May Earth Rise Read Free

that his head would split open with the force of it.
    And I am manacled
    In the earthen house,
    An iron chain
    Over my two legs;
    Yet of magic and bravery,
    And the Kymri,
    I, Anieron, will sing.
    Anieron’s song rushed through his head. Splitting, whirling, and crashing into him with such violence and pain that he could not bear it. He lurched to his feet, shaking off restraining hands.
    “Anieron!” Sledda screamed. “You cannot do this! You are dead!”
    But the song continued, slicing into him from all directions at once.
    Shall there not be a song of freedom
    Before the dawn of the fair day? Shall this not be the fair day Of freedom?
    “No!” Sledda howled, clutching his head. “No!” He ran from the hall, not knowing where he was going, only running to get away, get away, get away from this torment. He blundered down the length of the hall, through the doors and into the main hallway as the song rang in his head.
And I am manacled In the earthen house, An iron chain Over my two legs; Yet of magic and bravery, And the Kymri I, Anieron, will sing.
    Not even knowing where he was going, he raced up the stairs, panting and moaning, the song of the dead man ringing in his ears, driving him up and up and up in a doomed attempt to outrun this torture.
    Shall there not be a song of freedom Before the dawn of the fair day? Shall this not be the fair day Of freedom?
    He raced up the three flights of stairs to the watchtower at the very top of Neuadd Gorsedd and flung himself into the narrow tower room. His one eye desperately scanned the northwest horizon where Cadair Idris lay. He knew, even in his pain and madness, where the song emanated from. He knew.
You of Corania After your joyful cry, Silence will be your portion. And you will taste death Far from your native home.
    “Arthur!” he screamed up into the night sky. “I know it is you! Arthur ap Uthyr, release me! Release me, witch!”
    But there was no release. The faint glow of the far-off mountain of Cadair Idris shimmered on the darkened plain and he screamed again.
    “Stop!” he cried. “Stop! I will do anything you want! Just make it stop!”
    But the song continued.
    Shall there not be a song of freedom
    Before the dawn of the fair day?
    Shall this not be the fair day
    Of freedom?
    “Stop,” he sobbed again, his body straining towards distant Cadair Idris. “I beg you. Stop. I’m sorry. Sorry I killed the Master Bard. Please make it stop.”
    Shall there not be a song of freedom
    Before the dawn of the fair day?
    Shall this not be the fair day
    Of freedom?
    “Arthur!” he called out in anguish, reaching out over the low walls of the open tower to the distant glow on the horizon, his body arching toward Cadair Idris. “Mercy!”
    It was then the stones on which he leaned gave a sudden, sickening lurch and he felt his body pitching forward out into the night sky.
    “Arthur!” he wailed as he fell from the tower.
    The song stopped.
    And the last thing Sledda heard before his body hit the ground far below and shattered, was a single voice.
    It is finished.
    A RTHUR AP U THYR released the Bards from his mind, one by one. As he let them go, he murmured words of thanks to each and every one of them. For he knew them all now. He knew the Bards of Gwynedd, from the mountains of Eyri to the plains of Llyn. He knew the Bards of Ederynion, from the depths of Coed Ddu to the sandy beaches of Cydewain. He knew the Bards of Rheged, from the deep forest of Coed Coch to the plains of Ystrad Marchell. He knew the Bards of Prydyn, from the cliffs of Arberth to the hills of Haford Bryn. They were his people now, the Bards of Kymru, and they would come to his call.
    The last ones he released from his mind-hold were the ones physically here with him in Cadair Idris—Elidyr Master Bard, his son and heir, Cynfar, and Elidyr’s father, Dudod.
    At last, Arthur opened his eyes. He rose from the golden, eagle-shaped throne. Brenin Llys, the hall of the High Kings, gleamed