The Mask of King Arthur, Book I: Haern Cleddyf

Chapter 8: Journey to Anwnn

An afternoon in Autumn, the city of Caerleon was silent.

It had been a month since the ordeal of Culhwch and Olwen, and the colorful turning leaves fell around the old Roman city. The people of the city were milling about, dressed in their dura tunics, thorsberg trousers,and Sagum cloaks, looking as if they belonged to an earlier and more civilized time. An early cold wind blew through the marketplace,causing the merchants and their customers to shiver. Looking to the skies, the people of Caerleon knew something was greatly amiss.

There was a wind of foreboding on the air.

Caerleon was like a city out of time- everything; it's art, architecture, clothing styles, education, and laws- were modeled on an idealized Romano-British city and Roman garrison from a few centuries ago, when the Empire was at it's height. To Ambrosius, civilized imperial Rome was the desired gold standard all on this island should aspire. To the duke, things like torcs and timber structures of late Roman and Celtic design found everywhere else spoke of the encroaching barbarism the Germanic invaders represented. He had the Isca Augsta fortress rebuilt as it had been in it's glory days, restored by his builders stone for stone to the fort's original design. His subjects, living in a safe, clean city with running water, literacy for all, and medical care, were more than happy to accommodate their Dux Bellorum's eclectic, outdated tastes.

A beacon of light... in a sea of darkness.

The princepia -the headquarters- of the old Roman fort, had been turned into Ambrosius's specious palace. The Dux Bellorum was pacing back and forth in the courtyard, trying to calm his nerves. He had already tried calming his nerves in the hot baths, then reading scrolls in the library; but all to no avail. One of the few servants Ambrosius had brought in a serving tray filled with food and drink. But the anxious duke was barely able to touch it."Where is that warrior-druid?" Ambrosius muttered under his breath in annoyance. "He was supposed to be here by now."

The silence was broken... with the arrival of Menw.

"Greetings, my lord." The druid greeting Ambrosius, bowing. "I apologize for how long it took me to return, but Lord Geirioed wasn't very forthcoming."

"It's all right, old friend. I know how the courts of eastern Britannia can be." The duke shook his head. "But you can confirm it, Geirioed's son Gweir has been taken?"

"Yes, taken by the tylwyth teg- the fair folk, sadly." The druid sighed. "According to the servants who were with him, Gweir was lured out of his father's hill-fort by a lovely fay maiden. I believe she took the golden-haired youth to one of the fairy mounds, Kaer Sidi."

"But I've heard rumors the lad was taken by rival nobles, to get a ransom out of Geirioed." Ambrosius replied, sitting down on a stone bench under a willow tree. "So he was really taken by the fay?"

"Indeed, my lord." Mnew stroked his short beard. "I have asked Nimue where the tylwyth might have taken him, and upon consulting her mother, she informed me that he had been taken to the otherworld island of Anwnn."

"Anwnn... the island of the dead." Ambrosius's eyes went wide."The most unholy place in all of the British Isles."

"Indeed. If the lad is not returned, it will trigger a civil war among the kings on the eastern side of the island." The druid warned. "A war that will claim many lives, and cause political chaos all over the region."

"Lord Geirioed is one of High King Vortimer's biggest supporters." The duke considered. "A war between his allies and his foes could strengthen the position of Natenleod, the king of Venta Belgarum. He is vying for the high kingship, and he is a known follower of the old faith."