Gan nodded at the thalangard, and Yonas was led away into the forest.
"I would not have shown such mercy." Gan said, as they moved off again.
"My arms were full. I could not draw my sword." Gawain lied. He had seen the black braid in Yonas' hair, and knew what it meant now.
By the time they reached the tree line the sun was higher in the sky, though there were yet a few hours until noon. The thalangard fanned out, forming a protective semi-circle around Gan, Gawain, and Elayeen.
"Fare well, Traveller. Send word of Elayeen when you can?"
Gawain nodded. "When you return to your home, Gan, watch the town of Ferdan. In the first days of summer, you may see something important. If you do, bring your father there. That is where you will next see your sister, in my company."
"In Ferdan? In summer?"
"Aye."
Gwyn bowed her head low, and Gawain mounted, careful not to wake Elayeen.
"Never trust the whitebeards, Gan-thal. Never."
Gan nodded, uncertain. "I shall remember. I will send word, somehow, when it is safe for Elayeen to return."
"I shall not hold my breath against that day, friend Gan, not while a single whitebeard draws breath beneath the trees of Elvendere to guide the thoughts of men like Yonas. Fare well."
"Speed your journey."
Gwyn stepped out from the trees, and with a snort, set off across the plains of Juria once more, this time heading east. Gawain neither looked back nor forward. Instead, he looked down at the pale and unconscious form in his arms, and bent a little to kiss her on the forehead. Then he tenderly covered her face with his cloak, shielding her against the spiteful cold breezes wafting down from the far-distant Teeth.
Once she woke, and stiffened a little, but her hand moved a little over his chest, and she fell quiet again, content that he was near, and she touching him. When he said her name, he received no reply; she had fallen asleep again.
Gawain was filled with anguish for her. In the days and nights in her room at Elvenheth, she had eaten only once, and then very little. They stopped briefly, that first night on the plains, and Gawain laid her gently on the ground, propping her upright with his knee while he trickled a rich broth into her lips. She drank a little, and for an hour Gawain remained there, until the small flask of broth was empty. Then he lifted her, mounted Gwyn, and they set off once more.
Elayeen woke the next day, in the late afternoon, and nestled closer to him.
"Mithroth? Is this the yonderlife?"
"No. This is Juria. You are safe, mithroth, safe with me."
"Do we travel to the yonderlife together then?"
"No. We travel to Threlland."
"Then we do travel to the yonderlife. The dwarves will kill us."
Gawain chuckled tenderly, and hugged her reassuringly. "No. They are my friends. They will love you almost as dearly as I do."
"I think I shall sleep some more…" she sighed.
"No, mithroth, not yet. First you must eat."
"I am not hungry."
Gawain reached into one of the sacks, and drew out another flask of broth. "For me, mithroth, I beg you…please."
Her eyes fluttered open, and she gazed up at him. "For you?"
"For me." he said tenderly, "Please."
"For you, mithroth." She smiled weakly, and drank the broth without protest, until the flask was drained.
Gawain tossed it aside into the snow as Gwyn pushed on, and Elayeen smiled as he caressed her cheek, and then she slept again.
For the first time, Gawain found himself wishing that Allazar was with him. The wizard, curse all whitebeards, might know something, anything, that might speed Elayeen's recovery. She seemed so dreadfully gaunt, so painfully vacant. When she spoke, she spoke almost as a child, unaware of herself or the world around her, aware only that Gawain was there, that her palm was pressed against his flesh beneath his tunic.
For days they travelled slowly, Gwyn forcing a path through the drifts carefully, as though she would not jolt her mount or his sleeping charge. Whenever Elayeen awoke, Gawain had to beg her to eat, but all she would accept was the broth that Meeya had prepared. Gawain hoped that it was enough to keep her strong. He kept searching her face for signs of colour, but she remained pale and wan.
When they reached the river crossing into Mornland, guardsmen at first waved and cheered, and then fell into a concerned hush when they realised that the longsword warrior bore a Lady, and that she was sick. They urged him to take rest inside their hut, and lit a great brazier for warmth, and prepared a fresh cot bed.
Gawain accepted reluctantly. It would delay his journey a while longer, but it was warm, and dry, and Gwyn needed rest. Word reached the guardsmen on the Mornland side of the crossing, and they rushed across the sluggish ford, bearing blankets and food, and soon a small crowd was huddled in the Jurian hut, gazing with worried expressions while the famed Longsword tended his Lady, who was an elf, and dreadful sick. Gwyn was led away to a stable, with a promise to Gawain that she would be well-tended. Someone produced a bottle of Jurian brandy, and Gawain, desperate to try anything to revive Elayeen, carefully poured a little between her lips. Moments later, the faintest flush of colour tinged her cheeks, and she smiled in her sleep, perhaps at the distant memory of their first meeting.
Gawain sat on the floor by the cot, leaning over her, his hand in her hair, and fell asleep. When he awoke, the sun was shining weakly, and it was morning. The hut was warm and quiet, and he and Elayeen were alone. The guards had stoked the brazier and left the sleeping couple in peace. Later, when a timid Jurian had peeped around the door and found Gawain awake, they had returned, and spoke softly.
The way across Mornland to Threlland was clear, they said, but deep snow had drifted at the bottom of the western slopes. The Mornland guard commander had guessed Gawain's destination, and had sent a rider ahead to Threlland in the hope that a path could be cleared through the snow for the Longsword warrior and his Lady.
Gawain was moved by their honest concern for him and for Elayeen. He barely knew them, scarcely recognised any of them, yet their kindness was remarkable. But time was pressing, and one of the Jurians opined that a big snowfall was likely, if the chill in his bones was anything to go by. Long years serving on this northern border were not to be argued with, and now that Gwyn was rested, Gawain felt it wiser to move on for Threlland.
Gwyn looked almost fresh when the Mornland and Jurian border guards brought her from the stables. Her blankets were new and dry, she'd been rubbed down and curry-combed, and well fed. She bobbed her head happily when Gawain mounted, Elayeen cradled in his arms as ever.
"Thank you, my friends." Gawain said quietly, eyeing the guardsmen.
One of them grinned, and Gawain remembered him from so long ago. "For nothing, Serre. It's not every day we get such honoured company, and not every day we sees a man thrice dead, yet looking so hale."
Gawain smiled. "You might mention that to the next lying whitebeard bastard that passes this way."
"Oh we shall, Serre, for there won't be no Ramoths to tell it to, not no more there won't."
Gwyn eased forward into the sluggish river, picking her way carefully, and then broke into a trot up the slope into Mornland, leaving the waving guardsmen behind them.
In truth, Gwyn's progress towards Threlland was remarkable. Instead of forcing her way through chest-high drifts, she was able to trot at a comfortable pace. Gawain couldn't help noticing boot-prints in the snow, and fresh heaps of it to the sides of a track that seemed to have been marked out before him.
The reason soon became clear, when he approached a small hamlet and saw Mornlanders bundled in warm clothing, shovelling away the worst of a drift with boards and shovels. They dug even more furiously at his approach, and then stepped to one side, breathing heavily and grinning broadly.