Hafgan reached out and tapped Elphin’s gold tore with a finger. “Lieu himself has proclaimed it. But we must look further ahead than that.”

“Further ahead? What are you talking about?”

“The child. Taliesin.”

“What about him?”

“He will be a bard.”

“So you have said.”

“A bard must be trained.”

Elphin stared at the druid as if he had lost his mind. “He is but a babe!”

Hafgan closed his eyes. “I am aware of that. He must begin his training when the times comes, as it soon will.”

“I still cannot see what you want from me.”

“Your word: that you will give the child to me-when the time comes.”

Elphin hesitated. “Where will you take him?”

“There will be no need to take him anywhere. He will stay here at Caer Dyvi for the most part. In fact, he can remain in your house if you choose. But I must be given charge of his learning.”

“This is important?”

The druid looked at him levelly. “Vitally important.”

“Very well, I agree. And I will talk to Rhonwyn too. She can have no objection-except that she may come in time to fancy kingship for Taliesin, and might prefer it.”

Hafgan rose slowly. “Tell her this: Taliesin may well be a king one day, but he will be a bard first and last. And that is how he will be remembered-as the greatest bard who ever lived.”

Elphin considered this for a moment and said, “You can have my son, Hafgan. You have my word, for I see that your interest is not for yourself alone, but for the people.”

“Well said, Lord Elphin,” replied the druid.

Just then there came the sound of hammering. Elphin looked back toward his house where Cuail, having prepared the heads of the two raiders slain by Elphin’s spear by dipping them in cedar oil, was now nailing them to the doorposts of his nearly-finished house. “This is a warrior’s house,” he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Now everyone will know it.”

“A warrior’s house,” muttered Elphin, shaking his head. “It was luck, not a warrior’s skill that felled those two.”

“Do not mock the faith of simple men,” replied Hafgan. “Luck in battle is a thing of power, for whatever men Believe they will follow.” He paused and pointed at Cuall. “I spoke of the future. There is yours.”

“Cuall?”

“And men like him. A battlechief must have a warband.”

“A warband! Hafgan, we have not maintained a warband since before my grandfather was a boy. With the garrison at Caer Seiont there has been no need.”

“Times change, Elphin. Needs change.”

“How will I raise a warband?”

The druid frowned at his shortsightedness. “You have six cantrefs, lad! What good is being king if you cannot raise a respectable warband from six cantrefs?”

“But I am not the king. My father is the king.”

“Not much longer. And when I have finished your song, men will come to you to pledge their arms and lives. You will have your warband.”

“And you, Hafgan, what will you have?”

“A name.”

“A name-nothing else?”

“There is nothing else.”

The druid turned and walked away. Elphin watched him go, and then went back to inspect his house. Cuall was lingering nearby, and Elphin realized with some surprise that the man waited for a look or sign of recognition from him. He stopped and studied the heads nailed to his doorposts and then directed his gaze to Cuall.

“I am honored by your thoughtfulness,” he said and watched a huge grin break like sunrise across Cuall’s crag of a face.

“A man should have renown among his people.”

“You have earned the hero’s portion often enough yourself, Cuall. And I have heard your name lauded around the feast table more times than I can count.”

Elphin was amazed at the impact of his words. The hulking Cuall grinned foolishly, and his cheeks colored like a maid’s when her clumsy flirtation is discovered.

“I would fight at your side anytime,” said Cuall earnestly.

“I am going to raise a warband, Cuall. I will need your help.”

“My life is yours, Sire.” Cuall touched his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I accept your service,” Elphin replied seriously. The two men gazed at one another and Cuall stepped close, taking Elphin in a fierce hug. Then, suddenly embarrassed, he turned and hurried away.

“You will make a good king.”

Elphin turned to see Rhonwyn watching him from the doorway. “You saw?”

She nodded. “I saw a future lord winning support. More, I saw a man putting aside the hurt of the past and reconciling a former enemy, raising him to friendship without rancor or guile.”

“It is not in me to hurt him. Besides, he is the best warrior in the clan. I will need his help.”

“And that is why you will be a good king. Small men do not hesitate to repay hurt for hurt.”

“All this talk of kings and warbands…” He shook his head in wonder. “I never dreamed…”

Rhonwyn moved close and put her hand to his cheek. “Dreams, Elphin, why speak of dreams? Wake and look around you. Is this a dream?” She touched the golden tore. “Am I?”

“You are,” replied Elphin and laughed, clasping her around the waist. “No man ever had such a beautiful wife.”

A baby’s cry sounded within. Rhonwyn wriggled from Elphin’s grasp and disappeared inside, returning a moment later with Taliesin in her arms. “See your father, little one?” She held the child up to gaze into Elphin’s face. Elphin reached out a finger and tickled the babe under the chin to make him smile.

Taliesin’s eyes fixed on the gold at his father’s throat, reached out a tiny hand, and grabbed the bear’s head on the end of Elphin’s bright tore. “This is too big for you now,” said Elphin. “But one day you will grow into it, never fear.”

“How beautiful he is,” murmured Rhonwyn, her eyes lit with love for the child. ‘ ‘And the way he looks at me sometimes-so wise, as if he knows what I am thinking. Or as if he wants to speak to me. I believe he is trying to tell me something.”

“Hafgan Believes him charmed as well.” Elphin took the tiny hand in his. “I have agreed to let him teach the boy. Taliesin will remain with us, but Hafgan will be charged with his learning. Think of it, both king and bard in the same house!”

The tribune of the Roman garrison at Caer Seiont rode into Caer Dyvi a few days later to speak to Gwyddno Garanhir. He wore a well-used leather breastplate and carried a gladius, the short sword of the legionary at the end of his baldric. Otherwise he rode unprotected. He was not a large man, but his easy authority gave him stature. His glance was quick and his manner decisive; he was not a man to give an order twice. Yet years of command in the furthest, most nearly forgotten outpost of the empire had blunted the sharp military edge he had acquired in Caesar’s army. With him was a young man with black, curly hair and hungry black eyes under thick black brows.

They approached from the north along the narrow sea trail, circled around, and rode up the track to the gate at the rear of the caer, where they stopped and waited for someone to notice them. ‘ ‘Tribune Avitus of Legio Twenty Valeria to see Lord Gwyddno,” the officer shouted at the first face to appear.

The gate was opened, and the soldiers rode directly to Gwyddno’s house and waited for Gwyddno to appear.

“Hail, Lord Gwyddno!” called Avitus, climbing down from his horse. He nodded to the young man with him, who also Dismounted.Gwyddno gestured and two men came forward to lead the horses away. “You have ridden far,” said Gwyddno amiably-much more amiably than he felt. “Come in and refresh yourselves.”

“I accept your hospitality,” replied the tribune.

The three entered the house and Medhir scurried about, setting cups before each of them, and plates of bread and fruit. When they had toasted one another and offered a splash to the gods, they drank and the cups were refilled. The young man reached for his cup a second time, but his superior frowned and he withdrew the hand.