the Chiefs and Captains of the tribe were gathered.
Phaedrus, standing alone at the huge rock-daubed feet of the God, saw them only as thickened shadows, lit here and there with the blink of bronze or gold, here and there with the life-spark of an eye. The shadows, that had had deep-murmuring voices before his coming, had fallen silent, even the wind had ceased for a moment its drumming on the entrance skins; only the sea pitching on the rocky foreshore still boomed and roared, flinging its echoes about the cave.
Then Gault, standing with his knot of household warriors a spear’s length to one side, cried out in a voice which leaped back from the rock walls with the rough ring of war horns, ‘Here he is, then! Here is the Prince Midir, your true Horse Lord, whom the woman Liadhan would have slain, seven winters ago!’
And among the crowding shadows below the fire there was a stirring and an indrawn breath that was almost a sob.
Then a voice shouted back, ‘What proof can you give us that this is indeed Midir, and not some other with the look of him?’
‘What is proof to do with myself or with Sinnoch the Merchant? We have found and brought to you the Prince Midir. The proof is for him to give, if it’s more than the sight of your own eyes you’re needing!’
‘Let him give it, then!’
Phaedrus put his hands to the circlet of braided gold wires that pressed low on his temples, and lifted it off and flung it down ringing on the rock floor at his feet, baring his forehead to the torches. ‘Here is your proof! Come closer and look!’
A formless smother of voices answered him, lost in the boom of the storm-wind as it swooped back, and the shadows parted and came crowding up past the fire, taking on the substance of living men as the flaring torchlight met them. An oldish man whose hair showed brindled as a badger’s pelt, thrust out from the rest; his voice, deep and glad, crashed through the bell-booming of the storm. ‘Midir! It is Midir, after all these years!’
‘Seven years,’ Phaedrus said, and reached out to him, the gold and copper arm-rings clashing on his wrists. ‘It is good that they are over and I come back again!’
But the doubt lingered in some of them. A tattoo mark could, after all, be copied, and they had learned caution under Liadhan’s rule. ‘You do not speak like us,’ someone called from the heart of the throng.
And Phaedrus dropped his hands and turned on him. ‘Set a wolf-cub among the hound-pack, and he’ll learn to bark like a dog. Great Gods, man, I have been seven years in the South!’
Then another spoke up. ‘Why did you not come back before?’
‘Why does the mare not foal before she is mated, or the bramble ripen before the flower falls? What would have happened if I had come creeping to your hunting fires one night, or worse still, burst in upon you shouting war-cries, before the time was ripe? Before you called me back? I heard no man call till now.’
‘We did not know that you yet lived.’
And somewhere out of the knot of warriors a third voice rose, with others in support: ‘How does it happen that you did not drown as we were told? Tell us what passed that night and after.’
The drumming of the wind about the cave mouth filled the expectant hush, but Phaedrus had a sense of silence. He had known that this would come, and come again and again; he had his story ready, so familiar that it seemed part of his own memory; but suddenly, every nerve on the stretch, he knew that this first time, he must not tell it; that to tell in answer to a shouted demand would not have been Midir’s way.
His head was up and his hand caressing his dagger. He laughed a little, but without mirth. ‘Ach now, did they not tell you that tale when they summoned you here? Did the messengers only whisper in your ear, “Midir is back from the slain! Come!” and you came, asking no question?’
‘We would hear it from yourself, Midir.’
‘Would you so?’ Phaedrus looked
Phaedrus, standing alone at the huge rock-daubed feet of the God, saw them only as thickened shadows, lit here and there with the blink of bronze or gold, here and there with the life-spark of an eye. The shadows, that had had deep-murmuring voices before his coming, had fallen silent, even the wind had ceased for a moment its drumming on the entrance skins; only the sea pitching on the rocky foreshore still boomed and roared, flinging its echoes about the cave.
Then Gault, standing with his knot of household warriors a spear’s length to one side, cried out in a voice which leaped back from the rock walls with the rough ring of war horns, ‘Here he is, then! Here is the Prince Midir, your true Horse Lord, whom the woman Liadhan would have slain, seven winters ago!’
And among the crowding shadows below the fire there was a stirring and an indrawn breath that was almost a sob.
Then a voice shouted back, ‘What proof can you give us that this is indeed Midir, and not some other with the look of him?’
‘What is proof to do with myself or with Sinnoch the Merchant? We have found and brought to you the Prince Midir. The proof is for him to give, if it’s more than the sight of your own eyes you’re needing!’
‘Let him give it, then!’
Phaedrus put his hands to the circlet of braided gold wires that pressed low on his temples, and lifted it off and flung it down ringing on the rock floor at his feet, baring his forehead to the torches. ‘Here is your proof! Come closer and look!’
A formless smother of voices answered him, lost in the boom of the storm-wind as it swooped back, and the shadows parted and came crowding up past the fire, taking on the substance of living men as the flaring torchlight met them. An oldish man whose hair showed brindled as a badger’s pelt, thrust out from the rest; his voice, deep and glad, crashed through the bell-booming of the storm. ‘Midir! It is Midir, after all these years!’
‘Seven years,’ Phaedrus said, and reached out to him, the gold and copper arm-rings clashing on his wrists. ‘It is good that they are over and I come back again!’
But the doubt lingered in some of them. A tattoo mark could, after all, be copied, and they had learned caution under Liadhan’s rule. ‘You do not speak like us,’ someone called from the heart of the throng.
And Phaedrus dropped his hands and turned on him. ‘Set a wolf-cub among the hound-pack, and he’ll learn to bark like a dog. Great Gods, man, I have been seven years in the South!’
Then another spoke up. ‘Why did you not come back before?’
‘Why does the mare not foal before she is mated, or the bramble ripen before the flower falls? What would have happened if I had come creeping to your hunting fires one night, or worse still, burst in upon you shouting war-cries, before the time was ripe? Before you called me back? I heard no man call till now.’
‘We did not know that you yet lived.’
And somewhere out of the knot of warriors a third voice rose, with others in support: ‘How does it happen that you did not drown as we were told? Tell us what passed that night and after.’
The drumming of the wind about the cave mouth filled the expectant hush, but Phaedrus had a sense of silence. He had known that this would come, and come again and again; he had his story ready, so familiar that it seemed part of his own memory; but suddenly, every nerve on the stretch, he knew that this first time, he must not tell it; that to tell in answer to a shouted demand would not have been Midir’s way.
His head was up and his hand caressing his dagger. He laughed a little, but without mirth. ‘Ach now, did they not tell you that tale when they summoned you here? Did the messengers only whisper in your ear, “Midir is back from the slain! Come!” and you came, asking no question?’
‘We would hear it from yourself, Midir.’
‘Would you so?’ Phaedrus looked
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