Prince Gwydion Son of Don stood alone, his feet wet in the waves of the quiet beach—if any beach could be called quiet. The roar of surf filled his ears, and the sea birds were starting to stir, adding their wavering calls and cries to the pulsing symphony of the sea. The coast here was lined with imposing cliffs, topped with forests that came almost to their edge. Huge rocks and stones interrupted the clean white sand of the shore, like pebbles tossed out by the gods. Out in the surf, more stones stood, some like small islands, and some taller—weather beaten columns of stone, like stolid, lonely giants somehow frozen, waiting for their sorceress to return and bring them to life.

As he looked away toward the east, the rising sun took on the look of the symbol of his own house, and he felt a pang of what might be homesickness – longing for a place he had never been, a place that seemed to belong to an almost mythically distant past. He knew the stories, the legends, and the prophecies. However, he never allowed his mind to dwell there for long—those prophecies were still fairy tales, too ethereal in the morning light in comparison to the heavy weight of current realities. His quest was not now for some impossibly distant Summer shore—he had more urgent concerns.

He had journeyed out to this lonely seacoast from Caer Dathyl with Commander Gwaednerth, Captain of the Guards, and his chosen successor as War Leader of all the forces of the Children of Don. He had always thought that his own heir might take that post, but that future seemed less and less likely, given the harsh realities of both his position and his life as he had chosen to lead it.

Gwaednerth was a man both grim and taciturn by nature—but his grey eyes were alive and aware, and he was an extremely effective tactician and leader. Most importantly, he loved Prydain and the House of Don above all else. He had risen to his position purely based on his ability, like Maelmadog of Madoc.

Gwydion had grown his hair longer than usual, and its wolf-grey color had been turned back to black—perhaps making him look a bit younger, but it did nothing to remove the lines on his weathered face. He had used a concoction containing squid dye, that was known to some of the clever bards and play-actors who frequented Caer Dathyl. His cloak and clothing were even more threadbare than he typically wore on his journeys, and only the great black sword at his side might cause someone to take him for a nobleman. Gwaednerth was similarly attired, and their steeds were solid, but not more noteworthy than many in Prydain.

Gwydion had not taken Melyngar on this journey, but instead had chosen a bay gelding from the stables. In addition to his desire to travel unnoticed, he knew from experience that his horse would not understand—and might indeed become distraught and unmanageable— if he rode her out on such a journey only to leave her to return with a relative stranger. It had happened before, and neither horse nor rider had escaped without injury. Only once had such a thing occurred with a positive outcome – when Melyngar had accompanied Taran, Eilonwy and Fflewddur after the fall of Spiral Castle. Those circumstances had been different, clearly.

On this trip, Melyngar had been left at home in the care of her friend the stable-master, blissfully unaware that her master was not nearby in the fortress of Caer Dathyl. Affairs of state had many times kept him away from her for extended periods, and now she waited patiently for his next visit, and their next journey together.

He and Gwaednerth had arrived here a few days earlier, a point on the coast on the north side of the long peninsula that was the western limit of King Pryderi's realm, and indeed close to the point furthest west in all of Prydain. He was in search of a small sailing ship, one that would not attract too much attention, and that could be handled by one man. This area of the coast had an old reputation for producing such vessels, and for two days they had searched the local settlements without success. None of the local fishermen had a vessel that was appropriate for voyaging much beyond sight of the shore.

Yesterday, they had happened upon another small village, and their inquiries led them to a seasoned boat builder by the name of Cyffin. His ramshackle structure was built next to the sea, with crude ramps to the surf, fashioned for sliding and launching small vessels once they were complete. According to the villagers however, he had a great reputation for building seaworthy vessels.

Cyffin was a small man, and he wore a dirty white sash tied around his long grey hair. His skin was even more lined by the sun and the sea than Gwydion's, and his face and arms were mottled with dark spots. His body was whip thin, but all muscle and sinew. He was now hard at work, bending his back to a two-man saw with one of his apprentices, when Gwydion and Gwaednerth stepped into the clearing.

"Please accept my apology for interrupting you," Gwydion began, "but I would be interested in obtaining a small but seaworthy sailing vessel. The villagers told me you were the best builder in the area, by far."

Cyffin stopped sawing, and wiped the sweat from his brow. "You don't look like a fisherman or a sailor," he returned. "In fact, I don't quite know what you do look like. Possibly a vagabond or an outlaw, with an unusually polite way with words, and with hair showing a bit less experience than his face…ah, is that it then? You're on the run from some lord, whose wife took too much of a fancy to you?"

Gwydion only smiled grimly, allowing Cyffin to believe what he wished.

"I can tell you for sure," Cyffin went on, "that if you've never handled such a boat, you'll probably end up drowning yourself—and anyone unlucky enough to be sailing with you," he added with a warning glare at Gwaednerth. "This coastline is treacherous…and after all that, I can tell you even more certainly that such vessels don't come cheap."

Gwydion nodded to Gwaednerth. He stepped forward, and produced a heavy pouch, opening it so Cyffin could see inside. The weathered artisan's eyes grew wide, and he looked at Gwydion with new respect. He nodded, and motioned for Gwydion and Gwaednerth to follow him inside his work-shop. He nodded toward a small, apparently completed vessel.

Gwydion's own eyes widened when he looked upon it. The lines were graceful and beautiful, in a way that was new to him for so small a vessel, but at the same time somehow familiar. It looked very seaworthy, but clearly could be handled by a lone sailor.

"You designed this boat?" he inquired of Cyffin. "It is lovely."

The builder gave a tight-lipped smile, and replied, "Not exactly. Although I sometimes make small modifications to suit the needs of each buyer, the basic design was passed down by my father, and from his father before him, and from my grandfather's mentor, who was a builder from another family, and from their parents and grandparents, back to almost ancient times. Some of our oldest local stories and legends speak of a great man who walked with a limp, and came from the sea on a vessel such as this long ago. According to legend he left the boat on the coast as a gift to the folk who lived there, and traveled on into Prydain. Our ancestors found it, and it sailed for a great many years. When its timbers finally began to fail with age, its design was replicated onto another boat, and another after that. You see its descendant here today."

For a brief second, Gwydion was aware of the hidden consciousness of the great black sword at his side. Usually it slumbered—but from time to time, it made its presence known to him.

"It will suit my needs perfectly," said Gwydion with a wolfish smile. Gwaednerth again brought forth his pouch, and Gwydion drew five large gold pieces from it. Cyffin nodded, obviously pleased, and said, "I still say you're about to kill yourself, but I guess that's your own business. The boat is yours. As soon as we finish outfitting it, we will bring it out to launch."

In spite of Cyffin's earlier harsh words, he then spent a generous amount of time with Gwydion reviewing the basics of seamanship, until he was fully satisfied that his patron was competent to sail.

Now, the little vessel was next to him in the morning sun, in the surf and ready to launch.

Gwydion pushed off in the surf, the bottom of the boat still scraping the sand, until it floated free. He gave another mighty heave, and immediately leaped into the vessel and grabbed the oars. He pushed off the bottom with first one oar and then the other, until he was able to paddle freely. He put his back into the oars, carefully avoiding the stones and tiny islands as the boat bobbed through the heaviest part of the surf. Finally, he gained the smooth green water beyond, that glittered like polished emeralds in the morning sun.

The prince dropped the oars, stood up and rigged the sail. The wind was from the north this morning, and the boat leaned and shot forward smoothly, as he adjusted the trim and set his course. He settled onto the bench in the stern, enjoying the lively feeling and the cool salt spray, as the little craft swam like a graceful dolphin.

"I think you will be a faithful friend, little ship," he spoke to the merry craft. "With your permission, in remembrance of another friend who is absent, I shall call you "Melyngar."


Commander Gwaednerth had left earlier that morning, after a long speech delineating his thoughts on the foolhardiness of this course of action…as he often did. Gwydion always appreciated and encouraged his council, whether he chose to heed it or not. Gwaednerth had then headed back east along the coast. There was a small port several miles further in that direction where a large vessel, under the hire of the High King, waited with its captain. If Gwydion had not returned in two weeks' time, Gwaednerth, ship and crew were to head out in search of him. If they had not found him in two more weeks, the search was to be discontinued.

On Gwydion sailed, out of sight of land in a short time. He voyaged all day, steering toward the northwest. He enjoyed the solitude, the sounds of the sea, the taste of salt on his lips. He was accustomed to traveling alone—many compared him to a lone wolf, for more reasons than one. A deep part of him was unusually alive and aware, keen to keep sailing on as the sun settled in the west. To the east, the waxing moon was rising, its reflections on the water like a silvery dance of the Fair Folk. In the water, an occasional patch of the sea actually glowed with an unearthly and beautiful bluish green light. Had he not known better, he would have suspected some Fair Folk enchantment, or one of Llyr itself. Perhaps it was not impossible.

To help tamp down his own sense of giddiness at the beauty surrounding him, he tried to organize his thoughts. He pulled each one carefully out of a drawer in his mind, examined it, turned it and re-examined, finally fitting and shaping each thought like a piece of a puzzle he was assembling. Some pieces connected to others, while some were still standing alone, unconnected, seemingly waiting to be seen and turned the right way to fit into the whole.

Three seasons of a year had passed since the destruction of the cauldron, and there had been much rejoicing in Prydain, from the largest cantrevs to the Free Commots. Although Arawn's fury had only grown, which was of course a matter of great concern, he now had other concerns—that had prompted his journey, and this voyage.

As Dallben had told him after the fall of the Horned King, Eilonwy could not stay forever at Caer Dallben—as much as all her new friends wished it, and as much as she might wish it herself. The day was coming, and soon, when she must be re-united with her closest kin—and they were on the island of Mona. The obvious reason was that she was becoming a young woman, and required the education and upbringing that royalty generally demanded—although the young princess herself found this step entirely unnecessary.

From what Gwydion knew of Dallben, he had thought the old enchanter might agree with her on that point, as Dallben had absolutely no use for the trappings of nobility or royalty himself… seeing them as frivolous and pompous, just as Eilonwy did. No, there were other reasons; reasons that were clear only to Dallben. Unfortunately, he had been adamant on that matter, and there was no use in questioning his judgement, as much as both of them dreaded the thought of Eilonwy being away from the protective cocoon of Caer Dallben.

Dallben's ways were deep, Gwydion reminded himself. He could only share so much of what he foresaw—without danger of the sharing itself altering the future. It was necessary for Eilonwy to go – just as it had been necessary for Taran to leave Caer Dallben in search of a runaway pig. Just as it had been necessary for so many to sacrifice, in order for the Crochan to be destroyed. He had to accept it, and to trust Dallben's judgement.

So Eilonwy would soon be voyaging to the island of Mona, the kingdom of Rhuddlum and Teleria: good folk and faithful friends to him, and to the House of Don. He had no doubts about them—although he reminded himself that his judgement of friends and loyalties could justifiably be called suspect, after the heartbreaking treason of King Morgant. No, his worry now was the same as that day in Dallben's chamber.

He had last seen her at Oeth-Anoeth, when she had thrust him into its deepest chamber of utter darkness and horror. He recalled that moment, and her indifference and cruelty. It had been his lowest moment—but from that bottom, he had risen. He realized now: he had needed help to survive. He knew objectively, without hubris, that he was stronger of body, mind and spirit than most men. He was of the Children of Don, and proud to be so, as much as he took pride in anything. In the end though, he was still only a man. He had needed help, and he had received it, and taken courage. He had drawn strength from what he had learned of Taran from Dallben—and his own experience with the young man had given him hope, and some light in the darkness. He had been visited by other visions and spirits as well—some that still occasionally haunted him, and that he struggled to understand.

The rest of the help he had needed …he had drawn from Achren herself. Part of her had lived within Oeth-Anoeth's walls, and he had discovered her pain, her weakness, her betrayal, and in a way even a vestige of her remaining humanity. Possibly, she had not wanted to reveal as much of herself as she had, but the knowledge of her, and even the desire to aid her, had distracted him from his own pain. Somehow, this had made it possible for him to survive, and he felt that was her intention…whether it was to use him as weapon against Arawn, or for some other reason.

He had not seen her again after Oeth-Anoeth. She had seemed to disappear, but he knew that was beyond even her power. He had searched, he had questioned, he had sent spies and scouts to every corner of the land—but to no avail. The trail had gone cold—or there was no trail.

He had first thought that she might flee to Arawn. At Spiral Castle, she had clearly still been in league with him, as much as she loathed and detested him. He remembered how before she had cast him into the pit in Oeth-Anoeth, she had offered him so many things to gain his support in overthrowing Arawn. In addition to despising the dark lord, she feared him—and for good reason, based on the glimpses of the tortured and twisted relationship that he was aware of. He was a monster, and he had torn everything from her. Visions she had shared with him—she had wanted him to see them, possibly even to have sympathy for her. To his own great surprise, at least to some extent, he did.

So, he could not bring himself to believe that she would return to Annuvin. It was also true that no intelligence supporting that notion had presented itself.

Finally, after he had been gifted with the sword Dyrnwyn, he had realized that Achren may well fear Arawn's even greater wrath—for allowing it to slip from her grasp in the hands of a Princess of Llyr and an Assistant-Pig-Keeper. No, she would not run to Annuvin. Where, then?

From what had happened on the road to Caer Dallben, it was clear that Achren still pursued Eilonwy. Her goal was not obvious, but she clearly valued the princess—enough to have kidnapped her as a child, and to rue her loss, perhaps even more than the loss of Dyrnwyn from right under her nose.

He had heard nothing, and for a long time. Finally, some of his farthest flung scouts in the coastal areas reported on whisperings they had heard—only rumors, nothing substantial—from fishermen and sailors who had ventured far to the northwest, near the tiny islands that lay in the open sea in that direction. They spoke of unrecognized ships with strange signs on their sails, possibly based in those islands.

He had long known there were a few in Prydain who still were loyal to Achren; who believed she was the rightful ruler in spite of the evil she had done. Their loyalty went beyond logic, almost to worship—and he knew from his own experience that nothing would give Achren more satisfaction. He also knew that some of those had fled Prydain – to the northwestern islands, or even further.

He could have sent others to investigate, but his inner compass urged him to go in person. The proximity of the rumors was too close to where Eilonwy herself must go, and soon. He had only met her briefly, but he was quite fond of the girl. Both for who she was by birth, and for who she was in her own right, he felt fiercely protective of her, almost as a father would be—or at least, a proud uncle. He did not wish to be presumptuous.


Onward the Melyngar sailed, through the moonlit night. In the east, the stars finally gave way to waves of soft pink and blue, followed by a swift sunrise.

He peered forward, and saw no islands yet in his view—but he did see a colorful sail. Soon he could see the hull of vessel, which was of good size, possibly a merchant ship, or even a war galley.

Gwydion nonchalantly turned his little craft toward the wake of the ship, hoping to keep his distance without appearing to have maneuvered in fear or desperation.

For a few moments he was hopeful that course would be successful – until he saw the ship heave to, its bow now pointed in his direction. With no more use in pretense, he did the same—he turned and ran, drawing the sail tight against the quartering wind.

Melyngar bent over to the side, and he instinctively held the lines and leaned in the opposite direction to balance it. The boat responded like the fine steed she was named for, and dashed willingly through the light choppy sea. The distance between the two vessels seemed to hold for a while, but soon he realized that he was slowly losing ground and the distance was closing, as the pursuing ship had the advantages of both larger size and more sail. He could now see clearly the striped pattern of the mainsail, and it was not a design he was familiar with.

In the space of half an hour that seemed much longer, the ship had closed the distance. He could make out the sailors and figures on deck, and the captain in the stern. At length the captain raised a horn to his lips, and blew a long blast: a signal to give up the chase. Cursing his ill fortune, he brought down his sail, girded his sword tightly to his side, and resolved to sell his life dearly, giving Dyrnwyn to the sea in the end if necessary.

As the larger ship drew alongside, Gwydion watched grimly as the captain strode down from the rear deck to the port side of the vessel nearest him, his crew of at least fifteen men looking on. His broad face was lined and tan. His hair was dark, and tied behind his head in a long tail. His beard was trimmed in an unfamiliar style.

Instinctively, Gwydion's hand went to the pommel of his sword.

"Peace, my good man," the captain spoke, with a much friendlier tone than he had expected, his dark eyes flashing with merriment. "No need for that…and we could have pierced you with a dozen arrows if we wished, before that old longsword would do you any good. Here, grab this line and make it fast to your bow, and come aboard so we can talk like civilized men."

Gwydion nodded, and after securing his boat, he clambered up the rope ladder, and took the hand that was offered.

"You have a fine little vessel, and I had my doubts for a few minutes that we would be able to catch up with you…I am Dylan," the captain offered, "Captain of the Alys. We hail from an island further to the northwest, the island of Lluned. An island of free folk, at least for the moment…sort of a commot, you might say…And you?"

Captain Dylan looked at him expectantly, as he led the way to the rear deck - the captain's domain and, by tradition, an area of relative privacy.

"My name is Lord Gruffydd," Gwydion offered. "Members of my family were sailors in the long past, and I had always spoken to my dear wife of my longing to explore a bit of the sea to the west of Prydain— a dream that was always kept at bay, given the realities of our life as minor nobles in Cantrev Cadiffor. Sadly, she fell victim to disease this last year, but she made me promise to pursue my dream. So, I obtained this little vessel, and this is her maiden voyage. I'm sorry but when I saw you, I feared you might be pirates or brigands—so I thought keeping my distance would be the wisest course."

"That is a fine tale, and my condolences on your wife," Dylan offered with nod and a wink, as he eyed Gwydion's great black sword. "Can't say I have ever heard it's like before. If you go sailing in these waters, you may as well expect to be pursued by pirates, brigands, or worse. In any case, I pursued you not to harm you…but to warn you. You were right to be cautious—there are indeed some questionable types sailing these waters these days, and some of them might be right nearby. Some have even felt free to invade an old ruin of a fortress on our own island…claiming some ancestral right," he said, as he spat with distaste over the side of the ship into the green water, now bright with the morning sun.

"Really? What right do they claim? Gwydion asked, eager to hear more.

Dylan hesitated a moment, and gave Gwydion a long look before continuing. "I don't know why I'm telling you this, but…since you asked so nicely. I'm just dying to tell a good tale to someone I haven't known every day of their life…so here it is. Long ago, our island was an outpost of the Kingdom—or Queendom, you might say—of Llyr. Our people came from there originally, but as there were many relatively peaceful centuries, the need for the outpost seemed to diminish, and I think the monarchy of Llyr finally forgot about us. Out of sight, out of mind. We have considered ourselves a free island, since long before Llyr sank beneath the waves."

"I have never heard of Lluned," Gwydion interjected. "So fascinating—and so heartening—to hear that some folk of Llyr yet survive."

"Yes, and doing quite well for ourselves at that. We do try to keep our existence quiet, so I would ask you to be discreet about it…we don't mention precisely where we are located—or our relationship to Llyr— to the folk along the coast that we trade with, as one example. There are those among us who fear that whoever or whatever crushed Llyr—and we suspect Arawn, or worse—might want to do the same to us, if they knew of our existence.

"Just this past year though…three vessels arrived, with a hundred and fifty or so grim warriors, some of them women…although no children that I have seen. They took the tumbledown fortress at the north end of our small island, and the rocky port that goes along with it. Our own village, that we call Pentref Lluned, is at the southern end, and has a larger harbor than the fort, but is not so well naturally well-protected.

"They are led by a noblewoman…they just call her the Lady Eleri; I'm not sure what her real title is. I have seen her on one occasion, when she arrived in our harbor and asked for an audience with our governing council. I was there, and I must say that I was impressed—although she said that she was ill that day, and she only stayed briefly before she and her warriors returned to her ship. She told us that she is related to the house of Llyr—and from her appearance, I believe it. Lovely isn't a strong enough word…stunning comes closer. Young, with flowing auburn hair, emerald green eyes, a face and figure that could haunt a man's dreams forever…but ahem, I digress. Of course we all know that the royal house of Llyr was destroyed, but she said she was a cousin, a descendent of the sister of Morgana—Regat's grandmother. She offered us the erm… opportunity to become her subjects.

"Somehow, before her visit, they learned that we were also descended from the folk of Llyr…and she seems to just have naturally assumed that we would appreciate serving her. When our enthusiasm didn't match her expectation, she became a bit haughtier…and we are all wondering when she will decide we will become subjects, whether we like it or not. Although our overall number is higher—some two hundred and fifty men, women and children, including the old and infirm—they at least match us in their number of able warriors."

"As she told us that day, they lived on an island in the north—Sgitheanach is its name—apparently in peace for a long time, as another colony of Llyr, like us…and so also like us, they escaped Llyr's destruction. Recently, ruthless barbarians from the far northern sea came and overran their island. Eleri's folk were driven out, and barely escaped with their lives. They came south looking for a home, and —lucky us—they took a fancy to Lluned and the old fort—and occupied it not long before the Lady's visit. It's true that end of the island was not populated, and the old fortress stood empty…but their occupation didn't sit well with us, as you can imagine. You'd think since they were invaded themselves, they would be more sensitive to our feelings on it…and they would at least ask permission…but here they are.

"We have lived with them in an uneasy truce these past six months or so. Their ships come and go, but the fort is always guarded. When our paths do cross, they act as though they are already in charge.

"You say all this as if you expect to be at war at any moment," Gwydion commented. "True, it does not seem like behavior inspired by the example of Llyr…from what I have heard of it, from old tales. The Lady, like you, has apparently been separated from Llyr for a long time…and I am well familiar with how former friends can turn into enemies."

"Unfortunately, I do expect to be at war. At the moment, the standoff is holding, but we fear they are only waiting for the right moment to…well, assimilate us into their community. We have always had a good life in Pentref Lluned, living from the bounty of the sea, and our ships trade with villages along the coast of Prydain. We provide them with the large and delicious pink fleshed fish that fill our waters, and are not found along the coast—we call them bradán—and they provide us with most of the necessities of life that the ocean or our rocky island can't provide, or that we can't make for ourselves.

"As for Eleri, since the welcome from our Council was not to her liking, her envoys have recently approached some of our merchants individually, asking to obtain food and other supplies in exchange for gold. I'm not sure where all the gold is coming from, but she seems to have it in good supply. The Council was not happy; but here as everywhere, greed is greed—and the merchants involved have influence enough to escape severe reprimand.

"Now, their ships ply these waters, and I have heard tales that they have committed acts of piracy against vessels that cross their path. That might be one source of the gold… I can't swear to it, but I suspect it's true. As you said before: not very Llyr-like behavior.

"Hence, my friend, my warning to you. Their ships are about almost every day, and if you had run across them…I doubt your greeting would be as friendly as mine has been; they would more likely ransack you and take anything they thought was of value, including your vessel, and toss you into the sea.

"I will return you to your boat if you wish, but if I do, I would recommend that you sail straight back home the way you came. Unless you plan to sail on to the very edge of the world, and drop off into the nether regions."

Gwydion smiled. "With your permission Captain, I would love to visit your island before sailing back home. I came in search of adventure and a great tale to tell my friends and relatives in Cantrev Cadiffor…and what a tale this will make."

"Ah yes, the adventure. Well, I warn you that you might not receive a warm welcome from everyone…strangers are quite unusual on our island. Although, some of the unattached ladies might take a great interest in you…and even some of the attached ones, comes to think of it," he said with a wink, "with all due respect to your late wife.

"Well then…as you wish, my friend, you are welcome to accompany us to Lluned…as long as you promise to keep that great sword in its sheath. Just remember what I said about discretion."

Gwydion smiled again. "Nothing would please me more, and when I return home, I will not forget your words."

The rest of the morning, Gwydion helped the crew as they netted many of the bradán that Dylan had spoken of, the likes of which he had never seen. Although some were aloof at first, they soon warmed to him, and accepted him as one of the crew. They seemed good men, guileless, who loved to joke and laugh, like many men of the sea he had known.

By early afternoon, the Alys turned toward home, the Melyngar bobbing at her stern. In less than another hour, the small rocky island of Lluned appeared, like a low mountain range rising from the sea. Gwydion judged it to be only three or four miles long, from north to south, and Dylan told him that it was even less in width.

Captain Dylan sailed toward the southern end, and soon the harbor and village of Pentref Lluned was in view. Other craft similar to the Alys lay moored in the harbor. Well-tended merchant structures and cottages lined its edges, and were built up into the surrounding hills. It was a fair sight, perhaps not so grand as Dinas Rhydnant, but just as beautiful. Gwydion glanced at Dylan, who beamed when he saw Gwydion's look of wonder and appreciation.

"Not much, but we call it home," Dylan said.


The ship was soon moored, and Gwydion aided the crew as the catch of the day was unloaded and hauled to local merchants along the shore of the harbor. Melyngar was pulled alongside and moored next to the Alys, and many of the local seamen sauntered over to admire the little vessel.

"Come," Dylan said after the work was done." My wife will have a fine dinner ready, and I'm sure you are famished after your time at sea."

Gwydion followed him gratefully, and Dylan strode along a winding road that switched back and forth up the side of a hill facing the harbor. Sheep grazed on deep green grass on flat plateaus carved by nature into the rocky hills, while sea birds sailed overhead, back and forth to their nests among high steep cliffs further up at the hilltops. Dylan finally stopped at a large and well-built cottage, with windows overlooking the harbor and the sea. The moon had just risen, now closer to full, crowning the waves with white and silver. A view to rival any he had ever seen, Gwydion thought to himself

"We still revere her," Dylan said, gesturing toward the moon. Then pointing in the direction of the village, he added, "We have not completely forgotten our past." Gwydion now saw a small circle of willow trees in a quiet grove just outside the village. In the center stood a white stone alter, with a slender plume of smoke above. He sensed, rather than smelled, the essence of burning sweetgrass.

"Come inside and meet my family."

The dinner was indeed delicious, with bradán as the main course. It was a joy to meet Dylan's fair wife, and his young daughter and son.

Over the next few days, Gwydion accompanied Dylan as he went about his business in the harbor village. It was loosely governed by the Council of Elders, four women and three men, and the citizens were clearly closely knit—an example of what good folk could do, he thought, if left to their own devices.

It was soon obvious however, that the threat of the outsiders was weighing on the village folk, and causing divisions and strife that had not existed before. Some argued for appeasement, pointing out the danger of angering the outsider (and the lucrative business to be had supplying them); while others argued for war—better now than later, when the outsiders had completed their repairs of the old fort, further solidified their plans, and perhaps grown their numbers.

Captain Dylan was among the village leaders who believed that action would be needed soon, and advised to monitor the outsiders closely. One evening, he mentioned to Gwydion that he planned to take the Alys and have a look around the old fort, that the islanders called Caer Dyfi.

"I would appreciate the opportunity to accompany you," Gwydion said, with more eagerness than he had intended. "I have a desire to see these people, and to learn more of them. I do hope that this situation can be resolved peacefully and fairly…it would be sad to contemplate old brothers and sisters of Llyr shedding blood within their own family."

Sensing his intensity, Dylan nodded. "Certainly I would wish for that as well, and I too have no love for the thought of warring with our own kin. Unfortunately though, I know the reality of the situation—our options are few, and it is a great danger to wait too long to act.

"I'm sure this will all make a fascinating tale for a minor noble from Cantrev Cadiffor to take back home to his folk. Or perhaps, for a higher noble from a higher house, seeking information on recent events in the islands far from the coast of Prydain?"

Gwydion pursed his lips, but said nothing.

"Don't worry my friend, your identity is safe with me. You are Gruffydd, for all here that need to know your name. But I have traveled far, and have seen and heard much. I know of the prince—with grey hair now peeking through the dark coloring—who carries a great black sword that is said to flame at his enemies. Who defeated the great champion of Arawn with a word, and not a sword. Who likes to travel alone, and is known to some as the Wolf of Don."

"You mistake a poor lord of Cantrev Cadiffor," Gwydion said with a grim smile. "…but as your guest, I would not wish to argue with you."