Bodies floated in the sea. Our boat, crowded to the point where it was a miracle it could even float at all, was already a quarter-mile off the island with its oars labouring to drag its weight of passengers to safety. I cupped my hands and shouted. “Culhwch!” My voice echoed off the rock and faded across the sea where it was lost in the immensity of cries and wailing that marked Ynys Trebes’s end.
“Let them go,” Merlin said calmly, then searched under the dirty robe he had worn as Father Celwin. “Hold this.” He thrust the cat into my arms, then groped again under his robe until he found a small silver horn that he blew once. It gave a sweet note.
Almost immediately a small dark wherry appeared around Ynys Trebes’s northern shore. A single robed man propelled the little boat with a long sweep that was gripped by an oarlock at the stern. The wherry had a high pointed prow and room in its belly for just three passengers. A wooden chest lay on the bottom boards, branded with Merlin’s seal of the Horned God, Cernunnos. “I made these arrangements,” Merlin said airily, ‘when it became apparent that poor Ban had no real idea what scrolls he possessed. I thought I would need more time, and so it proved. Of course the scrolls were labelled, but the fili were for ever mixing them up, not to say trying to improve them when they weren’t stealing the verse and calling it their own. One wretch spent six months plagiarizing Catullus, then filed him under Plato. Good evening, my dear Caddwg!” he greeted the boatman genially. “All is well?”
“Other than the world dying, yes,” Caddwg growled in answer.
“But you’ve got the chest.” Merlin gestured at the sealed box. “Nothing else matters.”
The elegant wherry had once been a palace boat used to ferry passengers from the harbour to the larger ships anchored offshore, and Merlin had arranged for it to wait his summons. Now we stepped aboard and sank to its deck as the dour Caddwg thrust the small craft out into the evening sea. A single spear plunged from the heights to be swallowed by the water alongside us, but otherwise our departure was unnoticed and untroubled. Merlin took the cat from me and settled contentedly in the boat’s bows while Galahad and I stared back at the island’s death.
Smoke poured across the water. The cries of the doomed were a wailing threnody in the dying day. We could see the dark shapes of Prankish spearmen still crossing the causeway and splashing off its end towards the fallen city. The sun sank, darkening the bay and making the flames in the palace brighter. A curtain caught the fire and flared brief and vivid before crumbling to soft ash. The library burned fiercest; scroll after scroll bursting into quick flame to make that corner of the palace into an inferno. It was King Ban’s bale fire burning through the night.
Galahad wept. He knelt on the deck, clutching his spear, and watched his home turn to dust. He made the sign of the cross and said a silent prayer that willed his father’s soul to whatever Other-world Ban had believed in. The sea was mercifully calm. It was coloured red and black, blood and death, a perfect mirror for the burning city where our enemy danced in ghoulish triumph. Ynys Trebes was never rebuilt in our time: the walls fell, the weeds grew, seabirds roosted there. Prankish fishermen avoided the island where so many had died. They did not call it Ynys Trebes any more, but gave it a new name in their own coarse tongue: the Mount of Death, and at night, their seamen say, when the deserted isle looms black out of an obsidian sea, the cries of women and the whimpering of children can still be heard.
We landed on an empty beach on the western side of the bay. We abandoned the boat and carried Merlin’s sealed chest up through whin and gale-bent thorn to the headland’s high ridge. Full night fell as we reached the summit, and I turned to see Ynys Trebes glowing like a ragged ember in the dark, then I walked on to carry my burden home to Arthur’s conscience. Ynys Trebes was dead.