Within the space of the hour that followed—thanks to the pleasant distractions afforded by visiting his grandfather's kitchens and procuring an entire feast, comprising a hot, freshly spit-roasted hare and a cloth-twist bag of salt, a loaf of fresh bread, a damp cloth full of soft, new-made cheese, a small raw turnip cut into wedges and a jug of cold beer—Uther went from being angry and afraid to feeling completely at his ease. He and his grandfather shared the load as they carried their meal with them, sauntering at their leisure through the King's Holding and into the woods outside Tir Manila. Only three men attempted to approach King Ullic in that time, and he waved all of them away, growling an explanation that he was spending time with his grandson and did not wish to be interrupted. Uther said nothing about that, but he was highly conscious of the honour being accorded to him and, in consequence, even more appreciative than his boyish appetite would normally have made him when the two of them finally sat down side by side on a fallen tree trunk and shared the delicious meal.
By that time, he had also come to accept that his grandfather, far from being angry at him, was honestly interested in what Uther had to say. As a result, when the time came to start from the beginning and explain all that had been going through his mind in recent weeks, he found that every trace of complexity had vanished, and he was able to tell the story fluently and without pause, going from his first encounter with the old craftsman Murdo in Camulod through all that he had learned from the old man and almost successfully through the ensuing labyrinth of thoughts, many of them contradictory, that had brought him to this day's doings.
When he had finished talking, his grandfather sat staring at him for some time, then sniffed and made a low throat-clearing sound somewhere deep in his chest.
"Very well," he said. "I think I follow you . . . At least I know what lines of cleavage are now. Here I am, more than five times your age, and I never knew that before. So. You hoped to split the coal—or the stone, if you prefer—with your sword. Why? What would that have proved?"
"That it could be done."
"What d'you mean?"
The boy shrugged. "It would have amazed you, Tata, don't you see? Because you didn't know it could be done. Do you think any of your Councillors would have known, when you didn't? What would you have said, or thought, if I had been able to do it . . . if the stone had split clean in two?"
Ullic Pendragon nodded and actually chuckled. "You're right, I would have been amazed. And I might even have been amused, too. But what makes you think I would not then have thrown you out for interrupting my Council?"
"Because I did it with a sword."
"A sword . . . I don't follow you. You're ten years old, and you've lost me. What are you saying?"
"I don't know, Tata—I know you told me not to say that but it's the truth. It's a—I had a vision, I think."
"A vision. I see. What kind of a vision was it?"
"It happened one afternoon last week when I was thinking about Murdo's chisel striking one of his big, yellow topaz stones. I le always does it—splitting a stone, I mean—with great care, and lie spends ages studying each stone before he can decide where to place the chisel blade. If he selects the wrong spot, or if he strikes too hard or not hard enough, he can destroy the stone, smashing it into powder. He let me try it once, and I ended up with a small pile of yellow dust and splinters. But when Murdo does it right, Tata, he splits the stone cleanly, and each side of the split is smooth, as though polished, like the glass in Grandma Luceiia's window in her family room in Camulod. And then I thought of something that I hadn't thought about before . . . and I saw it again today when I came back into the Council chamber and saw how you had split the coal . . ." His voice died away and he looked up into Ullic's eyes.
"And what's that?" the King asked. "What did you think?"
"I thought—no, I knew—that a stone struck properly like that is split forever. It can never be put back together again."
"I see. That was your vision?"
"No, in my vision I saw a sword splitting a stone. And then the stone became an army, divided by a sword stroke. And then, instead of a sword, I saw a force of Camulod's cavalry, a wedge squadron formation, striking an army and splitting it apart."
"So it could never be rejoined . . ." The King's voice was quiet, and he had a far-away expression in his eyes. "Hmm!" Ullic sat up straight and wiped his hands on the bottom of his tunic. "So you brought your idea to me. Good. But you should have brought it sooner."
"Why?" Uther now sounded depressed. "My idea didn't work, and I broke the sword. And besides, we don't have any cavalry like Camulod's, so it won't do us any good."
"Aha, so that's what you're thinking, is it? Well, lad, you're wrong. What's important here, it seems to me—although, mind you, I'm naught but an old man—what's important here is that I broke the coal. Don't you agree?"
"Yes, I know you did, Tata."
"Aye, but did you hear what I said? I said that was the important thing."
"I know, Tata, I heard you."
"Good, then you can tell me why it was important."
"I . . ." Uther sat silent, blinking, and his grandfather took pity on him.
"It was important, Uther, because what you had done, or tried to do, set me thinking about it. . . And so I was able to do it, after I had thought about it for a bit. But I would never have thought about it at all if it hadn't been for what you did. It would never have occurred to me to try such a thing, even if I lived to be twice the age I am now, if you had not provided the original idea. Do you hear what I am saying to you, Uther?"
Ullic waited, peering into his grandson's face, but then, seeing that the boy had not understood, he kept talking. "The idea, Uther, the idea was yours, and that is more important than the success or failure of what you tried to do with it. Once the idea has been put forward, someone will always come along to make it real, to make it happen, but it need not be the person who first had the idea. There are very few people in this world who can do what you did in this—who can conceive ideas, lad—who can come up with the original thought required for progress, and the knowledge that you, my own grandson, could be one of those few people makes me very proud." Again Ullic waited, and again the boy did not respond the way the King wanted.
"But I failed, Grandfather. I didn't do it."
"Dia! Very well, let me think about this for a moment. . . Here, try this. You admire your Grandfather Varrus, no?" Uther nodded. "Of course you do, and so you should. And the reason you had that thought of cavalry splitting an army is because you admire the cavalry at Camulod almost as much as you admire Publius Varrus, am I right?" Again the boy nodded. "Good then. So you must be really proud of your grandfather's prowess as a cavalry leader, and of the way he looks on horseback, all decked out in his fine armour on his huge cavalry horse, right?"
Uther was shaking his head, frowning. "No, Tata, Grandfather Varrus does not ride. I've never seen him in armour on horseback. He is not a cavalryman."
"What? But he commands all Camulod's cavalry, does he not?"
"No, he does not. He used to be the Commander, but he gave that up to Uncle Picus when Uncle Picus came home to Britain."
"But why?"
"You know why! Uncle Picus used to be an Imperial Legate, the supreme cavalry commander in Britain, before I was born."
"I see. So you are saying your Grandfather Varrus is a failure." The boy's eyes went wide with shock and outrage, but before he could respond in any way, Ullic held up his hand to forestall him. "No? That's not what you are saying? Then what am I to believe? Why would Varrus relinquish his own power to another man—any man?"