"You've about an hour to make ready.” Davyd said softly, standing, and striding the three steps down to the Circle of Justice. "You should make the most of them."
"I'm sorry father…If I had known…” A lump was forming in the back of Gawain's throat.
"No matter. You will return to us in a year and a day. And regale us with tales of adventure and startling heroism, just like your brother did."
With that, Davyd hugged his son, smiled, and made to turn away. Then he checked himself, and gazed at his second-born. "I have always been proud of you. I know you will do well. Remember who you are, and be true to yourself, and to Raheen."
"I will, father.” Gawain said, with as much princely strength as he could muster.
His mother kissed him, but said nothing. She simply smiled, her eyes betraying her love and her sorrow and her pride, and then she took Davyd's arm, and left.
"Well, G'wain. Off you go."
"Thanks Kev. Thanks for telling me."
Kevyn shrugged. "You know the traditions as well as I."
"When have they ever applied to the second-born?"
"Now, I suppose. Why, don't you think you can survive a year and a day in the downlands?"
"Of course I can. I'm not an idiot."
"No you're not. Want some advice?"
"You know I do."
"So did I when I was banished. No-one gave me any. Good luck."
"Thanks. Thanks a lot."
Kevyn's face cracked into a grin. "You'll be all right. You know how I keep saying I let you win whenever we fight?"
"Yes."
"Well, on the grounds that you'll probably end up on a Gorian slaver within a month or two, I might as well admit that you always beat me fair and square."
"You might mention that to father after I've gone."
"Not a chance."
Kevyn hugged his younger brother, clapped him on the shoulders, and headed for the door.
"Oh!" he shouted, his youthful exuberance echoing around the hall. "I will give you one good tip before you go!"
"What's that?"
"Don't eat yellow snow!"
And with that, Kevyn was gone, the king's door slamming behind him.
Gawain sighed, and fought back the tears which pricked at his eyes. Banished. He should have seen it coming. He should have spent the last two weeks at home, with his friends and family, not gallivanting all over Raheen on Gwyn, camping out, enjoying the summer…But he had, and had lost the chance to prepare himself for the sudden absence now forced upon him.
His hands rested on the sword of justice, and then he leaned his chin on the pommel. It was a good thing really, this banishment. All future kings had to endure it. Had to spend a year and a day abroad in the six strange kingdoms that lay below the plateau. It prepared them for rule, forced them to accept that there was a world beyond the sheer edges of Raheen. Made them come to terms with the differences between the races that populated the land. It was a good thing.
Except now. Now that it was Gawain's turn to go. The Keep had been emptied. He should have known. The excitement in the young page's voice and attitude was obvious now. Apart from Gawain's family and the Lord High Chamberlain, that was the last Raheen subject who would speak or acknowledge Gawain's presence until the sun rose a year and a day from now.
If Gawain survived. He drew the sword from its slot in the floor, and hefted it one-handed. Just. The point dipped alarmingly, and he instantly grasped the hilt in classic two-handed stance.
Well, he thought, raising its tip high above his head. It'd take more than lowlanders to prevent his homecoming. There were no horsemen, no horses, that could match a Raheen. No archers, not even Elves with their famed curved bows, who could match a skilled Raheen arrow-thrower. No swordsmen, except perhaps the Household Guard of Callodon, and maybe the praetorians of the Gorian Empire, that could match Gawain. He hoped. Kevyn had said so, anyway.
He studied his reflection in the polished blade. Short golden-blond hair, piercing steel-grey eyes, the strong jawline. It was a strong face, but young, and soon to be shown to the world beyond Raheen for the first time.
He slipped the longsword back into its rightful place, and turned on his heel. He didn't have much time to gather his belongings, saddle Gwyn, and make the Downland Pass before daybreak.
***
At the foot of the Downland Pass, just as dawn was breaking, Gawain and Gwyn turned to watch the orange bloom on the horizon, knowing only too well that high above, at home, the sun had been shining for the best part of an hour already.
Gawain sighed as the first rays of day sliced through the gloom and warmed his face, and he closed his eyes, remembering The Fallen as he'd been taught by an old soldier so long ago. He'd been five, or six, he couldn't remember. It was the morning of his birthday, and he'd imagined that the day would bring a thousand magnificent Raheen stallions crashing down the castle walls in their haste to choose him…so he'd risen early, and gone out onto the battlements…
There were no horses thundering across the plain, even when he'd stood on a bench to look over the parapet wall. Just a one-eyed old soldier, hoisting the flag atop its pole for the break of day. So the child Gawain had turned, and watched the horizon, waiting for dawn, and hoping for horses.
The old soldier finished running up the flag, and then walked quietly over to stand beside Gawain. After a few moments, the boy had looked up and was surprised to see that the soldier had closed his one good eye, and looked for all the world like he was asleep on his feet.
"What are you doing?" Gawain had asked, a little in awe of the soldier and the scars on his face.
"There are those," the old soldier had said, "Who cannot see the dawn, your highness. I do this for them all."
"Why can't they see the dawn? Is it because they got their eyes hurt like you?"
"No, your highness. They are The Fallen. Old friends, and friends I never met. Those that were slain in battle, so that you and me might stand here free men, and watch the sun rise, and feel its warmth upon our faces in peace."
Gawain had thought about it for a moment, and nodded seriously, and turned his young face to the dawn, and closed his eyes. It didn't seem right that The Fallen wouldn't be able to do that again, just so that he could.
Now though, as Gwyn's ears twitched, Gawain opened his eyes and turned towards the sound. There were a number of inns on the well-worn track that led from the guardhouse at the bottom of the Downland Pass, and from their direction he could hear the faint sounds of stirring life.
In an hour or so, the road would be bustling. Merchants and travellers seeking to make the long climb up to Raheen, and merchants and travellers beginning to make their way down. It would be wise for Gawain to leave before the bustle started, and Gwyn seemed to agree, for she set off at a trot heading north, away from the Pass, leaving the Sea of Hope in the wake of the dust her hooves kicked up on the sun-baked track.
It was a week later, still in the kingdom of Callodon and still heading north, that Gawain came upon a farmer and his family, and their cart with its broken wheel.
They were on a rutted road in the middle of a small forest, and the farmer was desperately attempting to lift the wagon and refit the wheel at the same time, while his wife and daughter looked on helplessly.
At Gawain's approach the farmer ceased his futile struggling, and looked up nervously.
"Good day to you, Serre.” The older man called.
"Good day, Serre, and well met." Gawain replied politely, and Gwyn slowed to an amble, and came to a halt a little way off from the stricken family. "You've suffered a sad mishappenstance,” Gawain said quietly, eyeing the wheel and looking back along the track. He could see no rocks in the ruts. "Is the axle broken?"