Work on Elphin’s timber hall proceeded at a brisk pace. Within a week of the warband’s return, the tranquillity of the hilltop caer was a memory. Every morning at dawn when the gates were opened, scores of men with shining axes trooped out to the forest and soon the first of the logs were being dragged back up the incline behind a team of horses- an activity which continued until dusk. With a hundred pairs of hands to cut, dress, and drag the logs from the nearby forest, to manhandle them into place, to wedge, peg, and fit them together one on another, joining them to the huge timber uprights with rawhide thongs, the stout walls grew higher with each passing day.

For the necessary ironwork Elphin wooed and won a smith, giving him cattle and a patch of land on the river for his forge. From early morning and on into the night the clang of the smith’s hammer could be heard ringing through the woods along the river, answered by the chunk, chunk, chink of the woodcutters’ axes. Those not directly involved with the building of the hall were put to work enlarging the caer itself: digging a new outer ditch and refilling a portion of the old ditch so that the outer walls could be expanded.

Over all this industry, surrounding it, permeating it like a seasoning vapor, wafted the aroma of roasting meat and baking bread as the women turned spit and tended oven in an effort to feed the hungry builders. Meal bags full of apples, mounds of meat, mountains of bread, and whole wheels of cheese disappeared as soon as they were laid on the board, washed down by frothy rivers of beer and mead.

Liberally sown through the bustle and fuss, sprinkled like glittering dew or bright nuggets of gemstone, was the laughter of children. The enormity of the task, the grandness of the enterprise fascinated the younger inhabitants of Caer Dyvi, who encouraged it with squeals of delight at the wonders practiced before them. Their tireless good cheer lightened the load for their elders, and the picture of a workman standing over a child, hand lightly over the small hand beneath his own, guiding the tool, was a scene often observed throughout the caer. Though the work was hard, the high spirits and good humor of all concerned made it seem sometimes as if the walls were raised by laughter alone, as by childish enchantment.

Taliesin was no less caught up in the spell than the rest. He was everywhere, dodging roof beams as they swung through the air, riding the logs as they came up the incline, dipping his fingers into the caldron for a bit of meat, snatching an apple from a bag or filching a piece of cheese, creeping to the doorway of the dark hut on the river to hear the wheeze and whoosh of the Bellows and see the red fireglow on the black, glistening brow of the smith-descendant of Gofannon, god of the fiery forge-running along the log trail with the other boys to bring water and beer to thirsty woodcutters…

The days were good, and despite the long hours of labor it was a glad time for the people of Caer Dyvi. Elphin was a leader and a helper to his men-as often as not stripped to the waist, as they were, hair bound in a thick braid, hammer in hand astride a log newly raised to the wall, dripping sweat in the sun. This was how Hafgan found him one afternoon several weeks after Cormach’s visit.

“Hail, Hafgan, Henog of Gwynedd!” Elphin called down to him. The autumn sun was hot and bright, the sky deep autumn blue. He paused in his work to survey the scene, pride lighting his eyes as he drew an arm across his forehead. “What do you think, bard? Will the weather hold till we get a roof on?”

“The weather will hold, lord,” replied the druid, casting a critical eye to the sky.

“Then, by Lieu, we will have a hall before Samhain.”

“I think you will.” Hafgan stood, gazing up at Elphin, shading his eyes with his hand.

“Something else, Hafgan?” asked the king.

“A word, Lord Elphin.”

Elphin nodded and put down his hammer. He climbed down the birch ladder and came to where Hafgan was standing. “What is it, Hafgan?”

“Cormach has died. I must go bury him.”

Elphin nodded amiably. “I see. Yes, go.”

“I wish Taliesin to come with me.”

Elphin pulled on his mustache. “Is it necessary?”

Hafgan shrugged. “It would be instructive.”

“Would you be away long?”

“Two days, maybe three.”

“I suppose,” Elphin mused, “there is no harm in it.” Hafgan said nothing but merely stood silently by, allowing the king to make up his own mind. “Well, he can go if you like,” Elphin said and made to turn away. “I will tell his mother.”

“Thank you, lord,” replied Hafgan with a curious little bow.

Elphin saw the bow and turned back. “Thank you, Hafgan.”

“Lord?”

“You show me respect.”

“Have I ever shown you disrespect, lord?”

“You of all people know me for what I am-yet you have never Belittled me. For that, I thank you. Further, I know you could take Taliesin whenever you chose to, yet you come to me and ask. For that I thank you too.”

“Lord Elphin, it is because I know you for what you are that I have never Belittled you. And as to this other-how could I ever take something that was not mine to take?” He touched the back of his hand to his forehead. “Do not fear the time of testing, for you have mastered your strengths and your weaknesses. You will live long, my king, and will be forever remembered for the goodness of your heart and the wisdom of your reign.”

“Flattery?” Elphin smiled uneasily.

“Truth,” replied the draid.

Hafgan, Taliesin, and Blaise departed the next day. Ordinarily Taliesin would have welcomed the journey, but as it meant he would miss out on the work of the hall, he was less than happy about leaving. He did not voice any misgiving to Hafgan, and although the druid noticed the slump of the lad’s shoulders and his dragging heels and knew what the problem was, he said nothing. Disappointment, however slight, was a reality of life to be dealt with, and Taliesin was learning.

“What is the color of summer?” asked Blaise after a while. They were following a well-used forest track, heading north and west to Dolgellau where they would join the other druids gathering to bear Cormach’s body to the cromlech on the hill Below Garth Greggyn. The three strode along the wooded track, Hafgan with his new rowan staif, Blaise with his staif of elm, and Taliesin with his willow staff, impatiently whipping the supple wand at branches along the path.

“Huh?” Taliesin swiveled around.

“The color of summer,” repeated Blaise. “What is it?”

The boy thought for a moment. “It is-hmmm… gold!” he declared triumphantly.

“You mean green, do you not, Taliesin? I think autumn should be gold.”

“No,” replied Taliesin. “Autumn is gray.”

“Gray?” Blaise shook his head in bewilderment. “The things you say, Taliesin. What do you think, Hafgan?”

The druid did not answer. “What color is spring, Taliesin?”

“White.”

“And winter? What color?”

“Winter is black.”

Blaise laughed. “Summer is the only season of color in your world, Taliesin. Do you realize that?”

“Of course,” he answered without hesitation, swinging the willow wand easily. “That is why I am going to be King of the Summer and my realm will be known as the Kingdom of Summer. While I am king there will be no winter, no autumn, and no spring.”

“Only summer?” said Blaise suddenly serious. He had caught the wistful note in the boy’s voice and had stopped laughing.

“Only summer. There will be no darkness and no dying, and the land will flow with all good things.” Taliesin became quiet then and said no more. The three walked on in silence, listening to the woodland sounds.

They reached the settlement by midday. Dolgellau lay in a shallow, wooded valley beside a fresh cold-water stream. It had no gates, no walls, or earthwork defenses, but relied on seclusion and the strength of its neighbors for safety. The people welcomed them cordially, for Cormach had served them long and well as bard, counselor, prophet, and physician. The fain chief saw Hafgan’s staff and hastened to meet him. “We made a bier for him,” he said. “Bard told us to hew it out of new hawthorn.”