When Gwydion awoke, it was to the sensation of smooth linen against his skin and soft pillows beneath his head. Disoriented, he struggled to rise—and found himself lying, clean and bandaged, in an opulent bed within an even more richly appointed room. Intricate tapestries dressed the walls. Aromatic herbs scented the air. Bright flames leapt and crackled in the nearby hearth and danced upon the tips of beeswax candles in gilded holders.
In a chair beside the hearth sat the huntress. If possible, she looked even more achingly lovely than before, draped in a crimson gown that clung to every curve, with ruby-stained lips to match. Sparkling gems wrapped her neck and wrists, and perched upon every delicate finger. The fire's glow cast a sheen upon her silver hair. Seeing Gwydion awake, she smiled faintly. "The mysterious traveler stirs at last," she said. "I had begun to fear you were beyond even my best help."
"Who are you?" he asked hoarsely. "What place is this? What was your purpose in bringing me here?"
Her smile deepened and she shook her head gently. "Scarcely awake and already demanding answers," she chided. "This place is my stronghold. I am its mistress. My purpose was to save you from certain death—as I said when I found you. If you would know more, you must introduce yourself first." She gestured to his belt and sword, laid carefully on the small table beside her. "It is clear by the craft of your weapon that you are a man of no small importance. Which leads me to wonder: what brought you through my realm alone and unannounced, without even a steed to carry you? And what put you in such a terrible state?"
Gwydion paused, then answered steadily, "I am a warrior. My legs have brought me through your realm. Hard luck has put me in this state."
Amusement flickered in the woman's eyes. "Well, then—if you wish to keep secrets, I shall call you Warrior until you tell me otherwise. You may call me Lady." She rose and took up a flagon that stood on the table, poured crystal water into a golden chalice, and carried it over to him. "If you will not use your mouth for speech," she said, "you might as well use it to take some refreshment. Your thirst must be great after such an arduous journey."
Gwydion took the vessel into his hands but did not drink. His hostess arched a fine eyebrow. "Tsk. You think I would go to the effort of bringing you here, tending your wounds, and keeping vigil by your side only to poison you now? If I did not respect the wisdom of your caution, I would be quite offended."
"I mean no offense, Lady," he replied, "but, in truth, experience has made me wary."
She shrugged. "Drink deep or go thirsty; it is your choice."
Hesitantly, he raised the chalice to his lips and swallowed a mouthful, his eyes never leaving hers. The water coursed sweetly down his parched throat.
She gazed back in kind, her expression placid. "You will want more substantial nourishment, too, I wager. I will send for some directly."
Gwydion nodded in reluctant agreement, then held his silence, allowing it to settle between them like a shield. She continued to stand before him, chin tilted slightly upward and hands clasped, defying his recalcitrance.
"It will be weeks before your wounds and your pursuers allow you to leave here, Warrior," she noted at length. "Your leg is particularly bad off; you'll not be able to walk properly for quite some time, and even if I were to gift you a horse, it would be difficult to sit. The days will stretch long if you remain so tight-lipped. Do you fear my conversation itself will poison you even if the food and drink do not?"
"I speak when I have things worth saying," he replied, "and at the moment, I have none."
Her mouth quirked. "I will leave you to your silence, then. Far be it from me to waste a man's breath on idle chatter—there are far more enjoyable ways to steal it." With a faint rustle of fine cloth, she turned and swept toward the door. "Should you need anything in my absence," she added without a backward glance, "a manservant stands ready in the antechamber. Call out and he will come to assist you."
As promised, a tray full of steaming food arrived soon thereafter in the hands of a man who remained as silent as Gwydion himself. There was a bowl of thick, savory stew; warm, fragrant bread; wedges of cheese; even some dried fruit steeped in honey. Until that moment, Gwydion had not felt his hunger through his pain. Now, the scent of the meal wafted up enticingly, triggering a growl from the ravenous pit of his stomach. Suspicion waved a warning hand, but hunger swatted it away impatiently—he could not leave if he did not regain his strength, and he would not regain his strength by starving. Almost before the servant had left the room, he was sinking his teeth into a tender morsel of perfectly-seasoned meat. He ate with a will, relishing every bite and hoping the meal would not be his last.
Gradually, his hunger abated, but not so his concerns. He had little doubt who Lady was, for all that he'd never laid eyes on her before. He'd heard the tales; been warned of the silver-haired enchantress who'd once clutched all of Prydain in an iron-taloned grip. She was more legend than reality now—relic of an ancient era, overthrown long ago by Arawn Death-Lord—but her name could still unleash a torrent of fear in any who heard it uttered. Achren. The ruthless. The vengeful. The ageless. The cruel. Beautiful beyond imagining. If this were she, he was in even greater peril now than when staring down the Huntsmen's knives.
He must escape, and quickly. How much time had he already lost drifting in and out of consciousness? He raised a hand to his chin—some days it had been, judging by the roughness of his beard. Too much time, regardless. Immediately, he pushed aside the tray, then the heavy blankets, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Every movement was a torment, wrenching stiffened muscles and splitting open barely-closed wounds. Biting his lip and holding his breath, Gwydion eased his feet to the floor and tried to stand. His sound leg held firm as he put his full weight upon it. Yet, the moment he took a step forward, the other buckled under a blaze of pain. He fell back to the pallet, sucking in a sharp breath that only set his broken ribs afire instead. He snarled a curse. He'd not be fleeing yet, nor anytime soon. Disgusted, he sank back into the cloud of mockingly luxurious feather pillows. It seemed, for the moment, that he must rely on the hospitality offered him—and in accepting it, he must tread as carefully as through a swamp on a moonless night.
After hours of boredom followed by a night of fitful sleep, dawn felt both overeager and egregiously late when it nudged its way through the window and prodded Gwydion fully awake. Fortunately—or unfortunately—it was not much longer before a knock sounded upon the chamber door, and his hostess entered once again. This time, two handmaids slipped in silently behind her: one bearing breakfast and the other carrying a pitcher of water, washcloths, and fresh bandages.
"A good day to you, Warrior," Lady greeted him warmly. "How does the morning find you?"
"Frustrated, to be honest," Gwydion replied. "I am unaccustomed to being an invalid, lying abed with naught to do but ponder tapestries and ceiling boards."
"No doubt," she answered with sympathy. "The hours must pass tediously for a man of action like yourself. I shall have to find a remedy for that. First, though, it would be prudent to tend your wounds again. Will you permit it?"
He gave a brusque laugh. "You are courteous to ask permission of a captive."
"And you are quite discourteous to accuse me of holding you prisoner. You are my guest, Warrior, and I extend you respect accordingly—but I do expect the same in return."
"I am captive to my injuries, milady. You mistook my meaning."
Her eyes glinted. "Did I, now? In that case, forgive me for drawing uncharitable conclusions; it is a sad tendency of mine, born of too many encounters with ill-mannered, hot-tempered chieftains and the like. No doubt you have had similar experiences. But you never did answer my question," she continued. "Your bandages…?"
"Yes," Gwydion said with a nod, "I would be much obliged."
With a slight smile, she came further into the room. The servants set about arranging the breakfast tray, washbasin, cloths, and bandages upon the table at Gwydion's bedside. At first, he'd assumed the woman bearing the bandages was a healer in his hostess' employ. To his mild surprise, it was Lady herself who drew close and began peeling back the strips of linen that wrapped his injuries.
Although the touch of her hands was quite gentle, the pressure on his wounds nevertheless set him clenching his teeth and breathing tautly through bright flashes of pain. She noticed. Soon afterward, as she began wiping his torn skin with fresh, cool water, that same soothing, intoxicating warmth he'd felt at their first meeting began to envelop him anew. It felt like sunlight, streaming into and through him, melting his pain away in its invisible glow. He exhaled a sigh of relief and relaxed against the pillows, watching as she worked. Methodically, she laid her palms over each wound in turn, resting them there for some time. Her crystal eyes remained open, but her gaze was distant—fixed not on the injuries, but far beyond. A whispered stream of incantations flowed like water past her lips, rippling the fabric of the world. Through his drowsy haze, Gwydion felt a subtle, prickling tingle around each gash in his skin. When she drew her hands away, he was astonished to see how much the flesh had knit itself together.
Enchantment. This could only be Achren—and such an open display of power implied that she wanted him to know it, for all her pretense of anonymity. But a healer? A gentle hand? The woman tending to him was so different from the Achren he'd been warned of. It was disarming, disorienting, as though he'd come face to face with a legendary dragon only to find that it wore feathers instead of scales and breathed summer winds instead of flame. Which was the liar: history or present?
The enchantress paused for a moment, pulling away and seeming to regather herself. "I'm afraid I must do this gradually," she said. "I can aid your body in healing, but it must still do the work—and the effort is not without a toll on my own strength."
Gwydion's eyes flicked upward, locking with hers as though they were a landmark in the bewildering mists. "Of course," he murmured. "Nothing is without cost."
"No," she agreed. "Not a thing."
She resumed her ministrations. Gwydion resumed his observation. The handmaids stood in silent witness, passing their mistress fresh bandages and taking the old as needed. After some time, the enchantress drew back and dismissed them to the edge of the room with a wave of her hand. To Gwydion, she asked, "Now, would you like my company for a while longer to alleviate your boredom, or would you prefer solitude?"
He hesitated, trying to weigh the risks and merits of each but finding that difficult while still drifting in the honeyed languor of magic.
"Or, would you rather continue sullenly biting your tongue?" Achren prodded.
He shook his head. "I do not mean to appear sullen, Lady, nor ungrateful in the least for your efforts."
"But you are still distrustful of me. Speak plainly, Warrior."
"I do wonder at your intentions," he admitted slowly. "You call me guest and treat me as such, but beyond this room, you might still claim me as a hostage and seek a ransom."
"Ransom?" she exclaimed with a laugh. "You think me underhanded indeed! Or impoverished. Or foolish, given that the ransom paid might be a mighty army at my gates. No, Warrior, I have no desire for ransom, and certainly no need—even if I did know your identity, to know from whom I should demand it." She shook her head. "You are free to leave when you are healed enough for travel—or later, if you come to find that suits you better," she added wryly. "But in the meantime, if it eases your mind, you may send letters to whomever you wish. Your absence need not cause any alarm."
Gwydion nodded. "I would do well to send a message if you will provide the means."
"Of course; without delay." Behind her, anticipating her command, one of the handmaids broke away and hurried from the room. Within moments, she returned with writing implements and set them on the table, while the other young woman whisked away the healing supplies.
"Have you need of anything else?" the enchantress asked.
"Nothing you can provide," Gwydion answered.
"In that case, I shall return this evening. Until then, fare well Warrior."
"And you, Lady."
Alone again, Gwydion took up the quill and strove to push the lingering fog of enchantment aside with action—however maddeningly small that action must be in his current state. But what to write? And to whom? King Math must be informed of what had befallen him, but to send word to the High King directly would be folly. He rolled the quill back and forth between his fingertips for some time, pondering, before scratching out a brief message. He set it aside unsealed.
And what next? Restlessness had begun to writhe in him once again, fed by the flush of healing magic. Perhaps he ought to have retained Achren's company after all; his body might need rest, but he could not sleep the whole day through and at night besides…
With a grumble, he strove once more to escape the soft prison of the bed. This time, surprisingly, his bad leg held firm, albeit not without forceful complaint. He shook his head grudgingly. Magic was ever a crutch for the lazy or impatient, but he'd not complain of it now if it sped his healing thus. In truth, he was impatient—and needed a crutch at the moment. Gritting his teeth and breathing tensely through the pain, he hobbled slowly toward the chamber window, which stood tall in an alcove, flanked by two cushioned ledges. He leaned his weight upon the cold sill and peered out through the stone lattice.
Any hope that he might discern his whereabouts was immediately dashed. The view opened not onto a broad vista where he might spot a known landmark, but rather onto a courtyard surrounded by a labyrinthine array of rugged towers and weather-beaten walls. They stacked upon and jutted from each other as though some mercurial giant had dropped them at whim. Thin scraps of sky hung between their craggy edges like tattered linen, but revealed little of the world beyond. It was a dreary scene, made all the drearier by its contrast with the warm and lavish bedchamber.
For quite some time, Gwydion studied the conglomeration of towers, doing his best to make sense of their layout and layered defenses. That yielded few insights and even more frustration; his chamber, it seemed, had been chosen precisely because it afforded a limited view. There was not even much activity in the courtyard from which he might glean the general direction of stable or kitchen, garrison and gatehouse, royal apartments or great hall. Mostly, he saw naught but guardsmen pacing the wall-walks, their blood-red tunics the only color in a field of gray. He looked more closely, hoping to spy Achren's insignia on one of the men and confirm his suspicion beyond a doubt. Alas, he saw none.
Frowning, Gwydion pushed away from the window and struggled back to the bed. He'd have to get beyond the confines of the room as soon as he was able—provided there weren't more such guards standing watch outside his door. And it clearly wouldn't happen soon enough for his taste; just the effort of making it to the window and back had exhausted him beyond reason. Heavy in both limb and heart, he crawled back into the bed and resigned himself to wait.
He picked idly at the breakfast set out for him and examined the wall tapestries yet again. They were uncommon to say the least—not the usual hunting or garden tableau, nor scenes from any legends he knew. In the first panel, an earth-dark woman stood proud but alone atop a barren cliff, gazing sadly across the ocean toward the setting sun. In the next, she and a radiant, golden-haired man met, embraced, made love in a grove at the height of summer splendor, green life springing forth all around. In the following panel, a young queen sat tall upon her throne in the center of that same grove. A circlet of iron rested upon her brow; in her lap, she held a sharp knife and a staff of braided hazel stems. In the final frame, she strode regally through rippling fields of barley and scattered the next year's seed from her own bronze hands.
The skill of the tapestries' weaver was beyond compare; the images were so vivid that Gwydion could almost feel the heat of couple's passion and the pride of the young queen aflame within his own breast. In fact, the weavings seemed almost too fine for a guest room: gold thread traced the edges of each leafy bough and plume of grain, and highlighted the contours of the figures that strode among them; tiny diamonds were stitched into fields of dewdrops and the scintillation of light on flowing streams. Clearly, they were meant to impress. Yet, Gwydion could not shake the feeling that they had an even greater purpose, all but hidden behind the veil of his own ignorance. Long he studied them, sifting through the depths of his memory and intuition in search of an answer, until his eyes grew heavy and sleep beckoned once again.
In his dreams, the young queen strode forth from the weaving and clasped his hands in welcome…
