"Taran—wake up. Taran. Taran."
He jolted awake with a gasp, his mouth dry and cold sweat beading his brow, to find Eilonwy jostling him urgently. Her voice threaded through the darkness, disembodied save for the hand that moved from his shoulder to brush the damp hair away from his forehead. "You were dreaming again—thrashing about like a fish on dry land," she said. "I couldn't make out what you were saying, but it sounded terrible."
"I… I don't know. I cannot remember…" he mumbled, still disoriented. "I feel terrible, but I cannot recall why..."
A long sigh kissed his ear. "Oh, I hate nightmares," Eilonwy muttered. "They're always like that: leave you feeling as though you've run up a mountain for hours and then rolled down rocks on the other side. Except, you can never remember what you were running from, to avoid it the next time. At least, that's how mine tend to be…" She wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close, nestling her head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry you are having them now, too… I'd blame them on bad spirits lingering about tonight for Nos Galan Gaeaf, but you've been having them for weeks. Do you think they're to do with all of the work weighing on your mind?"
"Mmph. Most likely," Taran grumbled. "And Rhodri departing—losing his experienced counsel, you know… And Iscawin returning soon… And the prospect of other tasks and troubles I am not even aware of yet…" Reflexively, he clasped her hand against his chest and interlaced his fingers with hers. "Many days, it is not so bad—I can see clearly what needs to be done and how to set about doing it, even if I know it will be long before the task is finished. But other days…" He heaved a deep, dispirited sigh. "It's overwhelming. I feel like I am once again in the black lake of the Fair Folk's realm, being pulled in and down no matter how hard I struggle… and unable to see any way out… and unsure whether there even is a way out—" he halted abruptly as rising panic shut tight his throat. A moment passed before he could choke it back down. "At times like those," he murmured, "I dread waking up in the morning for fear of the day ahead, and dread going to sleep at night for fear of the torturous dreams to come."
Eilonwy held him even more tightly, anchoring his turbulent spirit. "We made it through that lake unharmed," she reminded him. "We will make it through this, too. Besides, we've survived plenty of worse things—and you've already accomplished more than many men do in a lifetime. Good Llyr, you defeated Arawn himself! Not without a fair bit of help, mind you, but nevertheless… and that was just one of the feats you've managed."
"True, but those were single tasks, taken one at a time," Taran argued. "As impossible as they seemed, they were straightforward: warn Caer Dathyl of the Horned King's attack; find the Black Crochan; delay the Cauldron Born from reaching Annuvin. Now, there are one hundred seemingly impossible tasks, coming from one hundred different directions, and I only partially understand half of them. How can I know where to begin if I don't even clearly know what must be done?"
"Well… As I see it, you can only handle one thing in any particular moment, even if it seems like those moments are all bunching up together like sheep trying to get into the fold. But if you narrow your gaze in closely enough, you are still undertaking just one straightforward task at a time. It's like embroidering, in a way: looking at all of the threads in the pattern at once is enough to make one's head swim; but a tapestry is created one stitch at a time, so that single stitch is what one watches. Oh, it's important to look at the entire picture once in a while to make sure things don't go too far astray, but there's no use in fretting over it constantly." She broke off and took a breath. "Does that make any sense? I'm not always certain you're following what I'm trying to say. I probably shouldn't be giving advice by drawing a comparison to something I'm so poor at, either, but it does seem to fit."
Taran smiled faintly in the dark. "Yes, it makes a great deal of sense. It is so difficult to do, though—particularly when I'm still not certain what the final image ought to be."
"You have a good enough sense of it, I think," Eilonwy assured him. "And just as you had help in your other challenges, so too, you have help in this… if you will stop being too stubborn to accept it."
"It's not stubbornness," Taran protested. "I simply don't want to burden anyone else—least of all you—with what should be my responsibility."
"I agreed to help shoulder that burden on the day we were wed, and I'm sure you haven't forgotten that already," Eilonwy countered. "So, you have no excuse for behaving as though you must be alone in all of this. When you need help, I help you; when I need help, you help me. It has always been that way with us, and I see no reason why it should change now." In the darkness, he felt her shift up onto one elbow, then hover over him, then press her lips to his in an assured, sustaining kiss. "For the moment, though," she continued, withdrawing only as far as a breath and sweeping a thumb gently over his brow, "do try to go back to sleep—you need it so sorely. And I shall do my best to keep the nightmares away; after so many years doing battle with them myself, they should know better than to trifle with me by now."
A swell of love and gratitude pushed aside some of the oppressive anxiety trapped within Taran's chest—some, but not all. In truth, it was not only the pressure and uncertainty of his royal duties that weighed on him. The shadow of a nameless, formless dread seemed to lurk in the deepest recesses of his mind, taunting him obliquely, then vanishing any time he attempted to shine a light upon it. Something sinister was at hand. He could not see it, but he could sense it prickling on the back of his neck and permeating the very air he breathed. At every turn, mysterious circumstances were distracting and weakening him: first, that unexplained brawl during the Great Council, which had raised tensions even higher than they had been already and sent Elystan away injured; next, the vague rumors of treachery—still entirely unresolved—that Iscawin had brought to light; then, the baffling disappearance of Queen Morwen, which had nearly tipped the Hill Cantrevs into war; then, most recently, the dispute at the quarry, which had seriously drained the treasury and delayed castle repairs. Were all of the troubles merely the vagaries of fate? They felt too deliberate, too targeted, for that to be so. No, something was building patiently, inexorably, day by day to a terrible climax, and he felt powerless to uncover it, let alone prevent it.
Better not to speak of that at the moment, though—no reason to rob Eilonwy of her peace of mind and disrupt her sleep as well. Instead, as she sank back to the pallet and curled up tightly beside him, he tried to focus on the reassuring warmth and solidity of her presence. It did pull strongly enough on his attention to distract him, but not in any way that fostered sleep; his nerves were too hot, his body too tense, his emotions too churned up by the intensity of whatever he had dreamed.
"Eilonwy?" he murmured, testing whether she, too, was still awake.
"Hmm?"
"I don't think I can sleep just yet…"
A quiet, silvery laugh cut through the darkness like a moonbeam. "Well, then," she answered, her unseen hand skating its way up his chest. "You'll have to forgive me for not being too sorry about that…"
Dawn arrived all too soon, clear but chill. Winter was creeping down from the mountain peaks and would soon be coating the landscape with a veil of crystalline frost; a trace scent of it already hung, sharp-edged, in the air. Taran winced a little as his bare feet hit the cold floor, and fought the urge to dive back into the warmth of his bed. The temperature shock did rouse him somewhat, but he was still groggy from his lack of sleep the night before. He couldn't fathom how Eilonwy was already up and bustling about, as lively as ever. She chattered away while he dressed, then all the while they walked down to breakfast, then throughout the meal itself. It took all of Taran's concentration to follow the tumbling stream of words, sort out what he needed to hear from what he didn't, and stop himself from begging her for quiet.
He felt guiltily relieved when they parted ways for the morning and he could attend to more solitary, silent tasks. He sequestered himself back up in their chambers, giving Medyr orders that he was not to be disturbed until he, himself, decided to emerge. Then, he began slogging through the records and correspondence stacked upon the work table. It was more than a little overwhelming. If he hadn't known better, he might have thought the parchments appeared by magic when he wasn't looking, for they seemed to amass so quickly. Only a week or so had passed since he'd cleared the last batch out, and a new one was already piled high. For a writing surface so costly and time-consuming to produce, those desiring his attention seemed to have no shortage of it.
On top of the stack, he found a letter from Cedrych. Curious, he quickly broke the seal and began to read:
...
Cedrych King of Buellt, to Taran of Caer Dallben the esteemed High King of Prydain, greetings and wishes for good health—
This letter is to convey, as promised, the happy news that Morwen Queen of Buellt is now safely home, to the great relief of all. In yet another strange turn of events, the letter informing us of her sister's deathly illness proved as spurious as that accursed ransom letter. Upon arriving without difficulty at the estate, Morwen found her sister entirely healthy and with no knowledge of any correspondence being sent that claimed otherwise. Having already expended great effort in travel, Morwen chose to remain for a time to rest and enjoy the companionship of her family. Imagine my surprise when, after more than a month of searching unsuccessfully for her with the assistance of Tegwyn King of Talgarth, I returned to my stronghold and found her already there, alive and well.
Alas, the identity of whomever arranged the foul deception remains a mystery—and if he wishes to keep his skin intact and his head upon his shoulders, he had best hope that it remains thus. The alliance between Tegwyn and myself is once again sound, and we shall not hesitate to bring the full force of our power to bear upon any who dares cross us.
The depth of gratitude owed you for helping to resolve this matter is beyond measure—your intervention accomplished far more than averting unnecessary bloodshed. I speak for both myself and Tegwyn in saying that we are in your debt, and pledge to you our unassailable fealty.
Long life and long reign to you and Queen Eilonwy.
...
Taran refolded the letter slowly. So… that left one puzzle partially solved and another lingering. It troubled him that whomever initiated the plot was still unknown, but he tried to push that disquieting fact to the back of his mind. No harm had befallen Morwen, and Cedrych and Tegwyn had made amends. That was good enough news, and it would have to suffice for the time being.
Below Cedrych's message lay a much humbler scrap of parchment, soot-smudged and a rather the worse for wear, sealed, but bearing no identifying mark. Upon closer inspection, it looked as though the letter had been opened once before and resealed over the slightly torn edge. Within lay a terse, veiled message from Hevydd, who had not even dared to include his own name:
...
Trip to Arvon has been fruitless thus far. The people here an unfriendly lot—little interest in my wares, and even less willingness to discuss price and what have you. Must fear disloyalty to their local smiths. Not catching too many sideways looks, though, so I will stay on a while yet.
...
A frown creased Taran's brow as he read and re-read the brief message. No willingness to speak—if only the conversations truly were about something as trivial as iron and steel wares. It seemed the smith was having no better luck uncovering the history of Iscawin's misdeeds than the official envoy; and by the looks of that tampered-with seal, he'd attracted more unwanted notice than he'd realized. That, or perhaps every message leaving Arvon came under scrutiny. It was well that Hevydd had the wits to bury his real meaning in a seemingly innocuous message. Taran began to set the note aside with the letter from Cedrych, but his hand hesitated, hovering above the table while his mind leapt ahead. A moment later, he strode over to the hearth instead and tossed the message in, watching the flames lick and bite at its edges until the parchment eventually crumpled inward on itself and slowly disintegrated into ash.
The remainder of the pile contained nothing of equal interest: only a letter from Queen Teleria confirming that she would welcome a visit in late spring to begin the seawall project, and more of the important but tedious records Taran was rapidly coming to both expect and loathe. He had only worked his way through half of them when a soft but clear knock sounded on the door. "Yes?" he called out, unsure whether he was more annoyed or grateful for the interruption.
"It is Medyr, Your Majesty," came the reply.
"You may enter," Taran called back, already dreading whatever might be urgent enough for Medyr to defy his earlier orders.
Medyr entered, looking both apologetic and flustered. "Forgive me, sire—I was loath to intrude against your request," he said, "but we have a rather important guest: King Iscawin of Arvon has arrived sooner than anticipated, a development which seemed to warrant your immediate notification. He awaits an audience with you at your leisure. Shall I arrange for that this very day, or inform him that you will defer it until a later time?"
Taran's stomach lurched. Would that he could defer the meeting indefinitely… "I will speak with him today," he forced himself to say. "Please see him to the Council Chamber and I will follow shortly."
"Very well, sire. And shall I inform the queen that her presence is desired?"
"No, do not trouble her," Taran said after a moment's thought. "I believe she is in a meeting with Cyrvach at the moment, and a discussion with the master masons after that, and it would not do to keep Iscawin waiting so long. He will be here for several days—there will be time enough for her to speak with him herself if she desires it."
"As you wish, sire. I shall ready the Council Chamber for your use," Medyr replied with a slight bow. With that, he bustled off, the sense of purpose already seeming to have dissipated his earlier agitation.
Not so for Taran. Slowly, eking out every moment he could before the meeting, he straightened the parchments into a neat stack, placed his quill neatly beside them, added wood to the fire to ensure it would still be warm upon his return, then paced for a bit while preparing his thoughts. The quarry plot must be discussed—but was it better to challenge Iscawin directly, letting him know his involvement was suspected, or to approach the matter sideways, making no accusations while keeping an eye on the cantrev king's reactions? How best to handle a possible viper?
Finally, he could afford no more delay. Expelling what nervousness he could in a long huff, he strode from the chamber, with the two guards at the door following alongside. He found Iscawin waiting for him in the Council Chamber, conversing with Medyr about the state of the ongoing improvements at Caer Dathyl. They fell silent as he entered. Iscawin proffered a modest bow, and Medyr cast Taran a faint smile of encouragement before leaving to return to his wonted tasks.
"Well met, Iscawin," Taran said. "Time must have slipped away from me. It seems but a week or two ago when last we spoke."
"Time flows quickly when one has so many endeavors underway," the cantrev king acknowledged. "But autumn has come and gone. So, I am here as promised, to see that my warriors have been serving to your satisfaction."
Taran stepped forward and shook his hand in greeting, then motioned for him to be seated. He himself remained standing, arms crossed. "Indeed," he began, steeling his nerves and looking Iscawin squarely in the eyes, "nearly all have served well—save two. Those two, however, have wrought damage far exceeding their number." He paused, then, watching Iscawin's brows tighten with bemused concern.
"Damage of what nature?" the king of Arvon asked. "Tell me, and I shall do whatever I must to redress the wrongs and punish those responsible."
"The matter concerned the quarry," Taran went on, continuing to watch Iscawin closely all the while, scrutinizing his reaction for any hint of deception. "The guards charged with transporting the workers' pay—two of them your men—were thieving a good portion of it along the way each time. To explain away the shortage and evade discovery, they concocted a lie that I myself had reduced the quarrymen's wages. For months, this ruse played out unknown to me, sowing anger among the workers and prompting them to abandon their positions. Shipments of stone were delayed in turn, slowing the rebuilding effort until it halted entirely. We have lost a grievous amount of progress as a result."
Iscawin's previously wary expression hardened, his eyes glinting with icy anger. "Those are shameful tidings, indeed," he said. "I stand with you in righteous fury, for any such betrayal of my king is likewise a betrayal of me. I trust that you have executed them, in keeping with the law?"
"No, such punishment would have accomplished little other than providing a hollow sense of retribution," Taran informed him with a shake of his head. "I have sent them to the quarry instead, where they will work to repay their debt alongside the very men they have wronged."
Puzzlement returned to Iscawin's countenance. "You would allow such conniving men to remain so near? Forgive my frankness sire, for I mean no impudence by it, but can you afford such leniency? What if their motive was more sinister than personal gain? What if they escape and seek vengeance? Surely banishment, at the very least, ought to have been their fate. Or, if you wish to avoid the appearance that you are unmerciful, return them to me for the meting out of justice, as they are my subjects. I shall see to it that they never trouble you again."
"That will not be necessary. They are under close watch by day and imprisoned by night—and so they will remain for the term of their punishment," said Taran.
"Are you certain that will be enough?" Iscawin questioned. His expression had gone deadly serious. "In my experience, it is best to stamp out such treachery completely. Too often, it spreads like a plague from one man to another, and from each of them to ten more. Utter silence is the only true remedy."
"I cannot wield death so lightly," Taran replied firmly. "I will not cut the lives of those men short when good might yet come of them. Did you not ask as much for yourself but a few months ago?"
Iscawin's posture stiffened. "I did," he acknowledged tightly, before falling into an extended silence. "Well," he continued at last, "if you will not give them over to me for punishment, will you at least grant me a word with them? I would have them know the full extent of my contempt and anger. In truth, they ought to be grateful for their prison bars this day, for that iron will spare them my full wrath."
Taran hesitated, weighing the consequences of such a meeting. If Iscawin were the true architect of the plot, a conversation alone with the thieves would allow them to trade vital information… or for Iscawin to slip the imprisoned men some means of escape… or bribe their guards to ensure that they perished mysteriously. He could accompany the cantrev king instead, and attempt to glean from their interactions some hint of whether they had conspired together. Most likely, though, the ensuing meeting would be naught but an inscrutable act of deception by all concerned. No, neither would do. He cleared his throat before delivering his decision, to shake loose any trace of the nervousness he felt jittering through him. "No, they are my concern now," he stated firmly, "although you have my thanks for your willingness to intercede."
The sudden tension in the air felt thick enough to chew. Taran could yet sense a seething rage behind Iscawin's outward calm, although it was not clear whether that anger burned for the thieves' brazen crime, their carelessness in being caught, or the denial of his request to speak with them.
The cantrev king gave a curt nod. "So be it," he conceded tersely. "I shall speak only with the guards still in your service—and speak to them I must, for it seems I must instill anew a proper fear of both your authority and mine. I will not have any others betray you, nor jeopardize our alliance by doing so."
"Agreed," Taran replied. "I would prefer that their consciences alone would be enough to deter such treachery, but it may be that fear alone can govern some men. Go attend to what you must, Iscawin, and we shall speak further in the coming days."
The cantrev king rose from his chair, bowed again in farewell, and strode off through the door the guards opened for him. The heavy atmosphere of doubt and anxiety, contention and suspicion, lingered behind.
Seeking a moment or two alone with his thoughts, Taran headed to the gardens. Although fading into their year-end slumber now, they might yet offer some solace. Slowly, he made his way through the rows of herbs gone to seed, past the vegetable patches turned over for winter, beyond the pen where Hew Wen and her family dwelled, and finally to the orchard against the far outer wall. The moment the trees came clearly into sight, a twinge of dismay pulled at his heart; it was plain to see that three of the grafted apple trees had failed in the time since he'd last visited. A scattering of withered, brown leaves still clung to their spindly stems, fluttering listlessly in the chill breeze like the abandoned battle flags of a failed war. Dolefully, he reached out and brushed his fingers across them, feeling their papery dryness crackle under his touch, unnerved by how quickly they had faded. Had he truly been absent so long, to not even see their decline begin? The other six trees looked strong enough, bedecked with autumn-gold leaves that glowed in the light of the late morning sun. Somehow, though, the sight of those survivors raised his spirits far less than the lost trees had lowered them.
Dispirited, he fetched a pail and made the first of several trips to the well to bring water for those still alive. They had seen an unusual dry spell the past several days and would need it sorely. As he poured the crystal-clear water over the roots, watching it seep into the thirsty soil, he couldn't help but think of his own circumstance: no matter how much effort he put forth, it seemed to vanish into nothingness, never sufficient to fill the need. How many more things would fail on account of his shortcomings? Or, rather, was he not the water-bearer but another apple tree, spliced onto strange roots in foreign soil, fighting against steep odds to survive? The breeze stirred again. The trees rustled wordless messages of both reassurance and warning. Pulling in a deep breath of the sharp, musky-sweet autumn air, Taran turned his steps again toward the well. Whatever doubts plagued him, there was only to keep doing what must be done.
Before returning to Arvon, Iscawin spent some time touring Caer Dathyl and surveying the progress that had been made. The barracks, stables, kitchens and workshops had long since been finished, and the pottery and weaving rooms were finally underway, but it was clear that the wall and tower repairs lagged far behind hopes despite the intense bustle of men toiling around them.
At the last, he paid a visit to the interim House of Lore and spoke for a while with Aneirin about the many songs and documents that had thus far been recovered. Aneirin, gracious as always, invited him to linger if he wished and take a first-hand look at the tomes. Fflewddur, scribing at a table by himself that afternoon, kept a wary eye on the cantrev king throughout his conversation with the Chief Bard, and an even warier eye on him as he browsed the laden shelves. It wouldn't do to have such an unscrupulous fellow poking around important documents unwatched, however inclined Aneirin was to share knowledge with all who stopped in.
Iscawin did not fail to notice the scrutiny upon him. "Well-met Son of Godo," he said as he approached the shelves closest to Fflewddur. "I see you have not abandoned your efforts here among the bards."
"Indeed," Fflewddur replied stiffly. And I see you have not ceased your habit of poking your nose where it is not wanted, he thought. Aloud, he remarked, "I heard tell you were planning a return visit to Caer Dathyl to oversee your warriors, but you'll find none of them here. What business have you in the Hall of Lore?"
"None but the satisfaction of a curious mind," Iscawin answered. "Having traveled this far, I could not leave without seeing the progress of the past few months, particularly the advances made here. As impressive as the restored fortifications are, the bards' work is of a far rarer nature and quite unlike what I usually have occasion to see. I trust my presence is not a disruption?"
"How very courteous of you to ask," Fflewddur replied, his voice oozing cynicism. "If Aneirin has permitted you to be here, it is not my place to gainsay him. But count yourself lucky Telyn is not here—she would not be so obliging."
Mild surprise flitted across Iscawin's countenance. "Is she not still assisting the bards, then?"
"From time to time," Fflewddur replied.
"That infrequently? I wonder what would pull her away from such an important endeavor—and from company she seemed to favor so highly."
"Healing matters, I would assume; that is her trade, after all," Fflewddur replied acerbically. "Combat training as well, to better defend herself against any would-be foe," he added with a glare.
"You do not know her whereabouts for certain?" Iscawin asked, eyebrows raised, disregarding the venom in the bard's tone. "That surprises me—firstly, that she would not tell you and, moreover, that you would not make a point to ask."
Fflewddur felt his blood coming to a rolling boil. "No, I do not know for certain," he shot back. "She does not always tell me of her comings and goings, and I do not pry. I fail to see how her whereabouts are any concern of yours, though."
Iscawin shrugged. "They are not. I was simply making an observation." He turned to the leather-bound tomes, leisurely selecting and leafing through several while he continued to speak. "You must see why I find it a bit odd, however: when I was here for the Great Council, she appeared as inseparable from you as your shadow. Now, it sounds as though she is absent more often than not."
"What I fail to understand is why you see fit to comment on it," Fflewddur ground out through clenched teeth.
"Consider it a favor," Iscawin replied with a fleeting glance upward and a subtle smirk. "You would do well to keep an eye on her—an untethered falcon will stray from its mews, and hunt for its own pleasure."
"And the sword of an angry Fflam will stray from its scabbard if you don't mind your tongue!" Fflewddur fired back, leaping up from his bench. It took all of his will to refrain from shoving the cantrev king into the bookshelves and watching them come tumbling down upon his head—only reverence for the carefully inscribed tomes restrained him.
"I only give you fair warning," Iscawin replied with another shrug. "Lady Telyn is a restless creature—feral, even—and such a one is apt to wound those who come too close. You do not know her as well as you think."
"Oh, and I suppose you do?" retorted Fflewddur. "She has told me plenty about herself—and about you, I might add."
Iscawin remained unruffled, clearly knowing full well that Fflewddur wouldn't dare incite a duel in the middle of the Hall of Lore. He merely gave a slight, patronizing smile and continued leafing through the book in his hands. "Yes, you know what she has told you. But, have you any way to know how much of that is true? Or, rather, how much of the truth she neglected to reveal? That is her way, after all—as you must have noticed by now."
"Hmph," Fflewddur grunted in reply. There was more truth in that than he wished to admit.
"She told you she had a husband once?" Iscawin asked, glancing up again.
"That is no secret," Fflewddur replied brusquely.
"And she told you he was murdered—viciously stabbed through the heart?"
"Yes, I am well aware of that too…" Fflewddur said more slowly, his eyes narrowing. Why, he wondered, would Iscawin mention the sordid business if he'd had any part in it? What game was afoot?
"No doubt she told you I was to blame," Iscawin continued. "Yet I wonder… how fully did she explain why she believed that was so? Did she make a point to say that she had previously caught my attention, my favor, my affection?"
"So she claimed…"
"But did she mention that the affection was, at first, reciprocal?" Iscawin waited a moment for the implication to fully sink in. He stared coolly at Fflewddur, who had gone pale with a mixture of indignation and incredulity, his tongue bound by surprise. "Oh, I assure you," the King of Arvon pressed onward, slowly, deliberately, his voice turning as steely smooth as the flat of a blade, "Lady Telyn relished her place in my court: a position of both freedom and security, conferring the satisfactions of a queen without the burden of a crown. Yes, she reveled in it—for a time. But it is in her nature to seek novelty, for she thrills at the hunt more than the catch, no? And while she does enjoy the finer material things in life, she bends more strongly toward the earthier ones. So, she took up with her farmer, and played me for a fool, and then blamed me for a murder committed by common thieves. And when I sought to rise above my anger and console her in her grief, she rebuffed me at every turn, and continues to cast aspersions on my name."
He paused again, his mouth bending into a faint, tight, mirthless smile. "No, she did not lie to you; for all that she is mistaken, she fully believes I slew her husband out of jealousy. Nevertheless, as a bard like you must know, a truth told slantwise can drastically bend one's understanding of a tale. As I said before, Telyn is not what she appears. Have a care that your faith in her is not your undoing." So saying, he laid the book he was holding upon the table, gave Fflewddur one last pointed look, then strode from the Hall of Lore.
Fflewddur glared after him hotly enough to spark a conflagration, but he planted his feet and bit his tongue—hard. He refused to give Iscawin the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper. Instead, scowling, he moved to retrieve the abandoned tome. As he picked it up, however, a few lines of text caught his eye. It was a page from the tale of Blodeuwedd, the enchanted maiden created from flowers for the hero Lleu Llaw Gyffes, who was cursed to never have a human wife. Blodeuwedd, the traitor who embraced another lover and conspired with him to slay her husband.
"That slippery-skinned, beady-eyed, forked-tongued snake!" Fflewddur cursed, slapping the book shut with a thump. How dare he suggest Telyn was capable of such manipulation and deceit—that she would ever have deigned to consort with a vile wretch like him in the first place? It was preposterous! It was out-and-out slander! It was unimaginable and unforgivable calumny! Irritated as a bee whose hive had been threatened, he quickly returned the tome to its shelf, then stormed outside to catch a breath of fresh air, hoping it would cool his blazing temper. After that, he would see if there were any rousing battle chants that needed to be transcribed—preferably describing gory violence done to villainous foes, every one of which he planned to imagine had Iscawin's face. If he couldn't skewer the slimy villain in actuality, he might as well do so in his imagination. It would hardly satisfy, but he hoped it would at least blunt his rage.
Try as he might to dismiss Iscawin's remarks, Fflewddur's mind kept looping back to them long after the cantrev king himself had departed. The seeds of doubt had been planted and were now taking root despite his every attempt to let them wither. The more he thought on it—and as much as he hated to admit it—Iscawin had not been entirely wrong about Telyn. He must have been lying about her dalliance with him, but as for the rest… She was tight-lipped about herself, for all that she was forthright about everything else. Nor was there any way to verify what she had revealed of her past. She'd been heading off on her own more frequently, too, and saying less than ever about where and why she went. She hadn't behaved any differently toward him of late, but even so…
No—it was too outlandish to be believed. Some of Iscawin's remarks might be true, but the insinuation behind them could not be. Telyn was no conniving traitor, nor fickle adulteress. Surely, Iscawin was only trying to stir up trouble in retaliation for her ongoing assaults on his character.
But where had she been disappearing to of late? Why the secrecy? Had Iscawin's lies inadvertently struck truth?
He cursed the King of Arvon for raising his suspicions, and reminded himself that Telyn had always done as she pleased with little concern for anyone else's knowledge or approval. Yet, no matter how many times he swept his worries away, they twined right back like persistent weeds.
Then, over the following weeks, he began to discern a pattern in her absences. Every third day—every third afternoon, in fact—she slipped off without a word of explanation. It was too regular for healing work; that was usually sporadic, and she'd always told him about it besides. Nor was it for weapons practice; he passed the training yard on his way to and from the Hall of Lore and never once had he spotted her there at that time of day. It wasn't to meet with Eilonwy for some other reason, either; he'd crossed paths with her on a few occasions when Telyn was gone. Nor did the disappearances coincide with fair weather, when Telyn would be inclined to roam or gather herbs; even on the foulest days, on schedule, she vanished. How had he not noticed before? For how long had it been going on unnoticed?
One day, when his mind had been spinning around the mystery for hours on end, waylaying all attempts at bardic work, he begged leave of Aneirin and set out for a ramble. He urgently needed to move—to stretch his limbs, and get his heart pumping, and let the sharp bite of the autumn wind snap through his distraction. Even a few hours would do him good. Taking the time only to throw on his cloak and lace his boots tightly, he strode through the castle gates and struck out across the fields.
It took a fair while for his nerves to settle, but the fields and foothills worked their magic in the end. Granted, the blustery weather made it more of a rough scouring than a soothing cleanse, but that suited him just fine. Even the moody sky seemed to hold more energy than oppression, exhilarating rather than dampening his spirit…
…until it began to rain. He'd known from the heavy, slate-colored clouds overhead that it could come at any moment, but had hoped it would hold off until he'd returned. Fortunately, it was a mere drizzle at first, not enough to soak through his thick cloak. It was a harbinger of worse, though, and he intended to heed it. Swiftly, he turned his steps homeward, loping along the edge of the valley beneath what shelter the fringe of trees provided.
As he neared Caer Dathyl, he skirted the periphery of the densely clustered cottages that flanked the stronghold. Sensing the impending storm, most of their denizens had withdrawn indoors, and those still about were hurrying to complete their chores and do the same. All save one: a lone, slight figure, shrouded under the hood of her cloak and with basket in hand, striding purposefully down from the hilltop throne of Caer Dathyl and across the tussock-spotted fields. As Fflewddur's path began to converge with hers, he recognized her gait—
Telyn. He nearly hailed her with a wave and a call, but a sudden thought stayed his hand. He spun time backward in his mind… Yes, two days had passed since her last unexplained absence, and here she was setting out in weather that ought to have her curling up beside a warm, dry hearth. He stopped short and watched, unseen on account of the trees around him and Telyn's own haste to reach her destination. Curiosity bit at him like a hungry dog snapping at a scrap of meat. So, this was presumably where she'd been going, but he still did not know why. As he stood there, tracking her route past the first few cottages, he felt an inexorable pull to follow.
Against his better judgement, he did.
Swiftly as he dared, he made his way closer to the settlement, then through it, careful to stay behind Telyn without losing sight of her. His conscience pricked at him the entire way. It was shameful to spy on her like this; he should simply continue homeward, mention later that he'd seen her, and ask straight out why she'd gone to the village. But that would reveal his distrust, which was sure to bring trouble… No, this would allow him to satisfy his curiosity without her knowing. Whatever business brought her here was undoubtedly innocent, anyway, so there was no need for confrontation. Really, this sneaking about was only to give him some peace of mind…
Or so he reassured himself, unwilling to admit the full depth of his suspicion or the dishonor of his conduct.
At last, he saw Telyn halt before one of the whitewashed dwellings. He ducked around the corner of an outbuilding and kept watch. Although he lacked a clear line of sight, it was sufficient for him to see the shadowed figure of a man open the door, and to see Telyn throw back her hood and smile warmly in greeting before stepping inside.
Dread washed over Fflewddur, colder even than the autumn rain that had finally seeped through to his skin. Dread, and indecision. If he moved closer to investigate, he would be even more a spy than he was already. Yet, to not know the truth of things—to see enough to feed his fears, but not enough to quell them—would be unbearable. Then again, what if he uncovered a truth that confirmed those fears? That bright smile she'd just given the stranger… The secrecy of her visits here… For several moments, his internal struggle paralyzed him.
In the end, though, the siren song of knowledge won out. He glanced about to ensure no one was around to see him, then crept around the side of the cottage to a half-shuttered window. The rain was pelting down by then in hard, fat drops, loudly enough that he could not make out the words passing between Telyn and the stranger. Even so, his view through the gap in the shutters was only too clear.
What he saw twisted a hot knife in his heart. There Telyn stood beside the dark-haired man, who was seated near the hearth and stripped bare to the waist. Gracefully as ever, she bent in close him. Gently, she traced her fingers over the jagged scars that marred his skin, running across his back, down from shoulder to elbow, and along his forearms. A warrior he was, clearly. She circled around to stand before him, said something indiscernible, then smiled brilliantly at his reply, white teeth flashing in the firelight. Then, she reached out and clasped his hands in hers…
Fflewddur clamped his eyes shut and turned away, grimacing. He could bear to see no more; not one blink of an eye more; not one more torturous image, sure to replay again, and again, and again in his mind. With a low groan, he pressed his hands and forehead against the damp cottage wall, trying to steady his quaking body as rage and pain seethed behind his ribs. He felt the frigid rain streaming down his back and fervently wished it would extinguish the fire now searing him from the inside out. Oh, how he burned to rush into the cottage and confront the pair of them! But what would that accomplish? What could he possibly say or do? He could not harm Telyn no matter what she'd done. And why should he even want to fight for an unfaithful lover who was already lost to him? She didn't deserve an attempt to win her back…
For several ragged breaths, his urge to lash out warred against both wisdom and his desire to flee the source of torment. Finally, with an anguished curse under his breath, reason—or hopelessness—won out. He turned and fled the village as swiftly as his legs could carry him, while the heartless rain lashed down from on high.
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A/N: So, I got impatient and decided to post this week after all, but you may not be happy about it after this cliff-hanger. Sorry! Try to think of it as really immersing yourself in the angst that Taran and Fflewddur are feeling right now. To my more emotional readers: take the time between posting to brace yourselves; the next chapter gets ugly. :(
