Chapter 91: Herrwn’s Task

Keeping his word to Ossiam, Herrwn said nothing of his dream during his hurried breakfast in the kitchen.

Moelwyn was stirring a kettle of boiling oats as methodically as if it were a vat of healing potion, while Aolfe cut parsnips and Rhonnon sorted hard-baked cakes into sacks. Rhonnon glanced in Herrwn’s direction as he was getting his bowl and spoon, but Aolfe kept her eyes on her task.

Madheran sat at the table, a bowl of mush in front of him, his hand clasped around a half-drunk cup of ale. His drooping eyelids told the story of a long night spent guarding the lower gate, and Herrwn hastily dismissed the usual protocol, saying, “Please don’t get up.”

Roused enough to mumble, “No sign of them yet, but we are ready and will fight to the … the …” Madheran brushed his free hand across the table in a gesture that might have been meant to mime the sweep of a sword or simply to push his bowl away so he could cross his arms and lay his head down.

Looking over, Rhonnon sighed. “Let him sleep while he can. Barddwel and Gofannon are at their posts and will sound the ram’s horn if …”

There was no need for Rhonnon to finish the “if.” The first of her pronouncements at the previous night’s council was what they would do if the attack came before they could make their escape.

“Should that happen,” she’d said in her dry, succinct fashion, “Madheran will sound the ram’s horn three times. He has assured me that he and his guards will be able to hold the gate long enough for the rest of us to take refuge in the highest tower. With its doors barred, we will have sufficient time to drink the potion that Aolfe has prepared, and so avoid the indignity of being taken alive.”

Herrwn had nodded at the midwife’s words then and did so now, agreeing, “Of course, Madheran needs whatever rest he can get,” as Rhonnon turned back to her work.

Finishing his breakfast to the rumble of Madheran’s snores and the staccato sounds of Aolfe’s chopping, Herrwn had enough time to wonder if there was some friction between Rhonnon and Aolfe. He hoped not, since the close and harmonious bond between the two had always impressed him and now—with Rhonnon shouldering so much of the burden for all their welfare—seemed vital.

Iddwran and Ogdwen, wearing heavy fur-lined cloaks with the hoods pulled up, were carrying the last of the provisions out of Olyrrwd’s workroom just as Herrwn returned to the dimly lit classroom. As they bowed to him and hurried off, he was reminded of busy, bustling moles in a story he’d once made up for Lillywen.

With no time for frivolous thoughts, he shook his head and sat down at the table where his parchment, inkpot, and quill were waiting for him.

Once he took up the task of bringing the fabled accounts of their ancestral home together with the prosaic descriptions Madheran and Gofannon had given him of their more recent excursions, Herrwn lost track of everything save the worry that he would run out of ink before he finished. There was, it turned out, just enough. Pleased with what he’d accomplished, he was laying the last of the maps out to dry when Caelym arrived in the late afternoon, dressed for travel and with what Herrwn still thought of as Olyrrwd’s satchel under his arm.

Herrwn had drawn Caelym’s map first, knowing that he would leave ahead of the rest. As with all the maps, he’d encoded their meeting place with an illustration of a sleeping dragon in the upper-right corner. He’d sketched the village where Arddwn and Lliem were being fostered in the lower left, and to fill in the main part of the page, he’d chosen a mix of scenes from the tales of the eastern sagas that seemed the most relevant to the quest at hand. Careful not to include anything that might betray their plans if the map fell into the wrong hands, he had put in nothing of what Benyon had said about the route from Llwddawanden or the peaceful village where his kin raised their sheep—that he’d committed to memory, and now repeated word for word to Caelym before rolling the map in a sheet of kidskin and presenting it to him.

“As for your journey to rejoin us at the inn in Gofannon’s childhood village,” he added, hoping what he said would prove to be true, “you will have our faithful Benyon at your side and his kin’s knowledge of the local lands for guidance, and so it should be a swift journey from there.”

Sitting on the edge of his chair, Caelym repeated Herrwn’s words and accepted the map, solemnly swearing that he would be at the appointed meeting place, his sons at his side, no later than the spring equinox, and from there would lead them on to Cwddwaellwn.

While his words were worthy of any fabled hero, Caelym looked more to Herrwn like the fidgety boy he’d been when he was preparing for his spirit quest—a quest that had proven far more perilous than expected.

For a moment, the image of Annwr imprisoned in the stone tower rose up in Herrwn’s mind, but this time he saw her clasping her hands over her heart in a gesture expressing her love for children. Suddenly certain that the real Annwr would never have wished the life of Caelendra’s son to be put in danger on her behalf, Herrwn put away any lingering thought of revealing his vision—now or ever.

Sensing Caelym’s restiveness, Herrwn delivered his blessing, along with a few more teacherly admonitions, before asking, “Are you leaving at once?”

“Shortly, after I have paid my last regards to Feywn.” While Caelym didn’t actually wink, he might as well have, given the poorly subdued lilt in his voice as he answered and the hint of dance in his step as he left the room.

Herrwn had forgotten his worry about the tension between Rhonnon and Aolfe until he took the rest of his maps to the main hall, where their goods were being collected, sorted, and packed.

The usual harmony the two shared―mostly shown in Aolfe’s approving nods at whatever Rhonnon said or did―was missing. Instead, anything Rhonnon said to Aolfe about their preparations was cordial but stiff, and Aolfe’s usually placid demeanor had a chilly edge to it as she busied herself sorting provisions into packs at the side table where their group’s things were piled.

While most of the shrine’s shutters were closed and barred, as though that would somehow stave off the attack that threatened at any moment, one of the room’s windows was open.

It struck Herrwn how much the atmosphere in the room seemed to mirror the weather outside―deadly calm in a way that warned a storm was brewing.