"You have travelled, and met the three races of man. Have you met any yet, man, dwarf or elf, that would not better his lot?"
"You and Merrin seem perfectly content." Gawain offered.
"We are. But not perfectly. In Juria, we yearn for home. In Tarn, I yearn to serve not only my king and my homeland in Juria, but to bring back Raheen's dream of alliance. The seven kingdoms are become six with the loss of Pellarn to the empire, yet still we talk of seven, refusing to admit the loss. I would have them all back, and standing together side by side."
"That is a worthy ambition."
"It is. But there are few who would agree. Would it not be easier then, for one with ambition to pin his hopes upon a myth? To believe the lies of the Ramoths, and thus pass the responsibility for the dream to some ancient god? To say "Ramoth will make this happen if I make way for him?”
"Madness."
"I agree. But there are those of little strength all too willing to allow some imagined ancient power to fill the void between wanting and having. Willing to believe that a few chants and the jingling of tiny bells will bring them fruits without labour."
"Even among your people? You said the Ramoths would find no followers in Threlland."
"We are a practical people. We have mined ore in these hills for countless centuries. From us comes the steel that has shaped this world of ours. It is difficult to believe in giants and ancient gods when you tunnel in the darkness in these highlands.
"And in truth, Traveller, in all the holes we have dug, we never have found a single giant 'healing his wounds', nor an ancient god snoring against the day of judgement."
"You haven't dug in the Dragon's Teeth though."
"Once we did, so it is told. But no ore was found. Only hard rock and pain."
"And Morloch?"
"Morloch is another creature altogether. That he exists I have no doubt."
Gawain was shocked. "In truth?"
"In truth. We have our whitebeards and their mumbling magic. Is it so beyond your ken to imagine another whitebeard, but one with evil intent?"
Gawain admitted it was not.
"Our perch is as lofty as Raheen itself, here in the Black Hills, and we see what we may see."
"We are in Threlland? Now?” Gawain looked around for some feature which might mark a border. There was none.
"Aye. And Tarn, and home, is on yonder slopes, far off yet, but my heart sings to see them. Look, Traveller, there below the clouds. Those are the western slopes, and there you'll always find a welcome at the mention of my name."
"You said you see what you may see, from those heights."
"I did."
"What do you see?"
"A blackness, sometimes, beyond the Dragon's Teeth. A darkness that seems to draw light into itself. And we have seen these Ramoths, marching south across the farak gorin, in ones and twos. They can only come from one place."
"The Teeth."
"Aye. Or beyond."
Snow fell the next day, and once the snowfall began it seemed unlikely to stop. It was bitterly cold, but Jurian brandy and good humour, and the obvious high spirits of the dwarves, kept the chill from their bones.
Even Merrin seemed to glow with an inner light once they were in sight of their homeland. Gawain smiled too, knowing how he would feel when the time came to guide Gwyn's unerring hooves up the rocky incline of the Downland Pass, and home.
They were met by dwarvish riders two days out of Tarn, and there was something of a celebration in the greetings that were exchanged. The riders stayed in camp with them overnight, and then hurried ahead to bring news to Tarn of Rak's return. It was clear that Rak was something of a celebrity in his home town.
Tarn, when they reached it in almost blizzard conditions, was blazing with lighted torches and great bonfires set to guide their way through the incessant snowfall. Amid the enthusiastic shouted welcomes that greeted them in the snow-blown town square, Merrin went into labour, and she and Rak were rushed off to a large stone-built house vaguely discernible through the strengthening flurries.
Welcoming hands and voices led Gawain and his steed to a nearby stable, and safe inside Gawain set about his duty to his horse. It had been a long time since she'd been properly scrubbed and brushed, and the young man's hosts were slightly perplexed that he seemed to prefer his grooming chores to their company.
Eventually though, his duty done, Gawain allowed himself to be led to the inn and a hot meal in company with the Jurian merchants. He was given a room at the inn, and lodged there for two days and nights before Rak himself appeared, joyfully proclaiming the birth of his first-born son.
The inn erupted, and ale began flowing. Amidst the back-clapping and the shaking of hands and clenching of arms, someone called out "What will you name him, Rak?"
"Aye! The name Rak! What's his name!"
"Is he well? And Merrin?"
Laughing, and accepting a tankard of ale thrust into his hand, Rak shouted "He is well! And my beloved also, though it was a hard birthing. Both are resting."
"The name! The name!" cried others.
Gawain, almost having to stoop under the dwarvishly low ceiling, smiled down at his friend, who was suddenly and proudly staring up at him. A hush fell over the assembled company, and then Rak spoke.
"We have named him Travak, to honour our brother."
All eyes swung up to Gawain, and heads nodded approvingly.
"Travak, in our language," the innkeeper explained, handing Gawain a tankard, "means 'he who journeys'."
"Or he who strives, or quests." Another said quietly.
Gawain felt his heart swell. Nothing in his eighteen years of regal training had prepared him for an honour such as this. He raised his tankard, smiled at Rak, and said:
"Honour to Travak, son of Rak and Merrin, of Tarn, in Threlland."
A mighty cheer went up, echoing the toast, and ale flowed long into the night.
When Gawain awoke next morning, head throbbing painfully, he found himself in a strange but comfortable room quite unlike his at the inn. He dimly recalled Rak inviting him to stay at his house, and the two of them stumbling, laughing, through the snow in the early hours of the morning, noisily attempting to keep as quiet as possible.
When, a few days later, Merrin and Rak proudly presented their son, all wrapped in warm swaddling, Gawain could not hold back the tears which suddenly welled in his eyes. The tiny life cradled gently in its mother's arms reminded him of spring, and home, and family, and he knew he must leave Tarn soon.
"I would give Travak a gift." Gawain said, wiping his eyes.
"You have, Traveller.” Merrin answered gently, "but for you, he would not have seen this world."
"But I would like to. Rak, do you have quill and ink?"
"Yes, of course…" Rak look puzzled, but took Gawain to a small oaken desk, and politely left him there, writing for some moments.
Finally, Gawain sealed the folded parchment closed with wax, and wrote the name "Travak" on the front before handing it to Merrin.
"This is my gift for your son. When he is old enough, and if he has a yearning to live up to the name you gave given him in honour to me, give him this?"
"I shall." Merrin replied, accepting the letter with a puzzled look, but as solemnly as the occasion seemed to dictate. "It shall remain sealed until then, Traveller. Our word on it."
"Thank you."
Winter's fierce grip held the highlands in a choking white strangle-hold for four weeks, and the snow drifted as deep as Gawain was tall. No-one but Gawain seemed concerned at the passing of time, or that the track down to the lowlands was impassable.
But Gawain knew that it had taken seven months to journey this far north, and though he had not ridden hard, he needed to leave soon to make the Downland Pass at the appointed hour, and not a minute later. Seeing Rak and Merrin and the gurgling infant Travak enjoying simple family life left Gawain yearning for Raheen, and he knew he could not stay away for a moment longer than was necessary.