Spear

by Nicola Griffith

“There is the Dagda, with his midnight steed. His treasure was the greatest of all, the golden cup—

and tell of how the Morrigan, whose steed was grey, had stolen it from the Dagda for herself, and how her lover, Manandán, son of the sea and raiser of mists, had stolen it from her in turn.

never to steal, for stealing wore away one’s soul,

Lugh of the shining spear, and Elatha, keeper of the stone. She heard of Núada the king, who held the sword of light—until Bres, Elatha’s son, took it, and Núada must be content with a silver arm. And Bres, Núada, and Lugh each had only one name.

for now Elen herself was in them. In these tales the cup was not a gift; it was thrice-stolen, it was payment. In these tales Manandán was a cruel trickster who came with his cup to Dyfed, following the raiding men of Eiru, and found Elen, Elen whose magics were fragile and human against the might of the Tuath Dé, and there he took her by force and kept her prisoner, his willing—no, not willing, compelled to be willing—slave, until the day she fled, taking the golden cup as payment. She fled, and hid herself inside the cave of stolen trophies: the cup she stole from its first thief; herself who was stolen, and stole herself back; and the gift she stole that he knows nothing of.

Elen calls the girl Tâl, her payment.

Dawnged to Tâl

and they will never know your true name.”

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀 All over this opening

A name, she thinks, is what makes a person who they are. A name is how they know themself.

In the months that follow, word spreads among the new-made steadings: the fey are abroad, invisible, of course, as told in the stories, but also nothing like the stories, for they seek bright iron. She listens to them, unseen, and smiles to herself as they whisper that no man may leave an awl or a chisel for a moment unwatched, or it will vanish; no woman may leave her basket untended, or the yarn, with its needles and shears, will melt into the air like mist in the sun. And sometimes they leave out a hunk of cheese or a cake of barley bread, and speak aloud a favour, and she will find their lost goat, or pull up the stubborn stump from their field before dawn.

She’s so cute

The girl dreamt of the woman for a month.

Oh honey

a Redcrest king’s head—emperor, in the language of the scrolls.

Roman emperor equivalent

The metal rippled and flowed where it was not rusted. This was a fine thing, wounded but not dead, and if she worked steadily she could bring it back to health by spring.

This flows so beautifully

One, his helm tucked under his arm against the blue-and-brown leather of his tunic, had gleaming dark skin, almost as dark as the bowl, with the hair on his head springy and tight-curled as a sheep’s and none on his chin;

Bedevere

milk-pale and speckled as a thrush’s breast;

Kay?

lean and lithe in pla...

Lancelot?

another had sloping shoulders and a belly rounded as a duck egg—and his skin eggshell smooth.

Geraint

another with a lush, curling beard

???? Andros?

Sir Kay

Lance, the man in black,

Lancelot probably

the man in brown and blue. “Bedwyr

Bedevere

In the flickering flame light, the girl saw painted on the shield the same strange upright fish beast carved into the ring she had found on the dead man. His device. Talorcan. Even the dead had names.

“Andros

Kay, Lancelot(?), Bedevere, and Andros 🤔

Cei, who was now playing a lethargic game of knucklebones with the egg-shaped man.

Kay Bedevere Lancelot Andros Egg-shaped man (Geraint)

Myrddyn.”

Merlin, my guess

The words rang in her head like a bell, like the scent of the lake, like the bright clean shimmer around the Companions.

👀👀👀

I did not name you, for naming calls.

The four treasures of the Tuath are the sword, which is given, the stone, which is hidden, the cup, which I have, and the spear. You are that spear. You are my Bêr-hyddur, my spear enduring. You are Peretur.

In the next few days they did this many times, and it was the finest week of Peretur’s young life,

Good for her

The tide of life ran so strong in Peretur that she could not stop if she wanted to, and she did not want to, but it was her gift to soothe worries and calm nerves, so she soothed Rhodri.

Geraint—the egg-shaped man—

He came closer. “I know you, I think.”

👀 yes you do

Angharad’s slap cracked around the room like a whip.

He deserves it

A Companion of the king to hit an unarmed woman …

Kay’s the asshole of the group. Well, not the only one. But he’s the one with the reputation as one.

Peretur Paladr Hir,

Petetur long beam (bing translation) “peretur hardspear” as Kay says later is probably closer

Peretur Hardspear?

Cei. And by then he might listen, for he can be a fair man. You’ve seen him disappointed, crossed, and at his worst.”

Kay was very loyal to Arthur but also not an easy person to be around

There is the king, too, who is raging and in need of counsel, but has none, for his chief counsellor and right hand, the wise man Myrddyn, is gone,

And meanwhile tithes are low, not only because of weather but through trouble of the king’s own making—made against Cei’s counsel, and mine, and Andros’s. Defeated men might swear fealty, but desperate men have no honour.”

“But what would a great lump of a man with a sword and spear know of fear?” Peretur stared. It had never occurred to her that anything in the world might be a danger to her.

she was once again named Peretur Paladr Hir, though this time in earnest: Peretur Hardspear, Peretur Bitterspear, Peretur Spear Enduring.

That soft note was back again, the same for Arturus as for Gwenhwyfar.

👀

I don’t know how, or why, but you’re not as other men.

Because she’s a lesbian, Llanza

I’ve never known a horse to be wrong about the heart of a man. Dogs, though, oh yes. Dogs can be foolish beasts.”

Dog slander, haha

you’ll meet Nimuë soon enough. She speaks with the king often.”

👀 Peretur at the mentions of the lake

“You’re Nimuë. You drowned the king’s sorcerer.

Ohh, she killed Merlin?

“He’s not dead,” said Nimuë.

Oh 😅

“Myrddyn is not dead, though he deserves to be.

Hmm 🧐

Bêr-hyddur,

“This is Myrddyn,” Nimuë said. “If your mother’s name is Elen, he is her brother.” Her mother had a brother. Myrddyn. Sorcerer, chief counsellor to Arturus king. “He is young. Younger than my mother.” “No. He’s older. And now he is bound, stopped forever while the rest of us age.” Myrddyn. Her mother’s brother. Family. “Who did this?” Nimuë lifted her chin. “I did.”

👀

“So, we found the stone, and with it the sword—which the stone hid, as it now hides Myrddyn.”