Telyn did not shed a tear until she was well beyond Caer Dathyl—not while she paced furiously in her room, feeling as though she wanted to jump out of her own skin, attempting to decide her course; not while she stuffed her few belongings into a worn leather pack and set out for the stable to ready Seiriol; not when she coerced the castle guards into letting her slip through the gates without notice just before dawn; not even when the chill autumn rains began to pelt her that afternoon, weighing her down and soaking her through to the skin. From sunup to sundown, she rode on the strength of her indignant fury, her eyes as dry as a drained riverbed, unaware of any sensation but the pain, and heartbreak, and raging fire within.
But then she stopped. Night descended, and with it came the full, crushing weight of loneliness and loss, bearing her to the ground. All was lost. Love was gone, happiness was gone, the bright future she had foreseen was gone—all ended in an instant, slain by faltering trust and a few razor-sharp words. His words. Her words. Her own stark decision to leave, to abandon, to flee the wellspring of her anguish. The song she loved most had cut off mid-verse with the discordant snap of a flawed string, and now she could not imagine ever hearing it again. With that harsh realization, the tears came at last, bursting forth in a heaving tide of sobs and salt. Memories of her years with Fflewddur rose one after another like phantoms, taunting and tormenting. The few unpleasant memories were painful. The good memories were excruciating. The visions of what might have been were the worst torture of all.
But she could not turn back. She could not bear to face him again. She could not endure seeing him day-in and day-out, acting as though nothing had ever passed between them, either joyous or heartrending. To be courteously indifferent. To hold her head high. To ignore the whispers. To bite back anger, and mask grief, and look him in the eye and pretend she did not still care. No, she could not—should not—turn back. If instinct had commanded her to run, she must heed that drive, for surely it was grounded in something real, something she should not ignore, some inherent fissure that would inevitably have split wide between them….
Or perhaps not. Perhaps it had merely been the distortion of anger, twisting her mind with lies and pushing her toward ruin in the guise of self-preservation. Perhaps she should have disregarded it, should have stayed, should now spin around and go racing back—pride, and instinct, and caution be damned…
Or perhaps not.
Gwyn's bones, did it matter? She'd made her choice. For good or ill, she must now live with it.
But could she?
Curled on her side in the scant shelter of a rocky outcrop, cold, and drenched, and utterly alone in the moonless dark, Telyn fervently wished she could sink into the earth itself, to be numbed and know no more. But oblivion paid her silent pleas no heed. Her heart kept beating. Her thoughts kept spinning. Her lungs continued to draw breath. In the end, it was oblivion's more compassionate cousin, sleep, who took pity on her, wrapping her exhausted body and aching spirit in a temporary respite.
When she awoke the next morning, stiff and bitterly cold, her overwhelming sorrow had ebbed to a dull, throbbing bleakness. For a long while, she simply lay still, attempting to stitch together her tattered thoughts. What now? What next? What was left after her world had crumbled away? The coarse gravel beneath her bit into her shoulder. She breathed in the sharp scent of frost and soil, then watched her exhalation plume in the thin air. She dug her frigid fingertips into the folds of her cloak, sightlessly reading the minute ridges of warp and weft. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and tasted the lingering salt of the past night's tears.
Myself… she thought. I still have myself… my body, and my mind, and my will… as always. Whatever I have lost, whatever I left behind, I still have myself. That will have to be enough. Achingly, she pressed one palm to the hard ground and pushed herself up. Has my world not turned upside-down before? Have I not survived and begun anew each time? I can do so again. I will. I must. I made my choice.
With a deep, shuddering sigh, she climbed fully to her feet and surveyed the expanse of ice-kissed heather and gorse stretching out before her, disappearing into blankets of fog. The form of her new life lay equally shrouded, but she knew one thing for certain: she would not find it standing on a barren heath, one day's travel from Caer Dathyl. I have to keep moving…
But where?
For days, she rode aimlessly, seeking only to lose herself in the vastness of the land and lose her thoughts in the details of it. There was plenty to distract her. The sun and clouds circled and swept in their endless dance of light and shadow. The cold waters of Ystrad rushed by as swiftly as ever, inexorably carving their path through bedrock. The mountain peaks rose as majestically as always in the distance, flinty by day and violet in the setting sun, indifferent to human woe. The brisk autumn winds offered to keep her temper cool and her cheeks dry. Even the drumbeat of Seiriol's hooves on turf and stone was there, ready to drown out the inner voice that whispered insidious questions about whether she'd been wrong to leave, or wrong to remain as long as she had. Yes, there was plenty to distract her. Except, none of it did. At best, the sights and sounds merely dulled the steely edge of pain that cut into her heart with every breath.
Nevertheless, the low arc of the sun and the recurring morning frost reminded her it was nigh unto winter. She could not venture much farther before the weather would prove fatal for a traveler alone. She needed warmth. She needed shelter. She needed more food than the waning land would provide. But where to go? It would have to be somewhere large enough to need her services as a healer, yet small enough to pose little risk of discovery should anyone actually come searching for her… somewhere isolated, peaceful, simple… exactly the sort of place she'd sought when fleeing Arvon those many years ago…
At last, clarity broke like a lock splitting open, and she nearly laughed at her own foolishness for not thinking of it sooner. Why not begin right where she'd left off before? It had been a good enough plan then, and could be so still; and this time, there would be no enchanters—real or aspiring—to waylay her. Decision made and determination rising, she struck out, riding as swiftly and directly as Seiriol could carry her. She would go where she could be wholly Telyn again, with no feline shadow to stalk her.
By the clear light of day, she believed such a future was within reach. Yet, each night in the murky, nebulous realm of dreams, when her mind slipped its bonds of reason and her heart held sway, she still wore tawny fur upon her skin and chased songbirds ever just out of reach.
From the moment Fflewddur departed Caer Dathyl, he kept up a breakneck pace, stopping only when his horse demanded rest or he himself became so exhausted that he could barely remain upright in the saddle. Even then, he allowed himself but a few hours of sleep each night before rising again at the first hint of daylight. There was not an hour to waste. Weariness was inconsequential. Hunger was an afterthought, for he had little appetite and food held no savor. Bodily pain was a weak, whimpering complaint when compared to his wrenching heartache. Finding Telyn was all that mattered, and that meant covering as much ground as he could, as quickly as possible.
Southward he rode, following the banks of River Ystrad. He knew not where Telyn might mean to end up, but that seemed the most logical direction in which to begin. He felt certain she would shun Cantrev Arvon at all costs despite having family there, and the other northern lands because of their proximity to Caer Dathyl and his own realm. The Valley of Ystrad offered a much swifter and safer way south than traversing the Llawgadarn Mountains, so he assumed that had been her route and followed suit. In truth, it did not matter where he began his journey; he was determined to search every last handspan of Prydain for her if need be, from hill to valley and stronghold to hovel.
Along the way, he stopped each person he encountered, asking after a wandering healer who moved with catlike grace. None had seen her. None had heard even a whisper of her name. Although many offered him their hospitality, he lingered no more than a day in any one place. Rheged, Dau Gleddyn, Mawr… none of the cantrevs yielded any success, nor even a hint as to Telyn's whereabouts. Days turned into weeks, weeks into a month, and chill rains gave way to sleet and snow. Dispirited, Fflewddur began to doubt his course. Had he actually outpaced Telyn in his haste, inquiring about her in places she had not passed through yet? Or, had she taken a different direction entirely? Worse still, had some ill had befallen her? Capable as she was, traveling alone could turn from dangerous to deadly in an instant: one misstep, one ill-chosen river crossing, one unfortunate encounter with a hungry beast or ruthless villain… Fflewddur shook the grim visions from his head before they could take hold, and pressed onward even more resolutely.
By the time he reached Cantrev Cadiffor, he was so haggard from his relentless exertions that Smoit threatened to lock him in one of Caer Cadarn's towers if he did not voluntarily agree to stay a few days and down every morsel of food put before him. "My body and blood, man!" the burly king cried, grasping his old comrade by the bony shoulders. "If you were any gaunter, I'd mistake you for an escaped Cauldron-Born!"
Fflewddur gave a rueful, half-hearted smile in return. "I think even they might have more life in them," he acknowledged. "But a Fflam is undaunted," he added weakly. "In fact, I feel a second wind coming on as we speak. I will stay the night for the sake of visiting an old comrade, but I really must be on my way after that."
Smoit snorted loudly enough to startle the hound sleeping by the hearth; it let out a frightened yelp and ran off into the adjacent room. "Oh, you'll remain for as long as I command, my friend—long enough to put some meat back on those bones, and then a few days longer than that for good measure!" he replied. "What has gotten into you, anyway, chasing after that will-o-the-wisp wildcat?" His thick brows drew so close together that they merged into one. "My skull and spine, any woman who causes you that much trouble isn't worth the effort of tracking down."
"Not so," Fflewddur replied quietly. "She…" He could not even finish the sentence. An explanation would take more breath than he had and more words than he knew.
"Forget her!" Smoit urged. "Tarry with me a while and I'll show you enough merriment to heal any wounded heart! Who knows? Perhaps you'll spot a fair maid here in Cadiffor, and you can head north again with a queen by your side."
Fflewddur gave him a pointed look. "Were it so easy, why are you still without a queen yourself?" He did not need to say more. Even years on from his wife's death, Smoit had yet to remarry. Most kings would have found a new queen within a year—whomever brought the most land, or wealth, or even mere beauty with her as dowry. Not so with Smoit. For all his boisterousness, for all his bluster, for all that he urged Fflewddur to forget Telyn, he understood full well why his friend would not.
Fflewddur did consent to remain for a handful of days in Cadiffor. He feasted with Smoit when such was demanded of him, although he had little heart for it and inwardly lamented the lost time. During the remainder of his waking hours, he made excursions to the strongholds of Smoit's vassals and the various clusters of cottages in between, continuing his search under the pretense of providing bardic entertainment.
One evening, a fair-sized group of cottagers assembled to hear him play, crowding into one of the tiny thatched huts. Fflewddur sat in the center of the room and tuned his harp as the cottagers took their own seats upon every available surface, from benches and tables to the hard-packed earthen floor itself. As always, he scanned the audience for Telyn—and as every time before, she was nowhere to be seen. The twinge of disappointment he felt was all too familiar, although not nearly as fierce as it had been early on, when he'd still believed he might find her quickly. His heart no longer rose so high with hope, so it sustained less damage in falling—less, but still enough to hurt.
For the moment, he attempted to distract himself with playing, gleaning what pleasure he could from the joy his music brought to others. He began with several well-known songs that were sure to win the audience over, then moved on to a few of his own compositions, including one about the quest for the Black Crochan. It couldn't hurt, he reckoned, to mention the heroics of the new high king and queen, and win them some support in the process. After finishing that tune to a hearty round of applause, he turned to the crowd for requests.
"And what shall I play next?" he asked amiably. "Another merry tune? A rousing warrior's lay? Or perhaps a sweet ballad?"
"A song for the brokenhearted!" one young man called out wryly from the back of the room.
Again, Fflewddur felt that familiar twinge in his chest, matched by a rueful twist of his lips. "Ahh," he replied knowingly. "My heart goes out to you, lad, if you are such a one… But I believe I do have just the manner of song you seek..."
Winter came on like a wolf that year, swift and sharp-toothed. At first, Fflewddur hoped to continue his search regardless of the season, and he forged doggedly ahead through the icy gales and heavy snowstorms. Eventually, however, the treacherous conditions forced him to acknowledge what a futile and potentially deadly battle he waged. The relentless pace had weakened him more than he wanted to admit. His new steed, Generys, mettlesome as she was, was no match for the deep snow and bitter cold, either. Wistfully, he recalled how Llyan had actually frolicked through such weather before, bounding playfully through the snowdrifts and twitching her whiskers at the swirling flakes. He missed her doubly, now: both the stalwart mountain cat she had been and the remarkable woman she had become. Dejected and defeated, he turned northward once again and began the arduous, lonely journey home to Caer Fflam. He only hoped his threadbare fortune would hold out long enough for him to reach it safely.
When he staggered through the gates at last, weeks later, the change in him was plain for all to see. Ragged from hard travel, withered to a shadow of himself, and utterly devoid of his usual good humor, he greeted his closest servitors weakly, then immediately withdrew to his private quarters, asking that he not be disturbed. Telyn was nowhere to be seen—and not once did he speak her name. Most unsettling of all was the new harp he bore upon his shoulder: a gloriously beautiful instrument that he set in a place of pride upon a table in his chambers, yet never played.
His subjects asked no questions; it was easy enough to guess what had happened, more or less. They grew increasingly concerned, however, as winter wore on and their king's mood remained as dark and dreary as the season itself. It wasn't in his nature to remain downhearted for so long, embodying not mere sadness, but despair.
One evening, Delyth took it upon herself to call Baeddan, Cadwallon, and Ovan into her kitchen to discuss the matter. "I've never seen him so bad off, have you?" she asked in hushed tones, looking to each of her companions in turn.
"Not I," Ovan answered, rubbing a hand over the back of his sturdy neck. "Woebegone as a hawk with a wing down, he is."
"Nor I," Baeddan concurred with a doleful shake of his head. "At least, not since his mother died, or his father and brothers before that…"
Delyth's brow crinkled and she wrung her plump hands in agitation. "Even then, the grief struck him… differently, somehow. He was despondent for a good long while—and rightfully so, the poor dear—but this time… Oh, I don't know… This is something else again."
All four fell silent, then, chewing their thoughts.
After a long pause, Cadwallon spoke up. "He knows she is still out there, beyond reach, and it haunts him. That is the difference," he remarked quietly. Puzzled, his companions looked to him for explanation. With a sigh, the old war leader leaned heavily against the stout kitchen table and crossed his arms, frowning. "The deaths of his kin were out of his hands," he continued. "They were gone, plain and simple, through no fault of his own and with nothing for him to do but resign himself to it. My guess is, whatever went awry with Lady Telyn, there is a mountain of guilt involved. Worse still, the fact that she yet lives leaves him clutching a shard of hope—and that can cut even more cruelly than an irreversible loss. The wound remains fresh, torn open again and again, unable to heal."
The others pondered in silence that for a moment. The kitchen was fairly cozy from the heat of the constant cooking fire, but it failed to ease their somber mood.
"He'd fare better if he simply gave up," Cadwallon grumbled. "And I warned him, mind you—I could see from the outset that Lady Telyn would be trouble one way or another…"
"For shame!" Delyth scolded. "She seemed a good-hearted lady, for all her unusual, headstrong ways. He seemed so happy with her around, too. I, myself, had rather hoped she would return to stay."
"Hmph," Cadwallon grunted. "Powerful currents are apt to sweep one away—and Lady Telyn's character is about as strong as River Ystrad. I admit, she won me over with her tenacity and charm, but a risky venture is still a risky venture. His Highness doesn't need any woman with the capacity to lay his spirit so low; it draws his attention away from his duties."
"Belin knows, he struggles with that enough already," Baeddan muttered. "It is an ill turn of fate, though," he added somewhat wistfully. "Imperfections and all, I would have welcomed her as queen."
Ovan frowned. "Well, it appears that will never come to pass now, will it? So what can we do? Nothing seems to distract the king from his hurt. I've tried to coax him into falconing with me, but to no avail. He won't even go out for a ride on days when the weather is tolerable."
"Nor will he spend any time training with me," Cadwallon added. "I thought the exertion might do him good—vent some frustration sparring, you know. No luck."
Delyth tsked sadly. "He isn't eating enough to waste his energy on that anyway—hardly even pokes at the meals I send up for him, and I've been preparing all of his favorite dishes. Withering away won't do him a speck of good, but nothing seems to tempt his appetite."
Baeddan sighed and rubbed a hand wearily over his bald pate. "And my counsel never seems to sway him, though I talk until I am blue in the face. It didn't when he was my young pupil, and it has only marginally more effect now."
"Cadwallon, you have a closer bond with him than any of us—almost like an older brother, really," Delyth noted. "Would you not try speaking with him about this trouble directly? If moving on will serve him best, perhaps you can convince him of that."
The war leader, as brave as any on the field of battle, quailed at the rosy-cheeked cook's suggestion. "Oh— Uh— Matters of the heart are far beyond the bounds of my expertise…" he stammered.
"Psssh. Listen to you—a mighty war-leader afraid of a few words?" Delyth chided in return.
Cadwallon scowled and huffed through his high-bridged nose, but all could see that the challenge had smarted. They waited on tenterhooks for his answer. Roughly, he cleared his throat. "All right. I shall speak with him," he acquiesced. "I fear I will have no success, but I shall try nonetheless."
"Good, then," Delyth pronounced, clapping her palms together. "A valiant attempt is better than none." She stepped forward and reached up to press her hands against the war leader's cheeks, as she might do to a small child who'd just fulfilled her request. "Thank you, Cadwallon. Just remember: brotherly advice, not stern reprimands. The poor man needs no more discouragement right now, least of all from any of us."
He nodded, flushing slightly about the ears. Ovan suppressed a chuckle in the background. Baeddan coughed, indicating that all should return to their duties now that the informal council was finished, and waved the other two men toward the door. With a satisfied smile, Delyth turned back to the hearth and gave the pot simmering there a vigorous stir.
Several days later, Cadwallon finally worked up the will to approach his king. The brutal winter storms had abated that day, replaced by a steady, miserably cold rain. He listened to it beating a tattoo upon the roof for a moment before raising his fist to knock a similar rhythm upon the door to the royal chambers.
When he entered the dimly lit room a moment later, Fflewddur unceremoniously shoved aside the parchment he'd been squinting at, rubbed his bleary eyes, and looked up at the war leader wearily. "Yes, Cadwallon? What is it you wish to discuss?" he asked.
"Well, it is of a somewhat personal nature, sire… Let me assure you at the outset that I do not mean to offend, nor to overstep my boundaries, and I only raise the issue out of concern for your well-being—"
"Out with it, old fellow," Fflewddur urged with a wave of his hand and a roll of his eyes. "Baeddan has been overstepping the boundaries of a Chief Steward since well before I was made King, and I haven't clapped him in irons for it yet, have I? Say whatever it is you have come to say."
Cadwallon gave a curt nod, then cleared his throat before proceeding. "Admittedly, this is straying far from the territories of weaponry and battle tactics with which I am at ease," he began, "but… I would like to discuss the matter of Lady Telyn."
A thundercloud quickly gathered in Fflewddur's eyes. "What of her?" he asked flatly.
"It seems to me," Cadwallon proceeded cautiously, "that her absence is causing you considerable distress, and that it might do you some good to direct your attention elsewhere."
"And to what, exactly, do you suggest I direct my attention?" Fflewddur retorted.
"Well… If it is companionship you crave, bear in mind that she is far from the only woman in Prydain. There are plenty of others who would be worthy of your consideration—several of whom are widowed queens, who already know their role well and would be a steady force at your side. You might at least make their acquaintance; if nothing else, their company might divert your mind and lift your spirits. I have heard very complimentary remarks, for instance, about the beauty and wit of—"
Fflewddur cut him short with a withering glance. "Would you accept bronze in place of gold, Cadwallon?"
The war leader's jaw tensed for a moment, chastened. "No. No, I would not," he admitted. "Nevertheless," he added, "I would choose it over having empty hands."
A chill silence followed. Cadwallon held the gaze of his king for a moment, then looked away, eyes lowered. "My apologies," he ventured at last. "I meant no disrespect—only the honesty of one comrade to another. You must find some way to take your mind off of your current trouble before it devours you from the inside out."
The echo of his earlier warning did not go unnoticed. Fflewddur closed his eyes for a moment, ruefully shaking his head. "An impossible task," he answered bitterly. "The only one with the power to do that is not here—and I suspect she would not oblige me even if she were."
Suddenly, a drop of water splatted onto the table. Fflewddur leaned against the high back of his chair, and began scrutinizing the rafters. "So that's where that leak has been coming from…" he grumbled, squinting up at a trickling drip seeping down from a tiny crack in the ceiling. "Drat and blast. I thought Baeddan had caught them all. No sooner is one hole patched than another splits open…"
Cadwallon's brow furrowed. "You care for Telyn that deeply?" he cut in quietly, undeterred by the blatant attempt to change the subject.
Fflewddur frowned and resumed staring vacantly at the table before him. When he answered at last, his voice was barely above a murmur. "I do," he said. "Beyond words… Beyond song, even."
The crease between the war leader's brow deepened. "I see," he replied tightly. "Well…" he continued after releasing a heavy sigh, "as I said before, I am no expert in matters of the heart. But, if you would allow me to speak as one who has known you nearly all of your life… I would say that Telyn is rather… untamed, for lack of a better word…"
"And I should have known to keep my distance?" Fflewddur finished acerbically. "I should count her running off as a favor, and think no more of her?"
"I was about to say," Cadwallon went on, "that for all her wildness, she did seem very devoted to you. During all those years she was here as Llyan, she scarcely left your side. In fact, I distinctly remember how, despite Ovan's best attempts to keep her housed in the stables, she invariably found her way to your hearth—and, I might add, left some sizeable claw-marks on the door when we servants tried to keep her out."
Despite himself, a faint smile twitched at the corners of Fflewddur's mouth as he thought of just how persistent that habit of hers had proved to be.
"And from what I have seen of Telyn as a woman," Cadwallon continued, "she does appear to suit you. She is restless enough to keep pace with your own wandering ways, yet clever and pragmatic enough to help guide them. And she does seem able to comport herself as befits a courtier when the occasion arises. If she brings you joy in this dreary world, besides…"
"Hmn," Fflewddur grunted dolefully. "It doesn't really matter at this point, does it? She is long gone. I was not able to find her thus far, and even if I had…" He shook his head morosely, thinking of how she had declined him once already—and at a time when all was well between them, too.
"Regardless of what has driven you apart, I am sure she would not forsake you so readily," Cadwallon assured him. "As I said, she struck me as being a loyal sort; the strength of devotion she has shown is unlikely to be so easily broken."
Fflewddur winced. Hearing Cadwallon extoll the very loyalty he himself had doubted…
"Do you mean to resume your search for her?" the war leader asked.
"Yes," Fflewddur replied without hesitation. "The very moment winter breaks. I would set out tomorrow if I trusted that this rain would not turn immediately back into ice and snow."
"That is well," Cadwallon agreed, giving a solemn nod. "I admit, until this conversation, I believed it would be best for you to give up the chase. But no longer. You must not give up on one who means so much to you."
"Oh, a Fflam never gives up," Fflewddur sighed. "You ought to know that well enough by now, old friend. Whether that is fortitude or folly, however, remains to be seen…"
