Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [307]
“Would that my voice had grown sweeter as I grew old,” said Viviane good-humoredly, “but the Dark Mother has not willed it so. Only her immortal children sing more sweetly as the years grow longer. May My Lady never sing less beautifully than now.”
“Are you fond of music, master Gwydion? Have you learned anything of the harp?”
“I have not a harp to play,” said Gwydion. “Coll, who is the only harper at court, has now such stiff fingers that he seldom touches the strings. We have had no music for two years now. I play a little upon the small pipe, though, and Aran—he that was Lot’s piper at war—taught me to play a little upon the pipe of elk-horn . . . it hangs yonder. He went with King Lot to Mount Badon, and like Lot, he came not back.”
“Bring me the pipe,” said Kevin, and when Gwydion brought it from where it hung on the wall, he rubbed it clean with a cloth, blew the dust from inside it, then put it to his lips and set his twisted fingers to the neat row of holes bored in the horn. He played a little dancing tune, then set it aside, saying, “I have small skill for this—my fingers are not quick enough. Well, Gwydion, if you love music, they will teach you at Avalon—let me hear you play a little upon this horn.”
Gwydion’s mouth was dry—Morgause saw him wet his lips with his tongue—but he took the wood-and-horn thing in his hands and blew carefully into it. Then he began to play a slow melody, and Kevin, after a moment, nodded.
“That will do,” he said. “You are Morgaine’s son, after all—it would be strange if you had no gift at all. We may be able to teach you much. You may have the makings of a bard, but more likely of a priest and Druid.”
Gwydion blinked and almost let the pipe fall from his hand; he caught it in the skirt of his tunic.
“Of a bard—what do you mean? Tell me clear!”
Viviane looked straight at him, “It is the appointed time, Gwydion. You are Druid-born, and of two royal lines. You are to be given the ancient teachings and the secret wisdom in Avalon, that one day you may bear the dragon.”
He swallowed—Morgause could see him absorbing this. She could well imagine that the thought of secret wisdom would attract Gwydion more than anything else they might have offered. He stammered, “You said—two royal lines—”
Viviane shook her head faintly when Niniane would have answered, so Niniane said only, “All things will be made clear to you when the proper time comes, Gwydion. If you are to be a Druid, the first thing you must learn is when to be silent and ask no questions.”
He looked up at her mutely, and Morgause thought, It was worth all the trouble of this day to see Gwydion for once impressed even to speechlessness! Well, she was not surprised; Niniane was beautiful—she looked very much as Igraine had looked as a young girl, or she herself, only with fair hair rather than red.
Viviane said quietly, “This much I can tell you at once—the mother of your mother’s mother was the Lady of the Lake, and from a long line of priestesses. Igraine and Morgause also bear the blood of the noble Taliesin, and so do you. Many of the royal lines of these islands, among the Druids, have been preserved in you, and if you are worthy, a great destiny awaits you. But you must be worthy—royal blood alone makes not a king, but courage, and wisdom, and farsightedness. I tell you, Gwydion, that he who wears the dragon may be more of a king than he who sits on a throne, for the throne may be won by force of arms, or by craft, or as Lot won it, by being born in the right bed and begot by the right king. But the Great Dragon can be won only by one’s own efforts, not in this life alone, but those which have gone before. I tell you a mystery.”
Gwydion said, “I—I do not understand!”
“Of course you do not!” Viviane’s voice was sharp. “Even as I said—it is a mystery, and wise Druids have sometimes studied for many lifetimes to understand