    â€œTegid!” she called upon entering. “Greetings and welcome to you.” She turned to Llew. “And to you also—” Scatha hesitated, stepping closer and scrutinizing Llew carefully. “Llyd? Is it you?”
    â€œI have returned, Pen-y-Cat,” he answered, using the informal title which her warrior pupils bestowed upon her: Chief of Battle.
    â€œCome to me, son of mine,” she said. All who had mastered their skills in her hard school she recognized as her sons.
    Llew stepped before her. She placed her hands upon his shoulders and gazed long into his eyes. “Yes, it is Llyd,” she said and, leaning close, kissed him on both cheeks. “Welcome, my son.”
    â€œI am called Llew now,” he told her simply.
    â€œAnd he is a king!” added Govan.
    â€œIs he indeed?” Scatha asked, regarding Llew placidly. “This is a tale I will hear gladly.” At that moment, servants entered with platters of bread and cold meat and jars of beer. “Build up the fire and fill the cups,” Scatha called to them. Turning to me, she said, “And you, Tegid Tathal, will tell us how this remarkable thing has come about.”
    â€œAt last!” said Boru. “And here was I, thinking he had swallowed his tongue.”
    Just then Gwenllian, Scatha’s first daughter, entered the hall. She had been riding with her mother and had seen the horses stabled before coming in. She now joined us, calling a greeting as she glanced quickly from one to the other of us.
    Upon seeing Llew, she froze in midstep.
    The smile of welcome vanished from her face, and her body grew rigid. I thought she might swoon, for she swayed on her feet—but her eyes remained bright and alert. We all fell silent, watching her. “Hail, Llew, I greet you,” she breathed in almost silent recognition, her eyes playing over his features. “You have come at last.”
    I did not wonder at this odd greeting, for it was Gwenllian whose emerald eyes had first glimpsed the shape of the dire events which had come to pass in Albion. And flame-haired Gwenllian it was who bestowed the prophecy upon Llyd from which he had taken his new name. Seeing him now, wise Banfáith that she was, she recognized him despite his altered appearance, or it may be because of it.
    The moment passed, and Gwenllian went to him; she pressed his hand and kissed his cheek by way of greeting. Scatha watched this exchange, her features sharp with interest. And even as her daughter stepped