Dodinal bid the gathered men good day. Gerwyn and his friends made no attempt to respond, but the others did, even though their farewells were immediately lost when Idris pushed open the door and the wind charged in. The two of them stepped into the furious storm.
Although it was only late morning, it was as dark as dusk. Wind made the trees creak like the bones of the dead. The snow rose as high as Dodinal’s knees, making the going slow. He was thankful he had the spear for support. By the time they reached Rhiannon’s hut, his heart was beating hard and he was drenched with sweat.
He stumbled through the door and made straight for the bench, where he sat down heavily, groaning with relief. He barely felt the spear slip from his frozen fingers or heard it rattle on the floor.
“Wouldn’t listen to me, would you?” Rhiannon scolded, picking up the spear and leaning it against the wall. “Wouldn’t wait.”
Dodinal raised a weak hand. His teeth were too busy chattering to allow him to speak.
“Well, never mind. What’s done is done. Get your cloak and boots off and put them by the fire to dry, before you catch your death. You too, Idris. Not even a mighty brehyrion is immune to sickness.”
Both men obeyed without question. Rhiannon took their sodden cloaks from them and hung them to dry, heaping fresh logs on the fire until the flames were roaring. Then she pressed a beaker into Dodinal’s hand and gave another to Idris.
“Drink,” she commanded.
He sniffed it cautiously. The infusion smelled herby and sweet. He drank it quickly, relishing its warmth in his belly. His skin tingled and he fought to keep his eyes open; although he had been awake for just a few hours, he felt like sleeping again. His leg ached. It was not as well healed as he’d thought. He should have listened to her.
Owain ran over and threw his arms around Idris. The old man grabbed him in a bear hug and lifted him up, growling like a wild animal as the boy wriggled helplessly in his arms. Dodinal watched them with a wistful smile on his face. He envied them. It had been a long time since he had felt affection for anyone, or anyone for him.
“Come on, then,” Idris said as he put him down, the boy tussle-haired and flushed. “Time to get you back to the Great Hall, I think. We’ll call for the women to get the cooking pots on.” He gave Rhiannon an anxious look. “Though for how much longer we’ll be able to do so is another matter. Hardly any of our stored food remains.”
The hearty chieftain had gone. In his place was an ageing man struggling to conceal his fears for his people.
“The weather will turn soon,” Rhiannon assured him, though she could have no way of knowing when the storm would break. It had already raged for longer than any Dodinal could remember.
“You’re right,” Idris said. “Of course it will. Dodinal, you are welcome to join us, although I understand if you would prefer to remain here alone to rest. You look like a man ready to drop.”
Dodinal nodded gratefully. “I will stay. I would not want to embarrass myself by falling asleep at your table.”
“Then rest for however long you need. We will arrange for food to be brought to you.” Idris looked across at Rhiannon. “Take the boy and go on ahead. I will join you shortly.”
She frowned as she listened to the wind rampage around the hut. “Do not tarry. The storm is blowing harder. Any worse and I fear the roofs will be torn off.”
“Then all the more reason for you to go now. I will not be more than a few minutes behind you.”
Mother and son left then, Idris tousling the boy’s hair as he passed. The flames frantically swayed this way and that when Rhiannon opened the door, settling again once she had closed it behind her, leaving a flurry of snowflakes in her wake.
Idris stood and took his cloak off the peg Rhiannon had hung it on. “I will not keep you from your rest, Dodinal. But I want you to know I meant what I said. You are kin now. To lose my eldest son was bad enough. It tore a hole in my heart. But if I had lost my grandson, too …” he broke off, visibly emotional.
“Your son does not regard me as kin,” Dodinal answered lightly, in an attempt to brighten the mood.
Idris made a dismissive gesture. “Ignore Gerwyn. He is young and foolish. And a little disconcerted by you, I think. When he sees you he sees his older brother, whom he worshipped. That he was taken in such a cruel and meaningless way fills Gerwyn with anger. He hits out in every direction, not caring who he hurts.”
“I understand.”
“Yes, I believe you do. I know who you are, you see. I know what you are, Sir Dodinal. You talked, you know, in your fever.”
Dodinal started to protest.
Idris raised a hand for silence. “I will not say a word. I asked if you had been to Camelot to give you the opportunity to tell the others, if you had been so inclined. You did not choose to tell them. I will honour that. You have my word.”
Dodinal was too weary to add anything to that.
“Though why you are wandering this blasted wilderness and not staying warm and well fed in Camelot is beyond me,” Idris said.
“I am on a quest,” Dodinal answered without thinking, startling himself by speaking the truth. He had spent so much time of late dwelling on his past that he had allowed his guard to slip.
“Seeking what?”
“Whatever I might find.”
What else was he supposed to say? That all he sought was peace, an end to the violence and bloodshed that had dogged him since childhood? Even if finding it meant having to sacrifice his own life? Death held no fear for him, provided it was an honourable death rather than the kind of unjust and demeaning end that Elwyn had suffered. That would be the unkindest fate of all.
“Well,” Idris said, making for door. “I wish you luck. But it seems to me that if a man does not know what he is looking for, he might not know when he has found it. Rest well. I hope we can talk of these matters further, when your strength has returned.”
He paused and reached into a pocket. From it he took a sharpening stone, which he placed on the table. “A blunt blade is as dangerous as a sharp blade, but in a different way.”
He left Dodinal to stare dolefully around the hut. What had Idris been trying to say? That Dodinal had found what he was looking for, yet his eyes were closed to the truth? Then again, maybe the chieftain had not been trying to say anything. It may have been offered as advice, nothing more.
Yet the doubts persisted. Dodinal had been so intent on moving on it had not occurred to him he might want to stay. Not just until the storm had abated. To put down roots and settle. Already it felt like he had friends here; Idris, Rhiannon, Owain. No doubt the men he had met in the Great Hall would offer their hands in friendship too. Even Gerwyn might come round eventually. Stranger things had happened.
Dodinal stood and began to pace, limping around the fire as he tried to bring order to his confusion. He had sought peace, and there could surely be no more peaceful a place than this.
It was hard, here. A bad winter was no mere inconvenience, as it would be in Camelot. It could mean the difference between survival and a lingering death.
Yet Dodinal would consider himself blessed if his future battles were waged only against the weather. While the urge to move on still pulled at him, that could be because it was all he had ever done. Could it really be that he had found what he was looking for after all?
Feeling torn in too many ways, he lowered himself to the mattress and pulled the furs over him, banishing the thoughts from his head. At the moment he had no choice but to stay. Only when the snow stopped and the thaw came would he know how he really felt.