Dodinal was too weary to care whether Gerwyn understood what had happened or not. “Believe me, I am deeply sorry about your father, but my place is with Rhiannon. Find someone else to tell you what occurred here tonight. You will find it hard to believe, but believe it you must. And, yes, the world has gone mad.”
He had no more to say and so he left, to find Rhiannon and do whatever he could to help her through the long night ahead. She had commandeered another of the huts whose occupants had been killed. One by one the injured were carried in for her to assess their wounds, and stitch them or bind them as necessary. Candles had been lit all around to boost the light from the fire.
It was ceaseless, demanding work. Dodinal watched her with increasing concern, she seemed to age years as the night passed. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin was wan and taut. He could have wept at the sight of her.
Midnight came and went and still she was not done. Her hands were painted red with blood, her clothes were spotted with dark patches. She was so tired her body swayed, and she had to pause from her work while she rubbed her eyes into wakefulness, smearing blood across her face. Her fingers trembled as she stitched torn flesh with needle and sinew until the only way she could hold them steady was by gripping one hand with the other.
Finally Dodinal could bear it no longer and insisted she rested. “You have seen to the most badly injured,” he told her, ignoring her protests and guiding her away from the healing hut towards her own. “The others have but minor wounds. They can wait until morning.”
Once inside, he ordered her to lay on the pallet. He found a cloth and used hot water from the pot to wash the blood from her hands and face despite her weak protestations. Then he pulled the furs up over her. “I will not sleep,” she insisted in a drowsy voice. Her eyelids drooped. Only her anger and fear were keeping her awake.
“No matter, as long as you rest. You have been through a terrible ordeal. You need to take time to regain your strength.”
At that, she cried out and sat bolt upright. “What about Owain? How can I sleep when he is all I can think of?”
Dodinal gently pushed her down. “Rest, I said. Think of your son, by all means. Only, think of the joy you will feel in your heart when I bring him safely back to you.”
She looked deep into his eyes, seeking the truth of his words and finding it. Satisfied, she nodded and settled down, turning onto her side and pulling the furs up to her chin.
Dodinal busied himself with tending to the fire, then sat at the table and stared into the flames while he slowly sharpened his sword. He went over his memories of the attack and asked himself if there was anything he could have done to have altered the outcome.
After a while he noticed Rhiannon’s breathing had slowed and was deep and steady. The anxiety had fallen from her face, and she looked once more like the kind and beautiful woman who had tended to his wounds. He would do anything for her, and for her son. It vexed him greatly to be sitting in the warmth of the fire while Owain was in the forest at the mercy of the gargoyle creatures. Every fibre of his being demanded he should be out searching for him, and for the girl. Now he knew what to look for, he would be mindful of signs of the creatures’ passage. Yet for all his gifts, he could not see tracks in the dark. Blundering off blindly in the wrong direction could set him back hours, or even days.
It was frustrating, but he had to wait.
He rested the sword against the wall and sat in silence.
Finally he drifted into sleep too.
He woke with his head at an awkward angle, his neck stiff and sore. Weak grey light seeped like watery gruel through the gap between door and floor. He had slept straight through until dawn. He stood and stretched, twisting his head from side to side until he could move it freely. It was cold. The fire had burned low. He fed it wood and banked it until it flared into life.
He warmed his hands above the flames, then crouched by the bed where Rhiannon slept, her chest gently moving, her lips slightly parted.
He let her remain undisturbed, holding on to that image of her while he pulled on his cloak and fastened it at his shoulder. There was every chance he would not survive to see her again. This was how he wanted to remember her. Restful, without the weight of the world on her shoulders. He gathered his sword and the spear Idris had given him before slipping silently from the hut.
To his surprise, Gerwyn was waiting outside, leaning against the wall close to the door, bow held loosely in one hand. Judging from the dew that glistened on his cloak, he had been there for some time, since before sunrise, waiting for Dodinal to emerge. He had a pack over one shoulder and a quiver bristling with arrows over the other. When the knight stepped out, he straightened and cleared his throat nervously. “How is Rhiannon?”
“Asleep,” Dodinal said shortly, setting off for the gates, not only because he was anxious to make a start but also to draw the other man away from the hut so their voices would not disturb her.
“Good.” Gerwyn hurried after him. “I… I wanted to apologise.”
“You should be apologising to Rhiannon, not me.”
“I will, the next time I see her. But I didn’t just mean about last night, though I admit I spoke out of turn. If you want to know, I am ashamed of myself. I’ve been less than courteous to you since you arrived. My behaviour has been unforgivable. Even so, I hope you will forgive me.” He shrugged helplessly. “Give me a second chance.”
Dodinal pondered this as he passed the remains of the Great Hall. It was a charred wreck: the roof gone, the walls reduced to the blackened bones of their frames. The air around was still rank with the acrid stink of burning. Would anyone have the heart to rebuild it now that Idris was dead?
He had no reason to trust Gerwyn, but the man sounded sincere enough. Of course, he was now aware of what had transpired while he was away hunting. Perhaps the shock of losing his father had rattled him sufficiently to bring him to his senses. If so, it was encouraging. There could yet be hope that Gerwyn had it within him to one day follow his father as brehyrion. One day. He still had a long way to go.
“I forgive you,” Dodinal answered flatly, hoping that was the end of it and he could be on his way. He had a long journey ahead.
“Really?” Gerwyn sounded almost pathetically grateful.
“I said so, didn’t I?”
“You really don’t mind if we travel together?”
Dodinal halted and glared down at the younger man, who defiantly stood his ground. “I said I forgave you, nothing more. Anyway, what makes you think I am going anywhere?”
Gerwyn raised an eyebrow. “You creep out of here at dawn with sword and spear, and expect me to believe you’re not leaving?”
“I could be going hunting, for all you know.”
“But you’re not. You’re going after them, aren’t you? Owain and the girl, and those… whatever they were, that took them.”
There was no point pretending otherwise. “Yes, I’m going after them. Thank you for your offer, but I prefer to travel alone.”
“If you will not let me walk with you, I will follow.” Gerwyn had a determined set to his jaw. His voice was hoarse with emotion. “My father is dead because of those things. Rhiannon was right. I should have been here. That’s something I will have to live with for the rest of my life. I cannot change what has happened, but I can at least try to make amends by revenging his death.”
“A man who thirsts for vengeance grows to despise himself.” Dodinal could not disguise his bitterness. “Believe me. I know that all too well.”
“It’s not just about vengeance,” Gerwyn insisted, his hands becoming as animated as they had been when he talked his father into letting him go hunting. “Owain is my brother’s son. He is blood kin. I may not show it as openly as my father did, but I care for him a great deal. Go ahead, leave alone, if that is what you want. I will not be far behind you and you cannot stop me.”