There was so much he wanted to tell his father, let alone his mother and brother. The knowledge that at least one ambassador of Threlland sought to resurrect Davyd's old dream of Alliance might be enough for his father to act again. King Brock of Callodon would certainly rally to the cause, and it might even be possible to gain an audience with Elvendere…though Gawain did not wish to take advantage of Gan's grudging 'gift'.
When, after the sun had shone warmly for three consecutive days, Gawain walked into breakfast looking serious and sad at the same time, Rak suddenly looked up.
"You are leaving." he said simply.
"I must. The worst of the snow is over, and I have a long way to go."
"Where do you journey, my friend?" Rak asked, his voice deep with concern, and Merrin's eyes were wide with anxiety.
"South.” Gawain answered, noting the relief in their faces. "In four months, I must be in Callodon."
Rak sighed, and nodded. "At least the worst of my fears have been allayed."
"Fears?"
"I had thought you might be on a fool's errand. North, to the Teeth."
"No. I saw them yesterday afternoon, from the peak. I saw the farak gorin, where even now the snow melts surprisingly quickly…” Gawain's voice trailed off, and he stared away, out of the window.
"And?” Rak promptly gently.
"And I saw a darkness beyond, as you described. As if something there would draw the very sun from the sky."
Rak nodded. "The whitebeards in Threlland Keep say it is merely an illusion, created by distance and heat, as a candle's flame does."
"The whitebeards say many things. I sometimes think that if only we would stop listening to them, the world would be better place."
7. Homeward
A small crowd gathered in the square the next morning, waiting to see Gawain off. Word of his deeds on the Jurian plains had of course spread throughout the town shortly after his arrival, and so great was the respect in which Rak was held there, Tarn did indeed feel as welcoming as any place could be away from home.
Gwyn was laden with supplies for his journey, and Merrin had seen to this personally. The poor horse, stabled for so long, looked to be sagging in the middle with the weight of food hung on the saddle. But she didn't protest. She knew their next destination as well as her mount, and her tail swished, anxious to be homeward bound.
The goodbyes were dwarvishly short. A clasping of hands or forearms, a clap on the back from Rak, and a polite kiss on the cheek from Merrin while Travak gurgled and grinned toothlessly in her arms.
Gawain's heart was at once heavy, yet light. He was, and would have said if asked, glad to go, but sorry to leave. He paused at the end of the cobbled road leading out of the square, and turned Gwyn for what might be the last look at his friends, and the town of Tarn, in Threlland, which we call the Black Hills. And with a final wave, he turned once more, and rode out onto the track that led down the slopes, towards the lower hills of Mornland, and Juria beyond.
The going was slow at first, heavy snow-drifts still had some melting to do before the earth beneath could be trusted at anything more than a fast walk. But when he reached the river border-crossing between Mornland and Juria, and with the weight of supplies diminishing each day, he let Gwyn set her own pace.
After so long in stables, and remembering the vast open plain, Gwyn broke into a canter, and then with a joyful whinny, began to gallop. Snow flew from her hooves as she thundered southwards, scattering cattle before her.
For a few fleeting moments, Gawain thought about Ferdan, and the southern end of Elvendere to the west, and of Elayeen, but Raheen was in his blood, and Gwyn's, and their track remained unrelenting, due south.
The great Raheen mare would've run all day and all night, homeward bound. On a number of occasions they did just that. But the need for rest demanded sleep and food, and though the snows had melted without trace by the time they were halfway across Juria's flatlands, there was still a long way to go, and it would be madness to lame Gwyn at any time, let alone now.
Gawain avoided other people whenever he could. Time was pressing. Spring was everywhere, it seemed, and had come earlier than expected this year. With the lengthening of the days they both knew that the Banishment was soon to be at an end. Home was waiting, and Gawain had seen all he had wanted to see of the lowlands and its peoples.
In moments of quiet reflection before sleep, he considered his Banishment, and all he had learned. There was a world, Rak had said, and it was true that each kingdom was but a part of it. Most in Raheen had never left that hallowed homeland, had never felt the need. Few from the lowlands visited Raheen, and those that did were mostly merchants who came, traded, and left with profit, and had no time for anything else.
The lowlands were dangerous lands, he knew that for himself, though it had been said often enough in Raheen. Brigands, thieves, and villains were abundant here. But so were good honest folk. Were the dwarves truly "a suspicious lot"? Were the elves worthy of the derogatory term "elvish", used more often than not to mean insular, inward-looking, aloof and isolationist? And could not the same be said for Raheen, graced by good fortune through simple geography?
True, Gawain had recourse to resort to the use of weapons more times in the lowlands than ever in Raheen. Once would have been more times than ever in Raheen. But now he knew why so much emphasis had been placed on combative skills during his upbringing. Everyone from his father down to the humblest Raheen commoner knew that one day each prince of the realm would be Banished for a year and a day, in the downlands, to live amongst lowlanders, alone. Gawain’s mistake had been to imagine the tradition applied only to the first-born.
But there were honourable people here, below Raheen's towering plateau. Men like Tallbot, a simple officer in the protectorate of Jarn, proud to be in the service of Callodon and willing to lay down his life in the defence of Jarn's humblest citizen. Men like Rak, a dwarf in race and, compared to Gawain, in stature, but a towering figure compared to most around him even in Juria's court. Even farmers, like Allyn, who spoke out against the Ramoths for good people, and did his duty by standing up for Gawain with Jarn's protectorate guard.
And all this was now under dark threat. Not from the west, not from the despised Gorian empire, but from the north, and these strange shaven-headed Ramoths, and their tales of ancient gods and dark magic, their jingling bells and their stony-eyed snake symbols.
As Gawain rode steadily south, and the days became longer, he knew he must take up his father's old dream. The seven kingdoms, though six in reality since the loss of Pellarn, must stand united against the Ramoths. The whitebeards, who preached tolerance through some irrational fear of some mythical dark wizard, whose name was used to frighten children into being good, must be ignored. No king must be persuaded to suffer his people to endure the Ramoths' insidious scourge.
Gawain's determination rose with each black tower he passed in his passage south. There were more of them than he remembered as he followed the main merchant's road towards Juria's castletown, and yet more as he crossed the border into Callodon. It seemed that no large town had escaped this slow and insidious infection.
Twice, as Gwyn thundered down the road, he saw Ramoth guardsmen brutalising bystanders. Twice he reined in, and twice he sat astride his steed with weapons drawn until the Ramoths beat a retreat. Nor did he receive any thanks. Instead, the victims scuttled away like terrified animals, rushing for the cover of some dark doorway.