Although the winter days were short, time stretched long at Caer Dathyl as life turned inward. Fewer visitors arrived to petition their king and queen for assistance or justice. The gardens and surrounding fields slumbered beneath a blanket of snow. The rebuilding efforts slowed or halted altogether on account of the unusually frigid weather that year. Time became measured in the number of rushlights burned and logs added to the hearth rather than the passage of the fleeting sun.
After the complications of summer's Great Council and the unusual troubles of autumn, Taran and Eilonwy almost counted winter's slowness a relief. It certainly left more time to attend to the planning and legislative matters they'd been forced to neglect earlier in the year. Yet, it also left them more time alone with their thoughts: of the remaining breaches in Caer Dathyl's defenses; of Fflewddur and Telyn's gaping absence; and of how to deal with the untrustworthy, but not provably criminal, King of Arvon. Eilonwy interrupted those endlessly circling ruminations by plunging herself into practical matters, studying seawall construction before their upcoming trip to Mona, and beginning a written account of the companions' past adventures. Taran did not fare so well. He filled many hours studying existing laws and the history in Book of Three, spent a good deal more time with Eilonwy, and even made occasional visits to the pottery, but the worries still swirled and crowded in his mind, casting a long shadow over all else he did.
Eventually, though, the first whispers of spring breathed across the land once more, bringing a fresh surge of activity and a concomitant measure of mental relief. As soon as the ground had suitably thawed, the cottagers around Caer Dathyl and the gardeners within took up their hoes and plows and set to work breaking soil, turning it over in preparation to receive the past year's seed. The first lambs arrived, plush and white, taking their first tottering steps across the bright green pastures. Load after load of stone began to arrive once more from the quarry, and construction began anew on the castle walls.
Not long after those touches of green began to reappear in the valley, Hevydd and the other emissaries to Cantrev Arvon returned. As Taran watched them file into the Council Chamber, a crackling thundercloud of impatient anxiety began to build within him. After months of waiting, keeping a wary eye to the west, he wondered what he and Eilonwy would learn. Would there be some clarity at last, or simply a new stretch of turbid waters to wade through blindly? Somberly, everyone took their seats at the long table, with Taran and Eilonwy sitting beside each other at the table's head, and the others along its flanks. There were nine emissaries in all: five of them official, plus Hevydd and his three apprentices-turned-spies. None looked eager to give their report.
"We are pleased by your safe return, and welcome you back to Caer Dathyl," Taran began, glancing around to each emissary in turn. His heart sank when he saw their dejected expressions. Did they herald grim evidence of Iscawin's crimes, or the failure to uncover any such thing? "Queen Eilonwy and I are most interested to hear what you uncovered on your mission to Cantrev Arvon," he continued. "Menestyr, let us begin with your report. How went the formal investigation?"
An extended silence followed, with all eyes turned toward the Chief Emissary. He hesitated, opening his mouth once to speak, then closing it again as he mulled his words over some more. When at last he spoke, his voice was heavy with regret. "Although our investigation was thorough, engaging both courtier and commoner alike, to be frank, Your Majesties, very little came of it."
"How little?" Eilonwy asked. "Surely you observed something in all of your time there; I cannot imagine you were leading each other about with your eyes closed and your ears stopped up. So, what did you witness? How fares the cantrev overall? How well do its people think of their king?"
"Cantrev Arvon fares well enough," a second emissary replied. "It is more prosperous than many, albeit poorer than the likes of Madoc."
"And peaceful for the most part?" Taran asked. "Or did you witness much discord?"
"As peaceful as any other," the emissary went on. "That is to say, there is a fair amount of squabbling among neighbors and backbiting among the nobility, but little of it tipped over into violence. When it did, that conflict was soon quelled. King Iscawin has little patience, it seems, for disruption in his realm."
"As for what the people of Arvon think of him," a third emissary continued, "most seem well pleased by his rule—or content with it, at least. Courtiers spoke of his affability and generosity toward his allies; commoners extolled the stability of the realm. A few made oblique reference to the swiftness with which he dispenses justice—perhaps a bit too swiftly and harshly at times, I gathered, but seemingly never without cause."
Eilonwy tapped her fingers impatiently on the arm of her chair. "So, in nearly five months, you found no evidence of wrong-doing, either recently or in the past?"
Menestyr shook his head. "No, Majesty. Of his past misdeeds, we found no trace, and any who suffered them are long gone. As for more recent crimes, either Iscawin is innocent, or his victims value the safety of silence more than the satisfaction of justice."
"Well, given what you saw and intuited rather than what you heard, which of those would you say is more likely?" she pressed.
To a man, the emissaries floundered. One shifted agitatedly in his seat. Two others exchanged a trepidatious glance. The others remained stock still, wearing expressions of chagrin. They had failed, and every last one of them seemed to feel the shame of it in their bones. At last, the Chief Emissary spoke up. "Both are distinct possibilities. However, given the tendency of power to corrupt, and given that a king can commit crimes with near impunity, I personally would lean toward the latter. Most people are willing to tolerate a great deal and turn a blind eye to injustice if it ensures their own survival."
"But you have no proof," Taran said.
"No, sire, we do not."
Taran closed his eyes briefly, seeking a moment to navigate the tangled forest of his thoughts and suppress the frustration building within him. Then, he looked to the investigators once again. "To be fair, it is no less than we expected," he said. "Official emissaries, known to be conducting an investigation… Iscawin would make every effort to hide his tracks from you, and any who live in fear of him would know to bite their tongues in your presence. We had hoped you might uncover some evidence against him—if such is to be found—but no, we did not expect it. If anything, we sent you forth as a diversion, while Hevydd and his companions sought answers in the shadows."
He turned, then, to the smith. "And so, Hevydd, what of your inquiries? Were the people of Arvon any more inclined to speak to you and your apprentices, who were not so clearly acting on our behalf?"
The smith frowned and shook his head. "Sadly, no. I fared no better after that message I sent you than before. As Menestyr said, many people seemed to have no concern whatsoever for their king's actions, so long as their own lives run smoothly. As for the rest? By the steely look in their eyes and the tight set of their jaws, it was plain they bear no great love for Iscawin. They would not say a word against him, though. I might as well have been trying to coax answers from cold iron—worse, really, for even iron rings out when you work it."
"And what of Telyn's story? What of her family?" Eilonwy asked. "Were you able to find and speak with any of them?"
Again, Hevydd shook his head. "No luck there, either. It seems her sister left Arvon for parts unknown not long after Telyn herself. Her brother did likewise a few years later. Her mother and father do still live there, and I managed to get a conversation alone with them by claiming an injury and seeking a healer. Naturally, they were overjoyed to hear that Telyn is alive. They would not discuss the reasons she left, though. Oh, they confirmed that her husband had been slain, sure enough, but would make no accusations. Most of the neighbors we spoke with pinned the crime on common thieves; a handful suspected Telyn herself, and took her hasty disappearance as proof of her guilt. More than that, none could—or would—say."
Eilonwy breathed a weary sigh and rubbed her temples while Taran leaned back heavily in his chair. The reports confirmed much and revealed nothing—which left them right where they already were, reluctant to condemn Iscawin for lack of proof, and fearful of allowing a corrupt and guilty man to remain free. Already, they had gone around and around in debate like the eddies of wind that swept through the courtyard, kicking up every argument for and against each possible course of action without ever arriving at a decision. Now, the hourglass was swiftly running out: by the end of the season, they must choose whether or not to revoke Iscawin's control of the Western Domains.
Well beyond frustrated, they thanked Hevydd and the envoys for their efforts and sent them on their way. Eilonwy headed back to the royal chambers, saying she needed to nurse a headache. Taran retreated to the castle gardens, hoping to nurse his own aching heart and disjointed mind.
The land was mostly dormant, yet. The gardeners had cut in new rows and sown seed, but only a few small shoots had emerged from the soil. The earth was damp from the previous night's rain, and so dark it was nearly black. As Taran passed between the furrows, he waved a greeting to the men and women at work on another plot but did not linger. The orchard beyond was tugging at him again, pricking his curiosity, beckoning him to come see how the apple trees had faired.
They made for a rather strange sight, those spindly little twigs poking up from stout stumps. In summer, in full leaf, it had been easier to overlook their oddity. Now, still winter-bare, the mismatch was laughably absurd, like a host of grown warriors holding up miniature toy swords. Walking among them, Taran looked closely for any sign of life. But no, there were no leaves emerging yet, nor even swelling buds. It was too early, still—as he well knew, though he'd been hopeful nonetheless. Truth be told, perhaps he ought not bear any hope at all that the tender shoots had survived. The winter had been so uncommonly harsh…
Gently, tentatively—anxiously, even—he reached out and grasped one of the slender shoots, bending it into a tight arc. With a faint crack, it snapped in two, as brittle as old bone. Taran felt a bit of his hope break with it. Had the others faired any better? Slowly, he moved on, tree by tree, wanting to know but dreading the answer. Another dead. Then one alive, still pliant beneath his touch and green beneath the scraping of a fingernail. Then yet another dead. Then the final two alive. Of the nine he'd grafted, but three remained. Taran drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, reminding himself that three survivors were better than none, that it was still a victory over ice and snow, that winter had merely thinned out the weak trees bound to fail. Those reminders consoled him but little. It was foolish, when he really thought on it, to put so much stock in whether or not a few apple trees grew. And yet… and yet. When he thought of how much happiness it might bring Eilonwy to have a bit of Caer Dallben she could touch and someday even taste… to have a bit of Caer Dallben he, himself, could reach out and grasp… Yes, that meant something, whether it ought to or not.
So, he resigned himself to continue hoping, and tending, and watching, and waiting, as he had for the entire year past—ever waiting for old and new to unite in one strong, if not seamless, whole.
Only a fortnight or so after the envoys' return, on the heels of a chill wind near the close of day, Iscawin himself arrived at their gates—along with around two hundred warriors. They had not the hostile, simmering energy of men about to do battle, but the sight of them milling just beyond the outer walls still made the hair on the backs of Taran and Eilonwy's necks stand on end. Iscawin had promised at the end of his previous visit to come check again on the warriors he'd committed to them, but that was clearly not his present purpose. Immediately, they sent an extra host of archers to the ramparts, and still more guardsmen to wait within the gate. Then, warily as a falconer handling an unpredictable hawk, they asked for the King of Arvon and his war leader to be ushered, alone, into the Council Chamber.
Iscawin wasted no time in delivering his devastating message: a rebellion was at hand—or so claimed King Meilyr of Madoc.
In an instant, the precarious stability Taran and Eilonwy had achieved crashed down like a toppled cairn. The hush that followed could have swallowed the loudest shout. Taran, sitting at the head of the council table, stared straight ahead, motionless. Eilonwy, beside him, held Iscawin's gaze for a moment, then looked to his war-leader—the silent, grizzled bear of a man sitting across from him—then back to the cantrev king.
Taran broke the silence first, looking once again to Iscawin. "And in your entire conversation with him, Meilyr gave no indication of who is plotting this overthrow?" he asked slowly.
Iscawin shook his head. "No. Foolish though he can be, he had wisdom enough to reveal no names, nor much that would point in anyone's direction. He said only that the attack was very close at hand, and that Prydain would then gain the ruler it deserves: no weedy, short-lived birch, but the scion of a sturdy oak with noble roots."
A bolt of indignance shot through Taran. He managed to retain his outward calm, but heard an irritated huff come from Eilonwy. "Noble roots, indeed," she muttered. "As if common ones can't push through soil just the same. That does sound like something Meilyr would say."
"To my mind," Iscawin continued, disregarding her interjection, "Meilyr himself is the traitor. His standing garrison is as large as many kings' recruited armies, so he would certainly have the means to mount such a campaign. He has the arrogance for it, besides—stated outright that you have not the warriors, nor the fortifications, nor the gold, nor even the proper knowledge to be High King."
Eilonwy stiffened in her chair. Taran reached out quickly to place a restraining palm over hers, wordlessly urging her not to lash out over the second-hand insult, though it seethed in his own chest, too. "And if you are wrong?" he asked Iscawin as levelly as he could.
"Then it must be one with whom Meilyr has close ties, otherwise he would have no knowledge of the plot. Either way, it should narrow your search for whomever must be stamped out."
Taran and Eilonwy said nothing for a time, weighing the import of the warning against the likelihood that it could be trusted.
"I regret that this information is so incomplete, and that I could not bring it to you sooner," Iscawin continued. "Nevertheless, I thought it unwise to cast precious time away by waiting to learn more. Regardless of who incites the rebellion, you must ready yourselves to quash it."
Again, a palpable silence filled the room. A deep crease formed between Taran's brows as he scrutinized the cantrev king, desperately wishing he could find and split open a crack in the man's perpetual mask. Eilonwy regarded Iscawin with a more skeptical expression, her eyebrows quirked.
"I find it rather interesting that you would have paid a visit to Cantrev Madoc at all," she remarked. "And I find it still more interesting that Meilyr would be inclined to disclose such information to you," she continued, cocking her head lightly to one side. "Treason is not generally a topic of conversation—at least, not in the courts I have visited."
Iscawin smiled thinly. "Count yourself lucky to have walked in more honorable circles, then. As for the purpose of my visit to Madoc: I make it a point to know the business of neighboring cantrevs, and to cultivate friendly ties with them. Late winter is a slow time on the whole, and thus favorable for such diplomacy. As for Meilyr's loose tongue: well, he is young and prone to boasting, as I am sure you have gathered from your own dealings with him. He does not always know the value of silence."
"Hmn." Eilonwy's mouth hardened into a firm line, clearly unconvinced but unable to contest outright anything he'd said.
"In this case, that serves you well," Iscawin went on. "Even without knowing the identity of the would-be usurper, advance knowledge of the plot gives you time to prepare. That will be all the more important given the lingering gaps in Caer Dathyl's defenses."
"Indeed," Taran replied flatly. His expression grew even more troubled than before as he thought on the yawning breaks in the walls—and the fact that Iscawin was so aware of them. "We thank you for alerting us," he continued. "We shall need every moment possible to ready ourselves for whatever attack may come."
"Between your standing garrison, the warriors I have already pledged to your service, and the additional men who've accompanied me today, you have the makings of a strong defense at your disposal, if used wisely" Iscawin assured him. "I, myself, will gladly fight by your side to defeat whatever foe seeks to dethrone you."
There it was again: the all-too-convenient offer that Iscawin seemed so fond of making. Was it the generous hand of a genuine ally, or the lethal invitation of a baited trap? Taran and Eilonwy both hesitated, each second stretching to an age. There was no just cause to decline Iscawin's help, but nor was there any certainty that his message was true and his motives honorable.
"You have given us much to consider…" Taran pronounced at last. "We will discuss it in the coming hours, and speak with you in the morning about what role you shall play." Inwardly, he chastised himself for playing for time when there was not a moment to waste; another few hours would not make the proper course of action any clearer. Yet, he needed a chance to confer with Eilonwy alone, away from Iscawin's smothering presence.
"As you see fit, Your Majesties," Iscawin agreed with a nod. Eilonwy dismissed him and his war leader with a nod of her own, and together they quit the room. She rose from her seat and followed after them, listening to their footsteps falling away beyond the closed door. Once they were well beyond the range of hearing, she whirled back around to face Taran.
"Absolutely not," she declared. "That man cannot remain here. He is plotting something, as surely as snakes have fangs. I may not know exactly what that plot is, but I will not have him here to set it in motion. His warriors may remain here, but he must return to Arvon immediately."
Taran pushed his chair back from the table but did not yet rise from it, gripping the armrests hard and shutting his eyes. "I, too, would much rather send him away," he agreed slowly, "but can we afford to? It would be a grave insult to deny a cantrev king the ability to lead his own men into battle. That would surely spur him to break his allegiance to us, and we will then have two rebellions on our hands."
"Allegiance is only as good as the word of the person swearing it, Taran—you know that as well as I do. So, if the choices are open rebellion or secret treachery, would it not be better to take the obvious one?"
"If he intended to overthrow us from within, would he not have attempted it when he last visited?" Taran countered. "He had just as many warriors available then, and our own defenses were even weaker."
"Oh, I don't know," Eilonwy huffed, her cheeks reddening as she grew increasingly flustered. "I only know that he is a liar. Nothing he says can be trusted."
"That may be," Taran acknowledged, "but which is the deceit: that someone else has turned traitor, or that he is our ally against them? Is there no rebellion at all, or does he mean to wage one himself?"
"Does it matter? If we send him away, that will take care of one of those things—at least for the present moment. Then, we can immediately begin preparations for a defense."
"With less than half as many warriors as we have now," Taran retorted, his voice tightening.
Eilonwy's eyes flashed like rebellious sparks from a wind-whipped fire. "If his warriors are not loyal to us in the first place, then there is no difference, is there?" she replied through clenched teeth.
She was right, and Taran felt it deep in his gut. He'd hesitated to cut ties with Iscawin for far too long. Now, the folly of that clawed away at him from within. Knowingly, he'd walked straight toward the edge of a cliff, hoping it was only a mirage, and now the precipice was crumbling away beneath his feet at the very moment a hungry wolf came up behind. Was there time to send out scouts to verify Iscawin's claims? If they sent word to Smoit, could he and his warriors come to their aid soon enough? If not, could they defend Caer Dathyl with a bare-bones garrison? If Iscawin and his warriors remained, would they be an immediate threat, or a short-term ally who played a longer, treasonous game?
He bent double in his chair, clasping his head in his hands for a moment, fighting to still the frenzied buzzing in his mind. "I… I'm sorry, Eilonwy," he gasped. "I'm just… reeling… from all of it…. All roads open to us look perilous, and yet we must choose one of them…"
Before she could utter a word in answer, the chamber door flew open and Llassar rushed in, breathless and panicked.
"Llassar! What is wrong?" Eilonwy exclaimed, taking a few steps toward him. Taran sprang up, looking on with alarm.
It took a moment for the young guard to catch his breath and reply. "An army approaches, Your Majesties… Hundreds of armed men! Caer Dathyl is under attack!"
Silence. In an instant, the world overturned and neither Taran nor Eilonwy could find their own tongues among the wreckage.
"What?! Who?" Eilonwy exclaimed at last, eyes wide.
"Too far away yet to tell," Llassar replied, shaking his head. "We could almost see their banners, but not quite."
Taran went pale as bone. He held his breath and clenched his fists, steadying himself as his shock passed and a flood of emotions crashed over him in its wake: outrage, regret, dismay… and writhing beneath all of that, like a venomous serpent, was utter dread—for Caer Dathyl itself and for every life hanging in the balance.
"How far?" he asked tightly, forcing the words out through a throat gripped by panic.
"A few hours if we are lucky," Llassar replied. "They just crossed Bluestone Stream and are moving fairly slowly—most are on foot." He swallowed hard, looking as though he were about to retch with fear and guilt. "I am sorry I could not bring word sooner… They were masked by the hills. The guards on watch did not see them until just now. I am so sorry…"
"Do not take the blame upon yourself," Eilonwy reassured him. "You brought word as soon as you could, and some warning is better than none. It cannot be helped now."
Already, Taran was rushing from the Council Chamber. Eilonwy and Llassar followed close behind, heading to the gatehouse. Digging deep for every fragment of determination he could dredge up, Taran gave orders to Llassar as they went. "Send all of the archers to the battlements, and divide the remaining warriors among the breaches in the outer walls—Cadfan will direct them further once they are in position. Alert all of the workers as well—see to it that every person in Caer Dathyl who can bear a weapon has one, even if it is no more than a table knife or pitchfork. Then, send messengers out into the valley to warn the cottagers. All who can fight must report here; all who cannot may seek shelter in the inner courtyard or flee as they see fit." Llassar nodded vigorously and raced off to sound the alarm.
Meanwhile, Taran and Eilonwy raced up the spiraling stairway to one of the gatehouse towers. Reaching the top, hearts thumping hard with both effort and urgency, they moved closer to the battlements and looked out across the broad valley below.
On the far horizon, a vast horde marched like a mass of dark ants, single-minded, undaunted, ready to swarm through every gap in Caer Dathyl's fractured defenses.
It was a waking nightmare—a vision all the more terrible because they had lived it before and knew how it could end. Although a full year had passed since the slaughter at Caer Dathyl, they could still hear, reverberating in their minds, the shouts and screams of the warriors and the terrified whinnies of their steeds… could still smell the stench of mud mingling with blood… could still see, behind closed eyelids, the same valley scattered with hundreds of broken bodies, their blank eyes pleading to indifferent skies. One year, one turn of the sun, and there they were again, staring down potential doom.
A stiff, cold wind swept in, buffeting them, stealing the breath they were already struggling to catch. A strangled sob escaped Eilonwy's lips before she pressed them tightly closed, refusing to give voice to the roiling fear within. Beside her, Taran stood nearly motionless, lost in the tumult of his own emotions and struggling to lash together his thoughts. And still, the warriors marched closer… close enough now for silhouettes to break into color. To the west, the sky itself already seemed to bleed, crimson as the banners borne on glinting pikes below.
King Rhodri's army approached.
.
A/N: A quick note to anyone who read the previous chapter during the week it was posted: I have since edited it to remove the bit about Rhein being Iscawin's brother. That was a rash last-minute change to the story that I have since realized I can't make work within the frame of the chapters I have left. So, Rhein is merely some carpenter from the Free Commots. Iscawin does have an exiled brother wandering around out there somewhere, but he won't be coming into play in this story. Another character for another time, perhaps.
