The only Chief now missing, with no word of his whereabouts, was the remaining Pendragon, young Uther, son of the dead King Uric, and it was he who was causing most of Daris's anxiety, for despite his being the only Chief not actively involved in the war in Cambria, Uther was the one who must stand against Meradoc Llewellyn, and Daris had serious doubts that he would—or should—do so. He sighed and muttered a curse beneath his breath. It was already too late for Uther to arrive in time. The odds were piled too high against him now. Accept it and be glad, he told himself. You're far too old a fool to be wasting time in wishful thinking.
The Choosing would take place tomorrow when the sun god rode highest in the summer sky, his benevolent influence at its greatest peak. The law was sacrosanct, backed by a thousand years of history, established long before this Federation ever gathered to choose Kings of its own. No man could interfere with it and none might force a cancellation or postponement of the solemn rites. The Chiefs would choose at noon.
Far away to the east, where the road met the forest's edge, Daris saw signs of movement where none had been before, and he watched for a while as a body of travellers came slowly into view. He felt his heartbeat surge at his first sight of them, but even as he began to hope, he recognized that this was the double retinue of the two Chiefs whose coming had been announced earlier. Daris sighed and swallowed his disappointment, then turned to make his way down from the wall. As Chief Druid, he should be present to welcome the two senior Chiefs when they arrived.
Moving slowly, he made his way out through the passageway formed by the overlapping ends of the protective wall, turning to his right as he emerged and pacing steadily towards the distant encampment that housed the Chiefs. He felt no need to hurry: he had no wish to reach the Chiefs' camp ahead of the newcomers. If he did, he might be accosted as he waited, and entreated or enticed to take some kind of stance concerning the upcoming Choosing. Daris had no need of that and no intention of allowing it.
It was Uther Pendragon's uncaring irresponsibility that grated on the Chief Druid. Daris himself had always been responsible, aware of his calling even as a child. Many of the boys with whom he had been apprenticed to the Druidic brotherhood had been there because they were placed there, committed by their families for any of a hundred reasons, from dire poverty to some bright, attractive talent noted and remarked upon by one of the Grey Brotherhood, as the Druids were called among the people.
That was not the case with Daris. He had been born to the Brotherhood. His idolized grandfather was one of the greatest Druids the people had known, and he had never, throughout his entire life, considered any other way of life. He studied hard at every task to which he was set, absorbing the arcane mysteries and knowledge of the priesthood as eagerly as he learned the great songs and sagas that were in the Brotherhood's safekeeping as guardians of the history of the people. Daris had long since lost count of the number of these sagas he had committed to memory, but he never ceased to be grateful for his own capacity to store them in his mind and recall them at will. Retention of the tales, and absolute fidelity to the ancient form and content of them, was but one of his responsibilities. Daris knew duty and fidelity to duty, what it was and what it entailed. And in his eyes, Uther Pendragon did not.
Meradoc would be a less than perfect King, Daris was sure. Outwardly he was upright and straightforward, if somewhat too loud and aggressive, and no one could deny his prowess as both warrior and strategist in war. In peace, he applied himself judiciously to being amiable and wholesome, despite the difficulties caused for him by his own disposition. He was not an easy man to like, lacking both in humour and in patience for the weaknesses of other, lesser men. And it quickly became evident to anyone who looked that Meradoc perceived all men as lesser men, despite the pains he took attempting to hide and disguise that fact. He had wealth of many kinds, and he showed no scruples over using it blatantly to buy the good opinion of his men. He failed, however, save in the most lurid ways, to purchase the opinions of their women. Women did not like Meradoc; they distrusted him instinctively. Daris did not know why with any certitude, since women, in the main, would not confide in him, a Druid, but the knowledge added to his misgivings about the Llewellyn Chief.
One more thing bothered Daris greatly. Meradoc kept a small crew of men about him who dwelt in fear-shrouded shadows, part of, yet apart from, his household forces. These men, newcomers all, were seldom seen, yet they were dreaded by the people. Informally known as the Chief's bodyguard, they were forbidding, solitary men who kept themselves apart from all contact, save when they accompanied their Chief on his travels. But they were rumoured to deal out sudden and secretive death to any, it was said, who failed to please their leader or sought to obstruct his designs. Daris had seen them and spoken briefly to a few of them—a series of wordless grunts on their part in response to his words. He disliked them and what they represented in their sullen surliness, but he did not know how much of what was said of them was true, and lacking proof of any crimes, he could not but ignore the hearsay in his assessment of Meradoc as a potential King.
Nevertheless, Daris was convinced that Meradoc was filled with wrongness. The Chief Druid had no other word to apply to what he perceived in the Llewellyn Chief. And yet, despite all that, he knew that Meradoc, as King, would rule his people, and he would do so here in Cambria, and that was more than could be said for the Pendragon. Uther, Daris felt, had been too long absent—in his person and in his heart.
Thinking about that now as he walked towards the others, Daris found himself almost glad that Uther had not come. For if Uther were somehow to emerge as the Chosen King, then, Daris believed, the destruction of the Federation would begin. Uther, despite any protestations he might make at the Choosing, would surely find himself drawn back to the comforts of Camulod and the life it offered. Then Cambria would be without a King, although its King remained alive, and there would be a jealous, angry and ambitious rival left at home to stir up anarchy and civil war.
"That is the fifth time I've seen Meradoc smile since we arrived here, and it's been what, an hour? Less than that."
Daris turned to smile at his old friend Cativelaunus of Carmarthen, amused as always by the elder man's acerbity. "He does seem to be trying very hard to be pleasant."
"Aye, but five smiles in an hour from that one tells me we all ought to be looking about us. Something's in the wind, and if it pleases him, I know I'll retch when I snout it . . . So, there's been no word of Uther?"
"Not a sound. Nothing at all. I think I'm relieved, too—at least, part of me is."
The old Chief looked at the High Priest sideways, one white, bushy eyebrow raised high in scorn. "What part of you is that? Can't be your reason—it's plain that's gone. You're glad the Pendragon's not here? When did this madness take you?"
"Shush!" Daris glanced towards the others, thinking some of them might have overheard what Cativelaunus said. They were all watching Meradoc, however, seeming to hang on his words, and the hectic flush on the Llewellyn Chief's wide-cheeked face showed that he was enjoying being the centre of attention. Cativelaunus blinked with surprise at being told to shush and started to draw himself up defiantly, but then he hesitated and nodded, dropping his voice and slouching his shoulders.
"What, too loud? Well, I'll tell you, my old friend, if this one comes to be the King, we'll all be whispering from that moment forth. Step outside with me. I need clean air."