 
When he was kidnapped by Turkic corsairs, Owain Brecca Morwenna was made to use his powers over the element of Air in their service. Now he has the chance to escape and return to his family, which leads the Raven clan of the land of Ytir - and he finds that his troubles are only just beginning....

Raven's Heirs

by

Lesley Arrowsmith

50,750 words

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Lesley Arrowsmith

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The Island

The pigeon fluttered through the open door, onto the floor of the pigeon loft, closely pursued by two others. Owain looked up from the feeding tray he was re-filling as one of the pursuers darted in to the attack. The fugitive already had spots of blood on her breast, and a bald patch on her shoulders where the feathers had been torn out.

Owain knew every bird in the loft by its markings – this bird was strange to him. He put down the sack of grain carefully and crouched down. The two attacking birds ignored him. The newcomer backed up against the wall. "Leave her alone," Owain murmured. "Two against one – not fair."

One of the birds puffed up his chest and made indignant cooing noises, but they both backed off. Gently but quickly, Owain scooped up the strange bird and held her up, his hands pinning her wings. She shrugged her shoulders once, trying to get free, then lay still, allowing Owain to check her injuries.

"Nothing bad," he murmured encouragingly. "You'll be all right."

He could tell, now he held her, that she'd come from a far distance, and a faint flicker of hope stirred in him. Maybe she would know the way.

"Do you know this place?" he whispered. He formed a picture in his mind of a tall tower perched almost on the edge of a cliff. It was a picture formed of greys and black and white; grey stone, black ravens, white seagulls whirling round the tower like fragments of ash from a fire, just as he last remembered seeing it.

The pigeon, quite calm now, cocked her head at him and told him, silently, that she did.

Owain's hands shook with suppressed excitement. "Can you go there for me? With a message?" He gave the pigeon another picture, of an old woman, her white hair coiled in long plaits on top of her head like a coronet. She was tiny and ancient, and looked out of the open window of the tower with dignified hauteur. A raven perched by her side. It was Owain's abiding memory of his grandmother. "Tell her that Owain Brecca still lives," he murmured. "Tell her where I am. Ask her to send someone for me."

The pigeon cooed confidently. This was a simple task, she seemed to say. She would do it.

Owain carried her to the door and released her into the air. She flew up, circled the pigeon loft once, and then set off towards the east.

Owain leaned back against the wall of the pigeon loft, just inside the door, and watched her go. Maybe this time it would work – if Morwenna still lived; if the pigeon wasn't killed by a hawk or a wildfowler on the way. There were so many things that could go wrong. Even if Morwenna got the message, there was no telling if she would want to risk someone's life to bring him home.

He limped back to where he had left the sack of grain. His leg was aching again, right along the scar.

He glanced back over his shoulder, to catch one final glimpse of the pigeon. She was only a black speck against the clouds now – and all his fragile hopes hung on her. He began to tremble, not sure now if he was more terrified by the thought of failure, or success. This was the fifth time that he had attempted to send a message off the island. He didn't know if any of the others had got through, or even if it was worth trying again. Morwenna had been over eighty when he'd last seen her; she was probably dead by now. Even if she was alive, he doubted whether his family would really want him back as he was now – and sooner or later his masters here would find out that he had been trying to contact them. He wiped suddenly sweaty palms against the soft wool of his tunic.

He didn't want to die here.

Morwenna sat in the window seat with her back to the sea view, a pigeon lying quietly in her lap. Her raven was eyeing it as if might just be a tasty morsel later, Gwalchmai thought. He kissed Morwenna's hand and went to sit at the table next to Porec and Aidan, Morwenna's grandsons, carefully positioning his chair so it wasn't directly under a beam. Gwalchmai Morgan knew what these private conferences of Morwenna's were like – if you weren't careful, you came down from the tower covered in bird lime. Birds, mostly seagulls, roosted above their heads, and came and went through the open windows. None of them had any sense of responsibility, as far as Gwalchmai was concerned. The tower room had smelled of bird droppings for as long as he could remember, and Morwenna had never troubled to do anything about it.

Glynis, the new young _yspridwch_ , was last to arrive, and came to curtsey to her Lady all in a rush, pushing one hand through her tangled curls. She always looked as if she never knew what to do with her staff, though she must have strong Talent, or Morwenna would never have taken her on.

Morwenna stroked the back of the pigeon gently with the tip of her finger. With her other hand, she reached towards the bronze Mirror that lay on the table. "Now we're all here," she said, "let me show you what our messenger has brought for us."

They all leaned forward to look into the Mirror. The cloudy surface cleared to show a pigeon's eye view of a long, low island, fringed with reed beds. Pasture at one end gave way to a small wood and at the other end there was a small manor, after the Palatine fashion, with a central hall and outbuildings and a few peasant's cottages further off. This manor had been re-modelled, though, and fairly recently by the look of it. A bank and ditch had been dug around the buildings, with a wooden gatehouse facing to the landward side. One the beach, three ships were drawn up out of the way of the winter gales.

"Those are corsair ships," Porec said. "Where is this, grandmother, and why is it so important to us here?"

Morwenna took her hand from the handle of the Mirror, and the image faded. She rummaged at her belt pouch and brought out a handful of seed for the pigeon.

"You will remember Owain Brecca?" she asked.

"Of course – Aunt Brecca's eldest who disappeared. It's been so long that I'd assumed he'd died."

"He's there," Morwenna said. "He sent this pigeon and a plea for help."

"So where," Porec asked reasonably, "is there?"

Morwenna pushed a map over to him. "You see here, the sea marshes at the southern end of Moissac?" She stabbed a finger down at a tiny blob on the coast, so close in to land it could hardly be counted as an island. "That's the manor of Corcuvion, but as you pointed out, those are not Palatine ships beached there." She turned to Glynis. "Scry for it. See what you can find."

Glynis put her staff down on the stone floor, before it fell down, and reached across the table to cup her hands around the Mirror. She closed her eyes, and breathed deeply and evenly. Nothing appeared in the surface of the Mirror.

With a sigh, she took her hands away. "There's nothing there when I look, madam," she said. "Whoever is living there, they have a formidable wizard in their employ, if he can make the whole island invisible to me."

"Which explains why we couldn't find Owain three years ago, when he first went missing," Morwenna said, " and explains why he is still there now."

"He was just a kid," Aidan said. "Fourteen, was it?" I remember Aunt Brecca was quite frightening in her grief for a while, son and husband gone in the same raid."

"At least she found Eryl's body," Porec said. "She didn't even have that consolation for Owain."

Gwalchmai sat back from the table, his fingers steepled in front of him thoughtfully. "It's going to be tricky to get him out of there," he said slowly. "Quite apart from this formidable wizard the corsairs seem to have, the island is in the middle of enemy territory as far as we're concerned. De Moissac won't take kindly to Tiraeg warriors wandering around his duchy."

"It surprises me that de Moissac hasn't thrown the corsairs out already," Aidan said. "A nest of pirates isn't exactly what you want cluttering up your coast line, after all."

Porec had swung the map round to place it between them. "But see, here – there's nothing but salt marsh for miles. I bet he didn't even know until they were well dug in – and by that time he'd need a lot of troops and a formidable wizard of his own to dislodge them."

"We, on the other hand, don't want to dislodge them," Morwenna said. "Let de Moissac have his pirates and welcome to them. For now all we want is one boy." She was looking, sharply, at Gwalchmai.

Gwalchmai sat up straighter in his chair. "You're talking about a covert operation, madam. If this was thirty years ago, I wouldn't hesitate, but I'm not that reckless – I'm not that _young_ – any more. Madam, I have grandchildren...."

"So have I," Morwenna snapped back at him, "and one of them is held captive by these thieves and robbers."

"At least he should be well treated," Porec said. "An _awynwch_ must be valuable to pirates, who depend on the wind."

"And an _awynwch_ of rank," Aidan added, touching his own gold torc in passing. "If they don't need him for weather working, they could always ransom him back to us. I'm surprised they haven't approached us long before now."

"We can't depend on them wanting to take gold for him," Morwenna said, "though we can try that if it seems appropriate. Gwalchmai, you must do this. You're the only one I can trust to go for me."

"Ah," Porec said drily, "dear Uncle Ianto."

"Your dear Uncle Ianto indeed," Morwenna said. "Above all things, I want this kept a secret from him. You all know his ambition. It grieves me to say it of my own son, but I believe him capable of killing his own cousins to clear the way to the succession." She gave a half nod to Porec. "You needn't worry – I fully intend you to take over here when I die. I have my suspicions, though, that your cousin Peredur will not be returning from his ill-advised visit to Ianto's Dun."

Gwalchmai shifted uneasily in his seat. This was something he couldn't refuse to do, however much he wished it were otherwise. "So, madam," he said heavily, "you want me to go alone into the Palatinate, where de Moissac, if he knew, would be after my head, snatch the boy from under the nose of this corsair wizard and his nest of pirates, and keep him safe until I get him back here."

She smiled fondly. "We did far more difficult things in the old days, you and I," she said. "Once he's here, of course, he'll be safe. Ianto won't dare do anything once I've acknowledged him – but until then, the world thinks Owain Brecca is dead, and Ianto will want to keep it that way."

"It's about time you gave up wearing black, isn't it?" Morwenna sniffed disapprovingly.

Brecca looked down at her black divided tunic, black trousers, black boots. Unlike her mother, she felt the cold, and was bundled up under the tunic with at least three more layers, as well as a fur-lined cloak over the top. She was still wearing the cloak even inside the tower – Morwenna had never been one for closing windows, and the birds were coming and going even now.

She looked across at her mother. Morwenna was wearing a long black robe. "Don't you think you should give it up, too, mother?" she asked. "It must be twenty years since father died, after all."

Morwenna snorted. "Who wants to see bright colours on someone at my time of life?" she asked, without expecting or inviting an answer.

Gwalchmai stood by the door with his arms folded, watching them both argue as if he wasn't there. He'd grown used to it, over the years. They would both vehemently deny it, but they enjoyed sniping at each other when they met.

Brecca pulled a green tunic out of her bag and held it up so Gwalchmai could see it. "Give this to the man you find," she said. "It's one of Owain's that I couldn't bring myself to give away." She held it by the neck and turned it so that Gwalchmai could see the embroidery there. "See, this is what I did and this," she added, turning to the back of the neck, "was one of the first pieces of embroidery his sister ever did." She smiled fondly at the wobbly stitches. "She was so proud of it, and he wore it to please her. If it's Owain, he'll remember it."

"It won't fit him," Gwalchmai pointed out. "He's bound to have grown in three years."

Brecca favoured him with a withering look. "I am not," she said deliberately, "the kind of mother who fixes their children in aspic in her memory when they are away from her." She folded the tunic up, and put it on the table. "It's because he'll be hard to recognise that I want you to show him this. Only Owain would know who stitched the decoration round the neck."

"There are a few things that won't change, madam," Gwalchmai said, bowing his head slightly in acknowledgement that she was not, of all people, an overly doting mother with delusions. "Black hair, green eyes, left-handed, and an _awynwch_. That's a rare enough combination in itself."

She bent over the bag she was holding and pulled out a bronze belt knife in a sheath dyed green and decorated with a looped and entwined pattern that terminated in a raven's head. It had to be bronze; he would be unable to handle iron, like all the Talented of Ytir. All of them were burned by iron, and all of them were left-handed. Brecca herself was the exception among Morwenna's children. Totally unmagical, she was the only one of ten brothers and sisters who had been able to learn to handle a steel sword.

"I keep thinking," she said quietly, "that he'll favour Eryl now, in looks. That will be hard."

Gwalchmai remembered the tall, dark haired chieftain who had swept Brecca off her feet as a girl and married her despite Morwenna's disapproval. There were few alive who dared go against the old princess, but he had managed to charm her too, when he finally dared to face her – in this very room, if Gwalchmai remembered correctly. He had had no magic, either, and no great heroes in his lineage; he was just an extremely good breeder of horses, and Brecca had loved him.

Brecca still loved him, dead these three years though he was. She hadn't remarried since his death at the hands of the corsairs who raided her lands, though there had been several suitors for her hand. She had thought her son dead too, by the hands of those same corsairs, and now to find he had been living as one of them, and had only now contacted the family to tell them that he was alive – it was hard to understand, and Gwalchmai could see that she was nervous about meeting him again, however much she wanted back the fourteen year old boy who had ridden out with his father three years ago.

She looked up now, to face him – and to face her own fears. "We have to admit," she said slowly, "that he may have kept silent these years because he wanted to be with the corsairs. We don't know what he may have become." She drew herself up very straight backed; taller than Morwenna, she was still a head shorter than Gwalchmai. "The boy I brought up is dead," she said. "Whoever you bring back cannot be the same, but he is still my son, and of the line of Morwenna, and our honour demands that we bring him back, no matter what."

When Gwalchmai knocked on the door of Glynis's workroom, later that same day, he half expected her to refuse to answer. She answered the door herself, though, and invited him in.

"Did you bring any wine with you?" she asked vaguely.

Gwalchmai raised one eyebrow in quizzical surprise. Glynis was not known as a great drinker, particularly during the day, when she was busy. She had been very busy today, he noted. She sank down in the nearest chair with every indication that she was exhausted, and waved him vaguely to a nearby bench. "I've done the best I can," she said, "in such a short time. I'm sorry I couldn't bring you both back to Ravenscar in one leap, but I'd need help from Douglas Ker for that, and he couldn't come at such short notice."

_Or wouldn't,_ Gwalchmai thought privately. The foremost expert on Portal magic in Ytir would have come if compelled by Morwenna, but not simply at the request of Glynis, and they didn't dare tell him what his help would be needed for.

"Never mind him," Gwalchmai said. "What could you do for me?"

Glynis lifted a leather thong from the worktable and held it up to set a pendant stone swinging from it. The dark green stone glowed very slightly at its core. Glynis picked up a scrap of dark green silk with her free hand and muffled the amulet in it before slipping both in a small leather pouch. "It's very short range, I'm afraid," she said, "no more than three miles, but you can use it as often as you need it, as long as you accept that it will drain your energy a little each time."

Gwalchmai nodded and reached for the bag. "Acceptable," he said. "My thanks for doing this so quickly, Glynis Aide."

She passed a hand over her eyes. "I hope it all works," she said, "but all I really want now is to sleep for a week. Packing a Portal down into something of that size...." She yawned widely.

"You're sure you didn't want to come with me?" Gwalchmai asked, with a sly grin. "A pleasant trip across the river...."

"In winter...."

"It's almost spring. Meeting new people?"

"Who might try to kill me."

"Hmm, it's a possibility...."

"I thought harpers were supposed to have superior powers of persuasion," Glynis said. "You've just made me more determined to stay here, thank you."

*****

The Harper

The three lateen sailed ships were pulled well up the beach, but even so some of the waves were crashing over their sterns and sucking at the shingle below them. The wind howled, and Owain stood up on the stockade ramparts with his cloak thrown back, drinking in the storm.

It had been too stuffy in the hall, too full of bored corsairs longing for something to relieve the monotony of a winter ashore. Before long, there would be a fight. Owain had seen it all before, and so he had slipped outside to enjoy the wild weather.

The waves and the wind were so loud that he didn't hear Kofi until the wizard stood almost next to him – and his stomach tied itself into a series of elaborate knots. Owain could almost touch the leapard skin that Kofi always wore, casually slung around his shoulders. He gripped the wood of the railing with fingers that suddenly seemed numb.

_Kneel to me, Boy._ The voice was inside his head.

Owain turned and knelt, clumsily, stretching his bad leg out behind him stiffly. Kofi knew it was uncomfortable for him to kneel, which was why he made him do it. Thinking about his leg, and the storm, kept other things from the forefront of his mind.

Kofi laid his hands on Owain's head, pressing down slightly. _I have been scrying, Boy,_ he said. _Your future – concerns me._

Owain felt his mouth go dry as powder. What had he seen? _I – I don't know what you mean,_ he managed at last. It didn't really matter what he said – Kofi was already rummaging around in his memories. Owain pushed all thoughts of pigeons down into that little dark place that Kofi had never yet been able to get into. A headache was already blossoming behind his eyes; Kofi wasn't gentle when he searched. Then, with a final wrench that made Owain feel like throwing up, Kofi was out of his mind.

"There's something," Kofi said, out loud this time. Owain winced at the sound of his voice, huddled now against the rampart with his hands up at his temples, wishing the world would go away for a while. "If you are planning anything, Boy," Kofi said, bending close to his ear, "be sure I will find it out. Remember what happened to your friend, and be wise."

And Owain did throw up then, remembering.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there, shaking and retching – but it was almost dark when he finally reached for his crutch where it had fallen on the boardwalk, and staggered back into the hall to find a quiet corner to recover.

The storm had not blown over the next morning. Gwalchmai stood on the stone quayside under the walls of the fortress of Aberllong, and looked out gloomily at grey, foam-topped waves as far as the eye could see. Even the seagulls weren't flying in this weather. More importantly, the ferry wasn't leaving, either.

A little way up the quay, a Palatine merchant stood, huddled in his fur-trimmed robes and fur lined cloak, complaining bitterly to whoever would listen tha he had to get his cargo across the river today. He claimed to have important customers waiting for hisspices from the furthest reaches of the Turkic lands. The ferry captain, who was refusing to sail in such rough waters, was avoiding the merchant by lurking in the customs officer's office, where it was warm and dry. Gwalchmai had pretended that he didn't understand Occitan, so it was no use the merchant complaining to him. Privately, he didn't see why a delay of half a day or so was so important – the spices would have been travelling for weeks already.

He was beginning to think he would leave it until tomorrow when the ferry captain emerged from the office, squinted at the storm clouds, licked a finger and held it up to the wind, and finally climbed aboard the wide, flat-bottomed boat.

The Palatine merchant was the first up the gangway after him, with his servants and the train of twenty pack horses after him. When they were safely aboard, Gwalchmai led his two horses up the ramp after them, and found a quiet corner away from the more nervous of the merchant's horses. The deck of the boat was still pitching and yawing uncomfortably, but it was clear that the wind had dropped, and the waves were no longer as high as they had been. He stood with his hand on the little mare's neck, ready to sooth her if she needed it. The gelding was steady as a rock, and would take anything Gwalchmai cared to throw at him, but he was less certain of the mare, who was loaned to him by Brecca, and had not travelled on a ferry before.

Like most of the pack horses, though, she suffered through the unpleasant journey with her head down, snorting and snuffling her feet unhappily. When the gangway was lowered at the other side, she nearly dragged the reins out of Gwalchmai's hand in her eagerness to get back on dry land.

It was raining again now, and the customs officers on the Palatine side of the river had rigged a small awning to stand under while they checked the passengers' papers. Gwalchmai presented a parchment signed by Morwenna, her son Liam Tir Bran – who ran the port of Aberllong, and most of the vast hinterland that bore the name of the Raven clan, and the Palatine ambassador who looked after the interests of the Palatine ships that were forced to dock there. In nearly two hundred years, the Dukes of Moissac had been unable to find anywhere along their own coastline to build a port town, and were forced to rely on the Tiraeg city for all their southern and eastern trade. The miserable little port of Varaville was not deep enough to take most sea going ships – and had been burnt down several times in the recent wars between Ytir and the Palatinate.

Passed through the customs post, Gwalchmai glanced across to the row of low taverns that huddled round the edge of the docks without enthusiasm. He could manage without bad beer and luke warm stew, even though the thought of a seat by a fire was momentarily appealing – the sooner he got to Corcuvion and got this mission over with, the better.

Owain sat on the bench outside the hall, soaking up the thin sunshine and watching the men of the Raha practice hand to hand fighting with the men of the al-Khader. They were pulling their blows, but they were using the same wickedly sharp scimitars they would use in real combat. So far, al-Khader was winning, and there had only been a few minor injuries. Ibrahim al Malki, the Bey's personal doctor, was sitting on the sidelines with a quantity of bandages and various salves.

The sound of a horn from the landward side of the island, where the causeway was, stopped the game of King of the Hill in which the first officer of al-Khader was beating all comers. Not an attack, though – visitors. Owain sat up straighter – the island never got visitors.

Most of the men who had been sparring were clustered round the gateway when Yusuf and Khamees led the stranger into the courtyard.

As they approached the hall, Owain had eyes only for the horses. The dark brown gelding had a white sock on his near fore leg, and a blaze down his nose. He seemed unbothered by the crowd surrounding him. The second horse was, perhaps, a hand and a half shorter than the first. She was golden brown, with a mane and tail the colour of straw, and she was beautiful. As they got nearer to the well, Owain could see the enamelled fittings on the bridles, red and blue with flashes of copper – Tiraeg harness. There was no doubting it; the gelding could have come from anywhere, but the mare was a Plains pony, like the ones his father used to breed.

A great wave of homesickness burst open without warning. All Owain could do was sit motionless, longing to get closer to the horses; longing, more than anything else, to go home.

Fighting against the misery, Owain turned his attention to the man. He was old – his long hair was divided into four white plaits, and his long moustache was also white. Owain swallowed hard. Only high ranking Tiraeg wore their hair like that – he had once worn his hair like that himself – but he didn't know the man.

They were outside the hall now, and the old man had dismounted. He was unbuckling a harp case from his saddle with the casual nonchalance of a man who had no idea what sort of danger he was in, just by being there.

Owain wasn't sure where the island was, but he knew it wasn't of the coast of Ytir. So, what was a high ranking Tiraeg Harper doing here? His heart thumped faster, almost painfully. It was just possible, just barely possible, that this was the answer to the messages he'd sent.

He dismissed the idea almost instantly. What chance did one elderly Harper have of getting him out of here? It was far more likely that the Harper would be on the first ship out to the Koine Empire. They'd get a good price for a Harper in the slave markets of the south, even an old one. They'd get a good price for the horses, too.

The old man, still surrounded by a crowd, disappeared into the hall. The Bey would be there, the Captain of Captains, and he would decide what was to become of the stranger. Those outside the hall began to drift away. Khamees had taken charge of the horses, and was leading them towards the barn. There had been no horses there in all the time Owain had been on the island; there was no need for them when the pirates never ventured across the causeway onto the mainland, and the island was small enough to walk round. There were still stables in the barn though, empty apart from the one that was used to pen the goats. Owain watched them go, admiring them, wanting to touch them, remembering the distinctive smell of horse and leather and hay that had been a part of his growing up ever since he could remember anything – until that day on the beach when it had all been taken away from him. He was hardly concious of picking up the crutch and putting it under his arm until he was on his feet.

And then he stopped. Other people were heading towards the barn – there were other horse lovers among the crews of the corsairs, and any novelty was welcome after a long and boring winter, but seeing the pony had reminded Owain of days when he had slipped down to the stables at Pengwern early, with a gift for his own pony.

He turned towards the kitchens.

He leaned around the open door and looked inside. It was early to be preparing dinner, but there were a couple of slaves there, finishing up the washing up from the night before - and the person he was hoping to see.

"Psst, Paraskevi, be nice to me!" He spoke in Koine, the only language the old woman from the islands understood. She and her sister had been taken in a raid almost by accident, but then the Captains discovered what good cooks they both were, and they'd been feeding three shiploads of men twice a day ever since.

Paraskevi looked up from the sharp knife she was drying, and flicked the drying up cloth at Owain. "Pah! Why would I be nice to you, little weather witch?" she asked.

Owain grinned at her. "I remind you of your grandson," he said, "of course. Please, Paraskevi, you know those old dry apples at the back of the store cupboard? Can I have a couple?"

"A couple? Are you trying to get fat?"

Behind her, he could see her sister Anna smiling.

"It's for the horses."

"Horses? Here? Have you lost your mind?"

Manoli whispered something in Anna's ear. He had a hare-lip, and only Anna had the patience to understand him. Anna started to giggle. "Manoli asks if they might be big goats - it would be easy to get confused."

Paraskevi snorted, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh herself.

"Surely a big goat is just another name for a -" Owain stopped, realising too late that he had forgotten the word for _cow_ in Koine. "Lots of milk," he tried. "Mooo?"

All four of them collapsed into giggles. "Oh! A _cow_!" Anna spluttered.

"Well, they're not cows - they're definitely horses, and there's an old man with them too."

That sobered them all up. They all knew what would happen to the old man as soon as the first ship set off for the South.

Paraskevi nodded to her sister, and Anna disappeared into the store cupboard, coming back with two wizened apples.

" _Efaristo poli_ ," Owain said, tucking them into his sash.

"Hmm," said Paraskevi. "Now go away and stop disrupting my kitchen."

He was only halfway across the courtyard when he heard the shout from the door of the hall.

"Hey, Pigeon Boy - come on in here, will you? That mad old man doesn't speak any language we recognise, and the Bey wants to talk to him."

Owain felt his heart thumping painfully fast. He didn't believe it - Tiraeg harpers were almost as good at languages as _awynwch_ were. The old man must speak Koine, at least.

Yusuf waved at him impatiently. "Come on, boy - you can look at the horses later. They're not going anywhere," and as Owain passed him, he added, "and isn't that little pony a beauty?"

Owain grinned his agreement, and went in. The hall was dim - which was just as well. Owain didn't want the Bey to see how nervous he was.

It was a formal audience - the Bey was seated on the dais, and he was wearing his coat of amber silk that had the most embroidery around the hem. He didn't usually try to impress his prisoners, so he must think there was something special about this one.

The old man was standing to one side, flanked by two of the Bey's larger and more impressive bodyguards, while a couple of the others were going through the contents of his saddlebags on the floor. The old man himself had opened his harp case and was cradling the harp protectively in his arms while another man searched the case. He was chewing at one end of his moustache, but apart from that he didn't seem overly worried.

Owain bowed low with his palms together, in the formal style. "Lord Bey?" he murmured.

"I want to know how this madman found us," the Bey said. "He only seems to have one phrase of Koine, and no Turkic at all."

" _Efaristo poli_ ," said the madman, bowing low to the Bey. He turned to look at Owain with benign interest, and if he did understand the Turkic words, he gave no sign of it.

"The Lord Bey wishes to know how you found this place," Owain said, in Tiraeg. The old man was wearing a silver torc, but it was all muffled up in his cloak and Owain couldn't see the finials. He beamed at Owain, and came forward to shake his free hand.

"At last! A civilised tongue in this benighted place! Tell your master I am a travelling harper. My name is Gwalchmai Morgan - perhaps you have heard of me? No? But my purpose is only to entertain, nothing more. As you can see," he indicated the jumble of dirty washing on the floor, "I'm not armed. Besides, what threat could I possibly pose?"

"He says he is Gwalchmai Morgan, a travelling harper, Lord Bey. He says he wants to entertain you," Owain said. "He says he is not armed, and poses no threat."

The Bey snorted. "Tell him I'll be the judge of that. Ask him again how he found his way here, when he should not have been able to find us."

The harper was looking expectantly at Owain. "The Lord Bey wishes to know how you found your way here," Owain said. "This place is supposed to be a secret - and he says he'll decide whether you're a threat or not."

Gwalchmai shrugged extravagently. "I got lost in the marshes - the Drake led me here. That's my horse, you see."

"Lord Bey, he says it was his horse."

The Bey scowled. "If it's that easy for a horse to find us, I must have words with Kofi - who should be here, now," he added darkly. "He'd soon get the truth out of this old fool. Ask him why he has two horses."

"You have two horses, Master Harper. Why is that?"

"Alas, not only was I lost in the marshs, but my servant ran away three nights ago. So you see, I have been the victim of great misfortune." He bowed agan in the direction of the Bey. "But it seems that my luck must be changing - I was looking for a suitable audience to entertain, and I come upon this great lord and his retinue in the middle of nowhere!"

Owain relayed the harper's words. The Bey smiled in the depths of his great beard.

"He seems harmless enough," he said. "Tell him he is indeed fortunate. Tell him he will have the honour of entertaining His Excellency Jumail Marhouri Jameel al-Saad this evening. In the meantime, boy, show him to our guest quarters, where he can rest and refresh himself."

As Owain relayed the Bey's words, one of the men kneeling bythe small mound of the harper's possessions started to bundle them up and stuff them back in the bags. The harper beamed up at the Bey. "My Lord Jumail is most gracious - tell him he won't be disappointed by my playing tonight." He placed his harp carefully back in its case, and allowed himself to be led away. Two of the Bey's bodyguard fell into step behind them as they crossed the courtyard to the little cottage beside the barn. "I hope you realise you're a prisoner here," Owain said quietly. "They'll send coffee and something to eat, and let you play for them, but they won't let you leave."

The old man was still looking about him with an innocent expression. "Thanks for the warning," he said, "and tell me, if you would - what's a fluent Tiraeg speaker doing in this nest of Turkic cut-throats?"

"Being a prisoner too," Owain said briefly.

They had reached the door of the cottage. "Thanks, lad," the harper said. "I dare say I'll be able to speak with you again at dinner?" He was unfastening the big silver pin at the shoulder of his cloak as he spoke. He swung the cloak off, and folded it over his arm - and Owain could clearly see the raven heads on the finials of his torc.

"Don't linger, lad," the harper said. "Everything will be fine." He stepped into the cottage without a backward glance.

Owain turned away before Saif and Maqsood could see his expression. Gwalchmai Morgan owed his allegiance to the Raven clan - Morwenna had sent him.

It seemed a very long time until dinner. Remembering the apples in his sash, he spent some time with the horses, and as the light dimmed, he went to shut up the pigeons.

After that, there was one more thing he needed to do - he went down to the beach on the tip of the island to watch the sun go down between the sea and the marshes. He sat on the dune just up from the beach, resting his chin on his good knee. "I don't know what to tell you," he said softly, in Tiraeg, as the lower edge of the sun's disc touched the sea. "I asked for help, and they've sent an old man. I don't think he knows what he's got into - they'll keep him for a while, and then they'll sell him South - but he's got this sort of mad confidence, as if he could do anything.... If he can get me out - well, that's what I want. I want to go home more than anything - but I'll be sorry to go and leave you behind."

" _Sorry, too.... Go._ "

It might have been no more than the breeze stirring the reeds, and only an _awynwch_ could have heard it.

"You mean it, Ferdia?" Owain asked. "You don't mind if I go?"

" _Mind.... Go._ "

The sun sank below the horizon, and the red glow of sunset faded. Owain knew he would hear no more that night, but he sat for a while anyway, listening to the wind and the water.

He wore his good blue silk coat to dinner, the one that had come straight off the back of one of th passengers on that particularly rich caravel the Raha had captured last season.

Paraskevi had produced a goat curry that could be smelt all over the island. Even the slaves who clustered round the doorway of the hall looked hopeful as he limped past them - the remnants of this meal would be worth waiting for. Every lamp hanging from the rafters was lit, and the flags of all the ships had been hung up round the walls, with swags of looted silk over the dais. The hall was already full, and everyone was wearing their best clothes, mostly hauled out from the bottom of sea chests and still bearing the creases.

The old man was already up on the dais by the top table, and his face brightened when he saw Owain. "My dear boy, thank goodness you've arrived!" he said. "I can't _talk_ to anybody! Do they want me to play first and eat later, or eat and then play?"

Owain spotted Mulraj near the head of the al-Khadar table. For a moment, he thought that the first mate was the highest ranking officer in the hall. Then he saw that Mulraj was talking to a man in a cream and gold coat, with an egret plume pinned to his turban. Relieved, he made his salaams to Captain Faisal al-Saad. "Sir, the Harper wishes to know when he should perform."

The Captain came to join them at the top table. "I think after dinner." He nodded across to Captain Al Nahyan. "Music after dinner? Yes? Tell him that, boy."

"Food first, then music," Owain reported back. "And what are your plans...?"

The Harper grinned, and winked. "Later, lad," he said. He pointed down the hall, and Owain turned.

A quietness spread from the back of the hall by the doors slowly up the room. The Bey was making his entrance, magnificent in the amber silk - but the watchful silence was not for him. Stalking by his side was the wizard Kofi.

Owain's stomach started to tie itself in those familiar knots. There wouldn't be a 'later' now. With Kofi at the table he would never be able to talk privately with the harper. The wizard would know everything they were thinking.

"Who's that?" the harper murmured in his ear now.

"K-kofi - the wizard. He was supposed to have questioned you before. He doesn't usually eat with us."

"Well then!" The Harper was wearing his innocent expression again. "He must have come specially to hear my music!"

The Bey seated himself at the centre of the top table, the last stragglers found their places, and the men of the Sohar who were on serving duty that night brought in the fresh flat breads, and bowls of relish, and the great steaming pots of goat curry. By the time everyone was served, conversation in the hall had almost returned to normal.

Kofi sat at the far end of the table from Owain and Gwalchmai, his leopard skin cape wrapped around him, watching the harper as if he were a choice morsel that the wizard would enjoy eating later.

Gwalchmai smiled at him, and bowed slightly. "This reminds me of a particularly fine dinner I once attended at Cader Ardry," he commented - and launched into a scandalous story involving the Ard Ri's sister and a visiting diplomat which took all of Owain's concentration to translate adequately. By the time he had finished that, the Bey and the Captains were all laughing and asking for more stories. Owain ate his food in snatches, hardly tasting it, too busy to think about anything beyond the present moment.

Kofi sat silently at the end of the table and watched them both. If he touched his food, Owain didn't see it.

At last, the food was cleared away, jugs of coffee and plates of dried fruit were brought out, and the Bey suggested that it was time for the Harper to play.

Gwalchmai moved his chair to the front of the dais, opened his harp case, and began to tune his harp.

He chose an instrumental piece to begin, and agian the quietness spread down the hall - though this time there was no fear in it.

Owain sipped at his coffee, and hunched down in his chair in an attempt to be inconspicuous. The music was - home. When he had been a kid, he probably wouldn't have taken much notice of it, but here - here it was the distillation of everything he missed about his old life. He couldn't stop the memories now - the pigeons strutting around the grey stone court of Pensarn Court; his father lifting him into the saddle of that fat little pony for the first time; his mother practicing her archery in the paddock behind the house, while he ran for her arrows - and holding his new sister in his arms for the first time with his mother's arms around them both; the horse herds the first time he went out on the big round up with his father....

Such thoughts were dangerous, here. He knew from bitter experience how vulnerable they made him to Kofi'[s power - but it was so hard to keep the memories hidden away while the harp played....

And suddenly he was angry, and the anger pushed the memories away. They'd sent one old man to find him, and what could one old man do? He'd be sold South on the next ship, and Owain would never see home again.

*****

The Palatinate

In the morning, he did what he always did when he was upset or afraid - he went to the pigeon cote. He put aside the good suit of blue silk and dressed in his old cotton shirt and trousers, with the old red sash and only the most basic of turbans to bind up his hair. Working with the pigeons always calmed him down.

Today, though, early as he was, the old man was earlier. He was sitting on the grass outside the pigeon cote, cutting up half an onion with his eating knife, to go with bread and cheese. He seemed very much at ease.

Owain limped past him and opened the door to the pigeon cote. He stood back to let the pigeons out and, as they fluttered and strutted out of the squat round tower, the old man spoke: "Owain Brecca."

Owain stiffened, but did not turn round.

"Owain Brecca," the old man said again. "I am Gwalchmai Morgan, Harper to Morwenna of Ravenscar - who I have reason to believe is your grandmother."

It was no use. He wouldn't go away. Owain turned round slowly. "It's no use," he said. "You'll never get off this island alone. When they're ready to sail, they'll drug you and throw you in the hold of the Raha, and sell you South."

"I have no intention of leaving alone," Gwalchmai said. He seemed to have ignored everything else Owain had said. "I shall be leaving with you." He rummaged in a cloth bag by his side. "There is one thing I was asked to do - to confirm your identity," he said. he pulled a bundle of cloth out of the bag, and shook it out. It was a boy's Tiraeg tunic, made of good green wool, with embroidery round the neck. Owain swallowed hard, his throat so constricted he could hardly breath. He had seen it, yesterday, tangled up with Gwalchmai's dirty washing on the floor of the hall, and hadn't recognised it. Now, though - Gwalchmai held the tunic out to him, insistantly.

He couldn't take it. "It's mine," he whispered. "Mother made it herself for me - and \- my sister -" He pointed at the wobbly chain stitch around the neck. "She did that."

"Sit down by me, lad," Gwalchmai said gently. "It's not so bad as all that."

Owain collapsed down onto the grass, wiping an angry hand across his eyes. "Yes, it is," he protested. "Didn't you hear me? They'll drug you and sell you South. And I'll still be here, working for them, and I'll never be free."

The old man almost sounded amused. "Do I really look so harmless?" he asked. "I thought I was laying it on a bit thick, but that's good - that's very good. They'll under-estimate me. I do have a trick or two up my sleeve, you know." He munched on his bread and cheese while Owain tried to get his feelings back into some sort of order.

Gwalchmai licked the last crumbs off his fingers and wiped his hand on the grass. He got to his feet and picked up his harp case and the cloth bag. Then he held one hand out to help Owain up. "I think I need to go for a little walk," he said, "and I think that it would be a very good idea if you came with me."

He led the way down towards the beach on the landward side of the island, scanning the bushes as if he was searching for something.

"Ah, this is what I was looking for," he said, half to himself.

Under the willow tree, a broad stake had been driven into the sandy ground. The top of it had been crudely carved into a leering face, and below that it was festooned with feathers and small bones. Lower down, the wood was dark with dried blood. Owain backed away from it. He could feel the power radiating from it, linking up with other stakes like it all round the island. This was how Kofi kept his protection spells strong and active, without having to constantly recharge them from his own strength. Most wizards did something similar, Owain knew - but not with the blood.

"How many of these things are there?" Gwalchmai asked casually.

Owain shrugged. "Not sure. They're all round the island."

"And Kofi must spend quite a lot of energy maintaining them," Gwalchmai murmured. "Please tell me this is chicken blood - or goat, at least?"

Owain shook his head, dumbly.

Gwalchmai sighed. "Human, then. Slave blood? This is real dark-of-the-moon stuff. I suppose this is where those poor souls I saw outside the hall last night end up, am I right?" Gwalchmai shook his head slowly. "The more I find out about Kofi, the less I like him. Still," he added, more cheerfully, "this will burn - and then we'll be going."

"Going? How?"

Gwalchmai grinned. "I have a little amulet." Then he sighed, serious again. "It grieves me to leave the horses behind. The Drake and I have been through a lot together, and that pony your mother loaned me is a pretty little thing."

"Khamees likes horses," Owain said. "They'll be all right." He looked back at the stake, doubtfully. "You want to burn it? But - Kofi will know, and he'll come...."

"And we'll be long gone, with any luck," Gwalchmai said firmly. He turned to the stake, and began to dig around its base. "Come and give me a hand," he said to Owain, "while I get the fire started."

Slowly, reluctantly, Owain started to scrape away at the sand with his hands. He glanced over his shoulder often, in the direction of Kofi's house, expecting the wizard to notice what they were doing at any moment. The wooden stake was buried deep, but the sand was loose, and soon Owain could rock the stake from side to side with one hand. Beside him, Gwalchmai had started a fire that seemed pathetically small alongside the thick lump of knotted wood.

Owain gave one more heave, and the stake came loose so fast he staggered backwards. Bones and feathers jangled against his hands, and he shuddered at their touch.

Gwalchmai looked up. "Good, very good," he said. He fed a dry willow branch into the fire he'd built. It was starting to look like a reasonable campfire now. Owain held the stake out, trying to touch it as little as possible. he could feel the pain of the last victim whose blood had fed its power, a man from the islands who had been there such a short time that Owain had never learned his name.

"On the fire with it," Gwalchmai said.

For what seemed a very long time, nothing happened. Then, without warning, the top of the stake exploded into white flame, making both of them throw up their hands to protect themselves from the sudden heat. Owain could feel the protection spells unravelling around them as it burned.

"Time to go," Gwalchmai said, "quickly, before he realises where we are."

He fished a small pouch out of his belt pouch and quickly unwound a scrap of dark green silk from a stone that hung from a leather thong. he grabbed Owain's sand-covered hands in his and they stood linked for a moment as he concentrated on where he wanted to go.

By the time Kofi came over the sand dunes, they were long gone.

They appeared, hands clasped together around the amulet, at the bottom of a sand dune covered with marram grass. The wind tugged at Gwalchmai's cloak. Owain could see the marshes just a little way off, and the open sea beyond the expanse of reeds.

Three men-at-arms, in the silver and blue livery of some Palatine lord, appeared over the top of the sand dunes. One of them waved to Gwalchmai. Owain stiffened with shock. He stared, wide-eyed at Gwalchmai, and wrenched his hand away. "Traitor!" he gasped. "From one captivity straight into another! Did they offer you a share of the ransom?" He staggered, the end of his crutch digging into the soft sand and throwing him off balance. Gwalchmai kept hold of his other hand with a grip that seemed far too strong for such an old man.

"Owain - listen to me, quick, before they get too near. You're my nephew. You're nobody important. Nobody is going to hold you for ransom if you just keep quiet! And don't use your Talent, or they might work out who you really are."

The leader of the men-at-arms slithered the last few feet down the sand dune behind them. "You're a little off target," the man said, by way of greeting. "We were waiting for you back there."

Gwalchmai smiled ruefully. "It's the first time I've tried this," he said, in Occitan. "Doubtless it will get better with practice. Where's Sir Bernard?"

The man-at-arms jerked a thumb over the sandbank. "Lucky we brought some spare horses," he said. "Can the lad get that far? You didn't tell us he was a cripple."

"I didn't know until I saw him," Gwalchmai said. He switched to Tiraeg for Owain's benefit. "Can you get over the dune, _nephew_?" he asked. "Our good friend Sir Bernard d'Envigne is waiting for us with some horses."

Owain grunted sulkily. He hadn't known what he was expecting, but it wasn't this \- catapulted straight into the middle of enemy territory. There may not have been a war going on at this precise moment, but the Palatinate and Ytir would never be 'good friends'. He stumped up the side of the sand dune, reluctantly allowing Gwalchmai to take him by the arm to steady him, and slid inelegantly down the other side to where the horses were waiting.

That was another problem for him. He wasn't sure how he was going to mount up, and he hadn't ridden at all since the day the corsairs captured him. Which was something else he didn't want to have to remember.

Two of the men-at-arms man-handled him up into the saddle, and passed up his crutch for him. They turned the horses inland, and Gwalchmai moved in close to Owain. "I'm sorry for the shock, lad," he said.

Owain shrugged. "I didn't know where the island was," he said. "I never thought it was on the edge of Moissac."

"That's why your grandmother only sent me," Gwalchmai said. "I know how to avoid being noticed. But I knew we needed help to get back out of here. Horses, for one thing - damn, but I shall miss the Drake. So, first of all we're going to Lansargues Castle, to tell them everything we can about the nest of pirates on their doorstep, and then they will escort us to the ferry. That's the deal."

"It would have been better," Owain said, "if you had told me all that beforehand."

"Yes, well, I wasn't sure how long it would be before they noticed I was missing." Gwalchmai was smiling again. "You don't think your Bey was about to let me wander all over the island unescorted, did you? I climbed out of the window."

By the time they rode into the courtyard of the castle, Owain was aching in muscles he'd forgotten he had. Dismounting was slightly easier than mounting had been - they held the horse by a mounting block and he managed on his own. Once on the ground, he could move reasonably fast with the crutch. he kept quiet, as Gwalchmai had advised. Nobody had asked him if he could understand what was being said around him - Gwalchmai had assumed he didn't speak Occitan - and he wasn't about to volunteer the information just yet. Some of the slaves on the island spoke Occitan, and he'd always had a quick ear for languages.

It was mid-morning by this time, and Owain's stomach was starting to remember that it hadn't had any breakfast yet. They went up some steps into the main hall, and then beyond that into a more private room with its own fireplace. There was a map laid out on a table in the middle of the room, and some more men waiting there for them. One of them looked so like Sir Bernard that he could only be his son. Sir Bernard called him Miles; Owain didn't hear any of the other men being named. Another table, along a side wall, had a jug of beer, and mugs, and crusty white buns and a selection of cheeses laid out. Since everyone else seemed to be eating, Owain helped himself, and settled into a chair near the fire, out of the way. It was nice to be eating proper bread again, instead of the flat, unleavened stuff that the corsairs favoured.

"See how well defended they are from here," Gwalchmai was saying. "The ships are almost impossible to get to from the landward side. You'd need support from the sea as well, to stand any chance of trapping them there."

"Sea support that we won't get, Sir Bernard said. "At the moment, I'm supposed to be 'monitoring the situation'" he continued, in what was obviously a parody of the Duke's cultured tones. "As long as they don't attack the coast of Moissac, the Duke doesn't much care. The boy's a fool," he added, savagely, "and I just don't have the resources, or a wizard strong enough...."

They certainly weren't talking to Gwalchmai as if he were a hostage, Owain reflected, or Sir Bernard would never have spoken against his Duke like that, or revealed his lack of resources to them. It seemed to be true that Gwalchmai had not betrayed him after all, that it was all as he had said and, unlikely as it seemed, these men were their allies.

"That's all well and good," Sir Bernard said, in answer to one of the soldiers whose comment Owain had missed, "but the main problem is the causeway. If you could have found out how that was guarded...."

"I can tell you that," Owain said.

He hadn't intended to speak, and as soon as he had, he regretted it - but it was done now, and all the room knew he had been able to understand them all along. Now he might have to tell all these strangers something that he didn't want to tell anyone. Swallowing hard, he put down the plate of bread and cheese, and the mug of beer, and limped to the table. He looked down at the map. Maybe if he didn't look at anybody, it would be easier.

"They used to guard the causeway only at low tide," he said quietly. He tapped the map, just off the track up to the stockade. "Guard post," he said, "there in a little hollow. There are always three spearmen there now, with dogs, and a horn to summon the rest. They can see anyone coming from the mainland, and they can stop anyone from leaving the island."

"They blew the horn for me," said Gwalchmai, "and two of them came with me to the stockade."

"Maybe because you looked harmless," Owain said.

The harper grinned. He looked anything but harmless now.

"So you're saying that a full frontal attack across the causeway wouldn't work?" one of the soldiers said.

Owain nodded. "And the horn summons Kofi, too - their wizard. He can make a protection spell strong enough to keep anything out."

"But if they were distracted, by a sea attack for instance...." the soldier began.

"Or small boats further along the coast?" Miles suggested.

Owain shook his head. "There are - I don't know the word for them - Kofi would know as soon as anyone came past the...." he gestured helplessly with one hand.

"He's got stakes set up, linked together with the protection spells," Gwalchmai said, "and fed by blood magic - pleasant chap, this Kofi, altogether."

Miles and the younger soldier both crossed themselves rapidly.

"What about inside the stockade?" Sir Bernard asked.

Owain spent some time explaining where the men of each of the three ships slept, and which buildings were used for storage, and where the kitchens were. he pointed out the place outside the stockade where Kofi kept his little cottage, on one of the highest points of the low island. By the time they adjourned for the mid-day meal, Owain felt as if he'd talked more in that one morning than he had in the previous three years - and in his third foreign language. He felt exhausted.

"It's Friday," Gwalchmai said glumly, in Tiraeg, as they went into the main hall. "That means fish, here in the Palatinate. And it's Lent - that means fish, too. I once thought of converting to Christianity," he added, conversationally, "but the thought of eating all that fish put me off."

Owain grinned as he slid along the bench at the top table. The main dish, placed before Sir Bernard and his wife, was a large, white-fleshed fish on a bed of a dark green vegetable he didn't recognise.

There was beer, again. Owain thought it was only fairly weak stuff, but even so he wasn't used to it. The corsairs had drunk wine occasionally, and sometimes a strong spirit called raki, but on the whole they preferred coffee. There was no coffee on offer here, though - Owain would have been able to smell it - so he sipped at the beer sparingly. Even so, by the end of the meal he was feeling a bit woozy, and so tired he just wanted to collapse in a heap while he tried to make sense of the day so far.

Fortunately for him, it was the custom in the south of the Palatinate to rest for a couple of hours after the mid-day meal, in what would be the hottest part of the day if it were summer. Owain and Gwalchmai were shown to a room together, and Owain sat down heavily on the bed, trying to work out how much effort he would need to take his shoes off before he lay down.

"Where did you learn to speak Occitan?" Gwalchmai asked casually, sitting down on the other side of the bed.

Owain shrugged. "I knew a few words anyway." He bent down to push the heel of one shoe down, and slipped his bare foot out. "And then there were some slaves on the island from the Palatinate." He wriggled of the other shoe and lay down, with his back to Gwalchmai to deter further questions.

Gwalchmai did not take the hint.

"There's something I was wondering," he said, leaning back against the headboard with his hands behind his head. "When you were talking about the causeway, you said they used to guard it only at low tide. Any idea why they changed that?"

Owain stiffened. "Yes," he said shortly.

"Any chance that you'll tell me?"

There was a long silence.

"It was - my fault," Owain said at last. "All of it was my fault."

Gwalchmai waited.

"It was Ferdia's idea," Owain said, half muffled by the pillow. "He thought we could get away - they were going to keep me, because I'm an _awynwch_ , but he was going to be on the next ship south. So - we sneaked out, in the night, and hid in the reeds. Ferdia helped me - I didn't have the crutch then. We waited until the tide turned, and the guards went away." He remembered the half light of early morning, the waves lapping through the reeds as the tide cut the island off from the shore. He remembered stumbling through the water, with Ferdia hanging on to him....

"They came back. They set the dogs on us."

Owain sat up abruptly, and rolled up his right sleeve. There was a puckered white scar right the way round his arm - it had been a big dog.

"I nearly drowned. I saw - I saw the spear go right through Ferdia. If I'd been able to run faster, we might have made it. It was my fault he died."

He squeezed his eyes closed, but he could still see it - the sudden gleam of low sunshine glinting off the blade of the spear, Ferdia's hair turned golden - and the blood on the water.

Gwalchmai put a hand out,and Owain shrugged it off his shoulder and turned away. The last thing he wanted was for Gwalchmai to be sympathetic.

"Are you going to be all right?" Gwalchmai asked, at last. "I need to go and see Lady Berenice, see if she'll lend us some clothes. We can't really go wandering round Moissac with you still looking like a corsair. People will notice."

"I'll be fine. I don't want to look like a corsair any more either - but I don't much want to look like some Palatine man either."

"It'll get us to the ferry. That's all we need it for," Gwalchmai said. "I won't be long."

When he returned, with an armful of tunic and hose, Owain was asleep, curled up on top of the blankets. As Gwalchmai dumped the clothes on the end of the bed and opened the shutters wide, he mumbled something in Turkic. Then he opened his eyes, saw Gwalchmai, and said, in Tiraeg: "Oh. I'd better change."

"She didn't have any shoes. You'll have to stick with those pointy toed things," Gwalchmai said.

Owain held up a dark blue tunic to the light. It had wider sleeves than he was used to, and a full skirt, but it looked long enough. He was standing now, with all his weight on his good leg. He could touch the ground with the ball of his other foot, but he couldn't stretch it far enough for his heel to touch the ground as well.

He dragged the turban off and threw it into a corner. Beneath it, his hair was shorter than a Tiraeg nobleman's, but neatly cut. He would pass very easily for a Palatine squire.

"They go for parti-coloured legs here," Gwalchmai said, holding up two separate legs of hose. "You tie them up there, on the braies. Stupid fashion \- but I couldn't get any trousers."

Owain took one leg that was dark red, and another that seemed the same size in a similar blue to the tunic. The left leg, the red, went on easily, but he had to find something a bit more baggy to fit over his other leg. the scar was long and ragged, and the wound had left his leg drawn up and permanently bent at the knee.

When Owain had buckled the belt on, he sat for a moment with his hand on his bent knee. "This will change things at home, won't it?" he said. "I didn't think, before - all I wanted was to get off the island and go home - but I'll never be able to inherit anything now I'm crippled, will I?"

"You're still an _awynwch_ ," Gwalchmai said. "That counts for something. And you're still part of the Raven clan. And your mother wants you back."

"Will she though?" Owain asked. "When she sees me? And when she knows what happened?"

Gwalchmai thought back to the day he'd met Brecca in the tower. "Your mother wants you back," he said.

*****

The Ferry

They left early the following morning. Sir Miles was escorting them to the ferry at Varaville himself, along with a couple of men-at-arms. A small company, Sir Bernard had suggested, would not invite any unwelcome attention on the road.

The first problem, for Owain, was mounting up. he had the mounting block to help him, but that was an embarrassment in itself, rubbing in the fact that he couldn't cope with even getting into the saddle on his own. He had practically lived in the saddle from the age of seven, which was when his father Eryl had finally consented to being followed around by an adoring small boy on a plump pony. he'd followed the horse herds on the Plains with his father every year after that - and he'd followed his father's chariot down to the beach, on the day that his father died.

It would never be the same again.

He couldn't get his lame leg to fit into the stirrup, either. The day before, he'd just let it dangle, and got pins and needles in his foot after a while. Today, Gwalchmai was watching, and he came over. "We can adjust this, I think," he said, peering at the buckles on the stirrup leather. he let out the strap and tried it against Owain's leg. "There. With a bit of practice I don't see why you shouldn't be able to ride as well as you ever did."

Owain grunted by way of a reply. he didn't believe it for a minute. When he turned his head, he just caught sight of the sneer on one of the men-at-arms' faces - Stephen, he thought. There was one person who didn't think he'd ride again as well as he ever did.

he had a headache, too. He'd watered the wine that came with the evening meal (fish, again, as Gwalchmai had gloomily predicted) until it was barely pale pink, but he still seemed to have drunk more than was wise. He wasn't looking forward to the ride to the ferry.

They stopped for lunch at around noon - the cloud cover made it impossible to be sure of the time. Owain waited until Gwalchmai came to help him dismount. he didn't want to try it himself and make a mess of it in front of Stephen, or Sir Miles. They had turned off the road by a small stream, and Stephen took the horses to water while the others stretched their legs and munched on oatcakes and apples. Gwalchmai was deep in conversation with Miles again. They had been talking together for most of the morning. Owain could understand about one word in three, but he got the impression they had moved on from heraldry to talk politics.

It was too cold to hang around for long, so they were soon mounting up again. To Owain's dismay, Sir Miles sent Stephen over to help him mount while he carried on talking to Gwalchmai.

The man-at-arms was very professional, but didn't speak, and didn't look Owain in the face, even when he handed Owain's crutch up to him. He walked back to where his horse was being held by the other man-at-arms, Matthew.

It was a quiet comment, spoken with his back to Owain, and it would normally have been inaudible - if Owain had not been _aywnwch_. Sounds carry on the air, and the Air is an _awynwch's_ element. So Owain heard quite clearly when Stephen said: "Useless cripple. Don't know why the old man bothered to rescue him. And look at him - he sits a horse like a sack of turnips."

Owain turned away, but not fast enough to miss Matthew's agreeing smile.

He remained acutely aware that they were keeping the pace easy especially for him for the rest of the afternoon - and he was acutely aware that he needed that nursemaiding. The few miles from the beach to the castle had been bad enough - a full day of riding made him feel as if he'd been beaten all over with a stick. Gwalchmai tried to take his mind off it with inconsequential chat, but it didn't really work.

They stopped at an inn for the night, and this time Owain didn't care what anyone thought - he just wanted to get off the horse as fast as he could, even if it did mean landing on his hands and knees. He was up again, and with the crutch under his arm, fast enough that it wasn't totally humiliating. Now he was standing up, though, he didn't think he ever wanted to sit down again.

"We'll get to the ferry tomorrow, probably mid-morning," Gwalchmai said, as they watched the horses being led away. "And after that, I'm afraid, more riding, down to Ravenscar where your mother is waiting for you." He rubbed at his back ruefully. "I hope the beds are decent in this place. My old bones aren't used to this any more."

Owain attempted a smile. he knew Gwalchmai was just trying to make him feel better.

Miles led the way to the table closest to the fire, and the three men already sitting there vacated it without a murmur of protest. Owain hesitated. He really didn't want to sit down again so soon, but his legs were so stiff that he couldn't stand up for long either - and he was hungry. he could at least sit down while they ate, and then find out where the beds might be. He lowered himself into a seat by the chimneybreast, and stretched his stiff legs out in front of him. The wooden bench was very hard after a long day in the saddle, but at least he could lean back on the wall and rest his aching back, and it was pleasantly warm. he never really felt the cold, but the warmth of a good fire was still welcome.

A group of pedlars had taken over the opposite corner. Their packs were piled high against the wall. There were at least half a dozen conversations going on at once, and the babble of Occitan voices was confusing. Owain soon stopped trying to make any sense of it.

The one thing he could make sense of was the bowl of thick vegetable broth that arrived in front of him soon after he had sat down. A wooden platter of bread was placed in the centre of the table, with five leather tankards.

"They serve good ale here," Miles said, to Gwalchmai. "I usually stop here when I'm going to the Duke's court on father's business."

Owain ignored any further conversation. Broth was much more important. He noticed nothing around him until the bowl was empty and he'd soaked up the last sops with his slice of bread.

He sipped at his mug of beer caustiously. It was dark, and had a sweet taste under the bitterness of the hops, quite unlike the small beer he dimly remembered drinking as a child. He sat back, nursing the tankard and hoping that nobody would try and refill it for him. The warmth, and the beer, and the food, were all combining to make him feel sleepy, and the bar was only dimly lit by two or three lanterns and the flames of the fire.

Before long, though, he found that he did need to get up again. He needed to find wherever the inn kept its latrines, fairly urgently. He whispered as much to Gwalchmai, as soon as there was a lull in his conversation with Miles - and Gwalchmai never seemed to run out of things to say. "Just across the yard- there's a lantern marking the door," Gwalchmai said, before turning back to Miles. Owain hauled himself to his feet. He really did ache all over now. Stephen and Matthew had joined the pedlars at the other end of the bar to play quoits, and there was a fairly clear path to the outside door with enough room for him to swing his crutch.

Once outside, it was dark, and quiet, but he found the latrine easily enough, and did what he needed to do. As he stepped outside the door, underneath the lantern, he felt his crutch twist under him on the cobbles, and he fell. Someone laughed unpleasantly, and he realised there were two of them, one on each side of him, and one of them had kicked his crutch from under him. The other one raised his foot to kick Owain where he lay, and Owain rolled, only to find himself kicked from the other side. "Useless cripple," the man said. It was Stephen, of course it was, and Matthew with him, doing under cover of darkness what they had not dared to do in daylight. Owain was more manoeverable than he lookes, and he avoided the next kick while he scrabbled to his feet - and then the inn door opened, letting light out onto the cobbles from the bar, and the two men melted into the darkness as if they had never been there.

"You all right?" Gwalchmai asked. He was swaying slightly, though Owain was pretty sure he hadn't drunk much of the beer either.

Owain got the crutch under his arm properly and stood up. "Fine, thanks - must have slipped on the cobbles," he said.

he limped back into the bar while Gwalchmai watched him go from under the lantern by the latrine. As he entered, he was very aware of how alien he was here - the babble of Occitan around him, and everyone a stranger. He eased himself back into his seat and tried to disappear into the gloom. Stephen and Matthew were back with the pedlars, playing quoits. They might never have gone outside at all.

"Bed," said Gwalchmai, as soon as he got back. "It'll be another long day tomorrow, my lad."

Owain followed him out, glad of the excuse to get out of the bar, and out of Stephen's sight.

"Are you really all right?" Gwalchmai asked, quietly.

"Fine," but they both knew that he hadn't really slipped on the cobbles.

Owain sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and propped his crutch against the wall. He kicked his shoes off wearily. "So, is this how it's going to be?" he asked. "People picking on me because of my lame leg?"

"Stupid people, maybe," Gwalchmai said.

"And - what about my mother, when she sees I'm lame?"

"Your mother is not stupid - and there's more to you than a lame leg. Never forget that."

They were sharing the bed again. After three years of a narrow single bed in the corner of Captain al-Saad's room, it felt very strange to have someone else sharing the mattress with him. he didn't want to move once he' got comfortable, in case he collided with Gwalchmai's knees, or elbows. The old man, however, seemed quite unconcerned.

A little while later, the door opened again. Owain pretended to be asleep, but he could feel the creaking as someone else joined them in the bed, from the far side. That would be Miles, he realised, as he listened to the mutterings from Matthew and Stephen. They were dragging pallets into position to sleep on the floor beside the bed.

Owain had heard this about Palatine inns, but he'd never really believed it until now. It would have shocked the corsairs, to have everyone lying in a heap together. In Ytir, of course, whole extended families bedded down round the same central hearth at nights - but that was families, not people who weren't even related. Owain lay as still as he could, and hoped he wouldn't need to roll over in the night.

Morning came all too soon, with a line of light around the edge of the shutters, and the distant crowing of the village cockerels. "We'd better be moving if we want to catch that ferry," Sir Miles said, without stirring himself. Stephen and Matthew, however, rolled off their pallets, and Owain squinted as Stephen opened the shutters to the morning light. They dressed quickly in the unheated roomm and Owain dragged a borrowed comb through his hair. He still wasn't used to wearing it loose, and hooked strands behind his ears to keep it out of his eyes.

A servant girl brought a tray to the table in the bar, piled high with toast, butter, jam, five bowls of porridge - and the inevitable tankards of ale. Owain pushed his to one side - he longed for a mug of coffee. Gwalchmai raised an eyebrow at him, and wandered off in the direction of the kitchen door. A few moments later, the servant girl whisked away Owain's untouched tankard of ale and replaced it with a mug that contained warm milk. Owain noticed Stephen's expression of contempt, and ignored it. In the absence of coffee, warm milk would do just fine.

They made good inroads into the porridge and toast and, bolstered by the hot food, Owain almost felt ready to mount up again when they went out into the inn yard. He wasn't aching anything like he had expected to. He was starting to get the hang of the mounting block, too, and hardly held them up at all.

By the time they reached the river, he was getting used to the way the horse moved, and was sitting better in the saddle. His muscles were loosening up again, too, and he didn't need any help to dismount.

Sir Miles and his men set off home with the borrowed horses, and Owain was pretty sure they'd be back at Lansargues Castle by nightfall now he wasn't around to slow them down. With a bit more practice, though, he was starting to feel that he would be able to ride at least adequately when he got back home.

The ferry was in, and a small knot of foot passengers was waiting to one side for permission to board while a large covered wagon was manoeuvred on board with its six horses. The ferry was only just long enough to take it, though it was wide enough for all the foot passengers to have plenty of room.

"Here," Gwalchmai said quietly, and in Tiraeg. He dug out a parchment from his pouch and passed it to Owain. "Your permission to be here - and remember you're my nephew and apprentice, which means," he added, hefting his cloth bag in Owain's direction, "that you get to carry the luggage."

Owain nodded, and took the document and the bag. Gwalchmai carried his harp himself. They queued up with the others to present their papers to the customs official at the dockside. he passed them through without a second glance.

Gwalchmai moved further onto the ferry and leaned on the railing. "That went surprisingly smoothly," he said cheerfully. "Now all we have to do is hire fresh horses on the other side of the river, and we should be at Ravenscar by nightfall."

At the other side of the river, the whole process was done in reverse, but in Tiraeg. The foot passengers came off the ferry first, before the wagon was allowed to move, and again they had to present their documents to a bored customs official - who brightened up when he saw the harper.

"Welcome back, sir. I hope you had a pleasant journey."

Gwalchmai grinned. "It's good to be back where music is properly appreciated," he said.

"...and where a harp gets you almost anywhere without having to answer awkward questions," he added, for Owain's benefit, as soon as they were out of earshot of the official. The man had waved Owain through without even glancing at his papers, on the strength of his association with Gwalchmai.

The Harper looked up and down the dock. "There's a livery stable here run by a family who have Morwenna as their patron. I can give them a promissory note...." He paused, ans something in his expression made Owain look round warily.

A woman walked down the quayside, accompanied by three guards armed with spears. She wore a luxuriant cloak of pale silver-grey fur. It swept the ground as she walked; her silver torc was only just visible beneath the thick collar and her thick, dark hair, arranged in the traditional four plaits.

Beneath the cloak, Owain caught a glimpse of burgundy riding habit, and the woman's gloved hand resting lightly on the hilt of a sword.

She looked vaguely familiar.

"I wasn't expecting to be met," Gwalchmai said as she approached them. He sounded disapproving. "I thought we'd agreed that this should be managed as discreetly as possible."

"Brecca and I agreed that it would be better if I came to meet you, after you'd left," the woman said.

Her gaze swept past Gwalchmai and fastened on Owain, taking in the borrowed Palatine tunic and hose - and the crutch. "I wasn't expecting _that_ ," she said. Owain looked down at the ground. He was going to get a lot of that sort of reaction, he knew. he just hoped that, when it came to his mother, it would be different.

The woman moved forward and swept in a circle around Owian, keeping the hem of her cloak from touching him as she went. "So," she said quietly. "Are you really Owain Brecca, boy?"

"My lady," Gwalchmai said stiffly, "he has proved to my satisfaction that he _is_ the Lady Brecca's son."

"I asked the boy the question," the woman said, without looking in Gwalchmai's direction. "Well? I'm waiting."

Owain looked up then. He remembered now who she was, and he felt the first stirrings of annoyance at her disbelief. It hadn't occurred to him that he might not be recognised until this moment. "I am Owain Brecca Morwenna, heir to Pengwern and Meliden," he said steadily, and added, "Aunt Rhianmelt."

"I'm not your aunt, boy," she said, just a little too quickly.

"No, you're not," Owain agreed. "But you've been an aide to my mother longer than I've been alive. You helped to teach me to ride. I used to call you Auntie Ree. I used to like you." he raised his eyes to hers, challenging. "I'm beginning to change my mind."

"It's been three years," Rhianmelt said. "Why didn't you contact us before now?"

"I tried," Owain said shortly. "Do you know how hard it was to find pigeons who knew the way to grandmother's tower? I'd almost given up hoping that my messages would be answered."

"And, when you were captured, what happened to the others?" she asked.

"My lady, this is hardly the place...." Gwalchmai protested.

"This is exactly the place, Harper," Rhianmelt snapped. "I need to know now that he is who he says he is - for Brecca's sake."

Gwalchmai scowled. "Are you questioning my word as a Harper?" he asked, his tone all the more dangerous for being low and even.

"That's enough!" There was a snap of authority in Owain's voice that slightly surprised him, and the sudden squall he conjured up was strong enough to make Rhianmelt stagger.

The wind died as soon as it had appeared. Now Rhianmelt looked shaken. "My apologies, Owain Brecca," she said quietly, "but I had to be sure."

"I will say this once only," Owain continued curtly. "The others were taken South to be sold as slaves - except for Ferdia. He died."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Rhianmelt said. She looked as if she meant it. "I remember you were close."

"We did everything together," Owain said, equally quiet. He shook his head, to tryto clear the bad memories away. "And you also owe Gwalchmai Morgan an apology, for doubting his word," he said.

"You're right," she said. She turned to Gwalchmai and bowed slightly. "A Harper's word should not be doubted. I apologise."

Gwalchmai bowed stiffly. "Apology accepted, madam," he said formally. Owain looked at him sharply. The Harper looked as if he'd just swallowed a pint of vinegar. he may have said he accepted the apology, but it would be a long time before he forgot Rhianmelt's slur on his honour.

"Now, to our business here," Rhianmelt said to Owain. "We have horses waiting just up from the dock for you. Brecca sent me to tell you to avoid the coast road. Some of Ianto's men have been seen watching that route, so we're going to head inland and then swing round from the north to Ravenscar."

Owain frowned. "Ianto?" he asked, as he fell into step beside her. One of the men-at-arms took Gwalchmai's bag for him. "My uncle Ianto? Why should we need to avoid him?" He swung round to glower accusingly at Gwalchmai. "Is this something else you didn't have time to mention?" he asked.

"I wanted to get us both safely out of Moissac before I started to explain what's been happening in your family," Gwalchmai said. "To put it briefly, the world believes you are dead. We believe your Uncle Ianto wants to keep it that way - so that, when the Lady Morwenna dies, there will be one less vote against him succeeding her."

Something cold shivered its way down Owain's spine - and gathered in a solid knot in his stomach. "I thought I'd be safe when I got home," he said quietly.

"And so you will be, when you get to Ravenscar," Gwalchmai said. "As soon as Morwenna and your mother recognise you publicly, there will be nothing Ianto can do, but until then...."

"Until then, we will take the inland road, and we have four spears and my sword to protect you," Rhianmelt said.

They were climbing a wide, stone flagged ramp off the quayside now. At the top, a spearswoman was guarding a group of horses. Owain groaned quietly. Now he would have to attempt to mount up in front of Rhianmelt, straight after shouting at her. She'd be as contemptuous as Sir Miles' men-at-arms.

"Tell you what," Gwalchmai said cheerfully, "I'll go down to the livery stable, like I was planning before Lady Rhianmelt met us, and I'll hire a litter for you."

"No! I can manage!" Owain glared at him.

"He hasn't ridden for three years, after all," Gwalchmai continued, to Rhianmelt. "Until a couple of days ago, that is. I won't be long...."

"I hardly think that will be necessary, Master Harper," Rhianmelt said.

"I can do it - it'll be fine," Owain said, still seething. He took the bridle that was offered to him - and scrambled into the saddle as if he was climbing up the side of the Sohar from one of the rowing boats. The horse, unprepared for this, sidled uneasily away from him, but the movement was no worse than the ship in a swell.

"If you'll just adjust the stirrup for me?" Owain said, icily polite, as he brought the horse round in a circle. Gwalchmai was grinning, and Owain was about to swear at him in Turkic - when the Harper winked at him. "I knew you could do it if you were angry enough," he murmured, as he adjusted the strap.

Owain poked him with the end of his crutch, not very hard, and managed a lop-sided grin back. "Sneaky old - Harper," he said.

*****

Uncle Ianto

Now they were out in the open country, Owain was beginning to feel as if he was really coming home. They were climbing out of the farmland around Aberllong on the northern road - he could see the river in the distance, down the slope, broad and dotted with the black and brown sails of river wherries. Ahead of them were the heather covered hills, with stunted hawthorn bushes here and there, and occasional ewes with their new lambs at foot. It was all wonderfully familiar, and very different from the marshlands and the sea he had become used to in the past three years.

He looked around at the other riders. Gwalchmai had one hand under his cloak, surreptitiously rubbing his lower back. The spearsmen, all of them Rhianmelt's cousins, were riding easily, surrounding the higher ranking riders in a loose square. All other traffic on the road had given way to them during the day, but it had been Rhianmelt that they had been deferring to. Owain doubted if anyone had taken much notice of him.

Now the grey sky was beginning to get darker, and if Owain remembered rightly, they were still a long ride from Ravenscar.

"We should be stopping soon," Rhianmelt said, as if reading his thoughts. "It's just a hunting lodge, but we should be comfortable enough there."

"You've prepared everything very thoroughly," Gwalchmai said. he sounded grudgingly impressed. Owain suspected he was still smarting from Rhianmelt's comments on the quayside. He'd certainly been quiet on the ride. They turned off the main road onto a narrow track that led into scrubby moorland. They began to climb, too, until they could see the main road and the valley it followed far below them.

It was almost full dark, and they were keeping the horses to a slow walk on the rutted trackway, when they saw the lights up ahead. Owain got a vague impression of a rambling building tucked into a depression on the side of the hill, with a belt of trees above and to either side. As soon as they rode into the courtyard, there was someone there to take their horses.

Owain dismounted by sliding down the horse's flank. Over the course of the afternoon, he'd noticed how steady the mare was, and he thought he could risk it without worrying her too much. He was aching again, but not as badly as before, and he was just getting the crutch settled under his arm when one of the servants from the hunting lodge came forward to help him.

"It's all right - I don't need any help. If you'd just take the bridle?" It took Owain a moment to register that the man's grip on his arm was much firmer than it needed to be, and someone else was leading the horse away - and then the gates were closed and there was no way out. he didn't waste his energy in struggling. He could see there was no point. That cold knot in his stomach was back, though, and clenched tight. The servant guided Owain towards the hall door, seeming to be courteous. Another had Gwalchmai's harp and was following him towards the door. Gwalchmai didn't seem to have noticed that there was anything wrong yet.

Dinner had obviously been over for some time. There were some platters of cold meats still on the tables, but for the most part they had been cleared in favour of board games and wine goblets. There was no dais here, but the top table was set across the short axis of the hall at the end nearest the fireplace.

A man lounged there in an ornately carved chair, his boots up on a bench while he read a book by the light of a three-branched candelabrum at his elbow. Behind him, secured to a tall perch by a silver chain, was a raven, hunched up and half asleep. The man looked up as the newcomers entered, and smiled. It was the sort of smile that sent a shiver down spines, the smile of a predator who has just found some new prey to play with. Owain tried, and failed, to supress a shudder.

He pulled his guard sideways, towards Rhianmelt. "You were mother's friend," he said fiercely, and as quietly as he could.

Rhianmelt looked back at him coolly. "Why do you think I was so keen to call you an imposter, down at the docks? You shouldn't have been so convincing," she said. "Anyway, Lord Ianto made me a better offer than your mother ever did."

She swept into a curtsey across the table from the man, who had been watching all this with some amusement. "May I present your nephew, Owain Brecca, and the Harper Gwalchmai Morgan, my lord?" she said.

Ianto closed his book carefully and set it down on the table. He moved the candelabrum a little further from his elbow, and he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table as he surveyed his prisoners. "I hope we'll have the pleasure of hearing you play, Master Harper," he said pleasantly. "It's not every day one has the opportunity to welcome a member of one's family back from the dead, after all."

"We are expected at Ravenscar, my lord," Gwalchmai said stiffly.

"But I'd been so looking forward to meeting you again," Ianto said blandly, looking at Owain. "I'm sure you have some time to spare to indulge me. In fact, I'd really like to make your acquaintance over an extended period of time."

Owain felt like a rabbit caught in the gaze of a stoat. Back on the island, he wouldn't have dared speak. Here, he knew he had to.

"I just want to see my mother again," he said. "When I've seen her...."

"Ah, but nobody knows you're here yet, do they," Ianto asked. "So, as I said, you have time to be sociable."

"There was the man who checked our papers," Owain pointed out. "He's one of Uncle Liam's men."

"It will take time for the glad news of your arrival to become known, even so," Ianto said. "In the meantime, my humble hunting lodge is at your disposal. Who knows? You could become my favourite nephew."

"Nevertheless, we are still expected at Ravenscar," Gwalchmai said. "My patron will be most anxious to greet us."

"Mother can wait," Ianto said, a little sharply. "First you must allow me to entertain you." He waved them closer. The servants pushed Gwalchmai towards the bench Ianto had been resting his feet on, and Owain was hustled down beside him. As they sat down, Ianto's harper struck up a cheerful tune from his seat on the other side of the fireplace.

Rhianmelt sat on another chair, further along the table. Owain glared at her.

A plate of cold meats appeared, and bread that was already sliced. On the way into the hall, Owain and Gwalchmai had been neatly divested of their eating knives and pouches. Owain glanced from Gwalchmai to Ianto and back again, and picked up a slice of roast beef.

Ianto appeared to be the only one there who was listening to the music. After a while, though, he seemed to grow bored. he drummed his fingers on the table, fiddled with the stem of his wine goblet. he looked at Owain with frank curiosity. "You don't look at all as I expected," he said. "What did happen to you?"

Owain set down his bread and meat carefully and looked down at his clasped hands. He had been considering, as he ate, what he could say to his uncle. "I can't walk without my crutch," he said, "and my leg will never heal straight, now. It suited the corsairs - I could never run away from them."

He paused, trying to find the right form of words, something to convince Ianto that he was no threat, and not worth the trouble of killing. "I know I could never follow mother to rule Pengwern, crippled as I am. I couldn't inherit anything. I don't even know what mother will say when she sees me. She doesn't know yet." Another silence, stretched just far enough. "I just want to go home," he murmured. His doubts about his mother's reaction when she found out she had a crippled son were real enough. He hoped Ianto would hear that in his voice, and believe it too. He didn't dare take his eyes off the floor to see Ianto's expression for himself.

"You think Brecca would disinherit you?" Ianto asked. His surprise seemed genuine.

Owain nodded numbly, not trusting himself to speak. If he was disinherited, he wouldn't have a vote in the family council - so he could be no possible threat to Ianto's claim.

"I must admit, I hadn't considered that possibility," Ianto said. He turned to Gwalchmai. "What a disappointment it would be for you," he said, "to go all that way to find the boy, and all for nothing when you got back." He leaned back in his chair again, steepling his fingers. "On the other hand," he mused, almost to himself, "my sister is very tenacious, and you're the nearest thing she's got left to that hulking husband of hers now. I don't think she'd repudiate you, crippled or not."

"The boy's right," Gwalchmai said. "You may as well accept it, Lord Ianto. He's no threat to anyone. Can't you let your sister have her son back?"

"Ah, if that were the only consideration," Ianto mused. "Unfortunately, that may not be possible."

He leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. "The Master Harper will have told you, I imagine, something of family politics in recent years. To put it bluntly, mother is an old woman - and when she dies, Ravenscar is worth far more than just her tower on the cliff top, and I have a better claim to it than Porec or Aidan do, no matter how she's favouring them now."

"There will be a vote," Gwalchmai said, "witnessed by Harpers. That is the proper way to deal with these matters. We don't want any innovations fromthe Palatinate to take root here."

"You may not," Ianto said, "but there is something to be said for a form of primogeniture, you know - among the adult members of the family, at any rate. Like you, I see no sense in allowing a child to succeed when there is a competent adult available."

"And you see yourself as competent, my lord?" Gwalchmai asked sharply.

Ianto was halfway out of his chair before he remembered himself and sank back. "One more word from you," he almost hissed, "and I will have you removed from the hall. I am talking to my nephew."

he took up his wine goblet, drank and set it down again very deliberately. Gwalchmai turned his attention to the roast beef.

"As the Harper said," Ianto continued, "there will be a vote of all the adult family members. Which now includes you, and in a couple of years time will include your sister. Now my sister, your mother, has never liked me. She will vote for Porec." He allowed himself a small, chilly smile. "She'd vote for mother's raven before she'd vote for me. And that brings me to you."

"I don't know who I'll vote for," Owain said. "I don't even know if I'll be allowed to vote."

"Oh, you'll be allowed to vote - I'll make sure of that - and you will vote for me, and so will your mother, and so, if she is eligible at that time, will your sister."

Owain got the feeling he wasn't going to like what he heard next. he chewed stolidly on a tough piece of beef and looked at the floor.

"You see, as my favourite nephew," Ianto went on, "you will be staying here with me until such time as my dear mother finally decides to depart for the Summerlands. You will, of course, be treated with all honour due to your rank. And as you remain part of my court, your mother will have no choice but to vote in my favour as well. Her vote will sway others, and I shall have Ravenscar. You can do what you like, after that."

"You want me as a hostage," Owain said bluntly.

"I much prefer the term 'guest'," Ianto said. "A pity your cousin Peredur was not so persuaded, you know. It would be - untidy - to have to arrange a second 'unfortunate accident'."

"I want to go home," Owain said fiercely. "I don't care if mother does disown me when I get there, as long as she lets me stay." He stopped abruptly. If he refused Ianto's 'offer' outright, there was every chance that he wouldn't leave the hall alive. "Maybe if you let me see her first?" he asked.

"I think not, on the whole," Ianto said. "But I can give you time to consider my proposal. I'd far rather have your willing consent. The alternative might be rather uncomfortable for you." He paused a moment to let that idea sink in.

They were separated, of course. Gwalchmai was taken off in one direction, and Owain in another. he caught a glimpse of a neat, if basic, guest room in the light of his escort's lantern before the door was bolted firmly behind him.

It was very dark. Owain groped his way across to the bed and sat down. At least there was a bed. He'd been expecting a lot worse. Ianto, it seemed, valued him far more alive than dead. That was reassuring, but his skin crawled at the thought of another captivity, no matter how comfortable Ianto made it for him.

Would it be so bad if Ianto inherited Ravenscar? Owain had no idea, but Morwenna obviously didn't want it to happen, if she was favouring her grandson Porec. Owain vaguely remembered Porec, the son of his uncle Howell. He must be nearly thirty by now, nearer in age to Ianto than he was to Owain, anyway.

There seemed to be no way out. If Owain wanted to stay alive and reasonably comfortable, he would have to submit to Ianto, and he would have to stay with Ianto until his grandmother died. He curled up, fully clothed, on the bed, and stared into the darkness for a long time.

He was woken by someone shaking his shoulder, and with a hand poised over his mouth. As he threw out one arm to shake off his attacker, a voice close to his ear murmured: "It's all right. It's me, Gwalchmai."

Owain stopped struggling, and sat up, cautiously. "How did you get here?" he asked, keeping his voice as low as Gwalchmai had.

"Bunch of amateurs," Gwalchmai said quietly. Owain could feel the grin on his face. "I knew there was something going on right back at the dockside, when Rhianmelt didn't want to let me go off on my own. That's why I was going on about a litter, lad - it was just an excuse to get away from them. And they just took my pouch - they didn't search me. I still have the amulet. Do you want to get out of here?"

"Yes!" Owain said, as emphatically as he could.

He stood up beside the bed and clasped hands with Gwalchmai. There was a curious lurch in the pit of his stomach.

The quality of the darkness changed. A light breeze stirred dry leaves close by. The ground sloped away steeply on one side, and seemed to rise like a shallow cliff face above them. There were other shapes in the dark, barely visible, the boles of great trees and massy shadows of bushes. Owain was aware that it had suddenly become a lot colder.

His foot slipped on something uneven and he leaned back. Not a hand span behind him was the trunk of a huge tree. He had slipped on one of its roots.

His voice froze in his throat. Unable to speak, he guided Gwalchmai's hand over his shoulder to touch the rough bark.

There was a long silence. Gwalchmai pulled his hand away and took a deep breath. "I could have killed us both," he murmured. His usually well-modulated voice was uneven and rough with shock. He wrapped the amulet and tied it into a corner of his tunic, slowly and very deliberately. "I think in future," he said, more calmly, "I will use the amulet only when I'm absolutely certain of where we are going to reappear."

Owain's fleshe shrank from contact with the tree; he could so easily have materialised inside it. "Where are we now?" Owain asked. He still couldn't manage anything more than a whisper.

"Three miles from the lodge, heading south," Gwalchmai said, only a little louder. "That was my intention, anyway." He sounded tired. "Now, if we could just work out which way is south we can get walking."

Owain was tired, too. His legs were stiff, his backside hurt and his back ached. He suspected Gwalchmai felt much the same. Better to feel tired, though, than to use the amulet again unless they really needed to. Owain didn't entirely trust Gwalchmai's sense of direction now.

"Should we go up or down?" he asked, in a voice that surprised him by its steadiness.

Up, I think," Gwalchmai said. "If we go down, it's a fair bet there'll be a stream to ford, and then we'll only have to go up again on the other side. We need to be where we can see the sky as soon as we can."

It was slow going. They stumbled into invisible brambles. Twigs, and sometimes small branches, caught at them and hit them in the face. Whenever they looked up, hoping for a glimpse of sky, they saw only darkness. Clouds covered the stars, there was no moon, and they had no idea which direction they were going in.

Scrabbling up a muddy slope, digging the end of his crutch deep into the mud to give himself purchase, Owain found himself slightly in the lead. His hand, stretched out before him, found rock, cold and damp and slick with mossy growth. He stopped, and felt upward until he was standing against the rock face on tiptoe. Gwalchmai sat down on the ground just behind him, catching his breath. He was carrying his harp case over his shoulder, and it seemed to be weighing him down and catching in things to send him off balance. Owain would have ditched it, but Owain wasn't a Harper, and he knew Gwalchmai wouldn't consider leaving it behind.

Owain felt sideways, and the rock extended as far as he could reach in each direction, until bushes grew up so close to the cliff face that he couldn't push through.

"We can't go on," he said. "We'll hav eto go back a bit and then - left, probably."

He reached down to help the old man to his feet. Gwalchmai's hand felt stiff and cold. Owain had hardly noticed how cold it was, but Gwalchmai would be feeling it. There was frost on the surface of the cliff face. Better, therefore, to keep moving. If the old man stopped to rest for too long, he might not get up again.

By the time the sky began to lighten in the east, they were both exhausted.

"At least we've been going the right way," Owain said, indicating the rose and grey glow in the sky. They were at the edge of the trees, moving into rough scrub. Beyond the clumps of gorse and hawthorn, moorland stretched out, grey and uninviting.

Gwalchmai grunted. There was a low rock beside a gorse bush just ahead. He sat on it heavily. Owain sat on the grass next to him and closed his eyes for a moment.

He was dropping off to sleep when he felt Gwalchmai's leg shift behind his shoulder. He looked up blearily. The old man was on his feet, and looking to the east. Owain followed his gaze.

Half a dozen horsemen were following the line of a shallow valley, riding fast. Ahead of them, three couple of boar hounds were breasting through the bracken, making their own paths.

In an instant, Owain was wide awake and on his feet. His heart hammered in his chest.

"That's not the whole pack," Gwalchmai said, "nor all of Ianto's people. They must have split their forces to search for us."

Neither of them considered the possibility that this was some other, innocent party of huntsmen.

Owain knew he had gone very pale. He didn't want to be any closer to the hounds than he already was. "I think it's time to use the amulet again," he said.

Wearily, Gwalchmai nodded. He untied the corner of his tunic and let the amulet fall out onto his hand. They clasped wrists around the green stone. Owain noticed with concern how tired Gwalchmai looked as he concentrated. His face looked grey, and there were dark rings under his eyes.

There was a lurch of displacement, and abruptly they were on another patch of moorland.

A small flock of sheep galloped away from them, bleating in alarm. Apart from the sheep and a couple of crows wheeling high above them, there was no other movement.

The sheep stopped at what they considered a safe distance from the two men and began to graze again. Gwalchmai yawned widely.

"We'd better get moving," Owain said. He glanced nervously over his shoulder tothe north. "How do you think they found us?"

Gwalchmai fell into step beside him, a slow walk. Owain's knee was hurting more than he wanted to admit, and his whole shoulder ached from leaning on the crutch.

"Luck, I should think," Gwalchmai said. "Ianto can't afford an _yspridwch_ , so they can't have been scrying." He sighed, looking out over the deserted land. "I'd hoped to find some sort of habitation before now. We must be further into Ianto's lands than I thought."

Owain thought back to a night of feeling their way from one obstacle to another. "We didn't get very far last night," he said.

"We'd better get as far as we can now," Gwalchmai said. "The amulet only has a range of three miles, and that's when I'm fresh."

Below them, half way down the vally, lay a cluster of grey buildings, and around the buildings, great heaps of pale, loose stone, spilling down the valley in great slides that blocked the stream at the bottom into a series of irregular pools. Leading away from the buildings, and in roughly the direction they needed to go, was a well made road. There was no movement around the buildings, no rising smoke.

"I think I know where we are," Gwalchmai said, starting down the hill towards the nearest buildings. "This was Ianto's copper mine," he said. "The one valuable gift Morwenna ever gave him." He laughed mirthlessly. "Two years after he took over, the copper ran out. I think he believed she'd done it on purpose. We can follow the road towards Aberllong, until we reach the spur to Ravenscar. Easier," he added, "than walking on all this tussocky grass."

Owain made a vague noise of agreement, which was enough to encourage Gwalchmai to keep talking. "We can, perhaps, take a rest inside one of those mine buildings," he suggested, "now there's no-one on our trail for a moment...." He stopped abruptly, and swore viciously.

They could hear hounds baying, just over the hill.

Owain tugged at Gwalchmai's arm, pulling him away from the sound.

"They must have got the scent of something else," Gwalchmai said, following. "Not us, anyway, not when we've only just appeared."

Owain pulled harder. "They're coming this way," he insisted. What he really wanted to do was to leave the old man and run, as far and as fast as he could, but he couldn't do it. He couldn't go any faster than he was going already.

Gwalchmai swore. "Those bloody crows," he said. "That's how they knew. Ianto's got the crows looking out for us."

"Come on," Owain said urgently, "before they get close enough to see us." He tugged at Gwalchmai's arm. "Please - I don't want the dogs to catch us again."

He could see it, all too clearly - the sun shining on the water, Ferdia hauling the dog off his arm as he went under andas he struggled to the surface, Ferdia turning, and the spears - and the blood....

"Come _on_ , Gwalchmai!"

The old man managed a shambling run. He gasped for breath now, in an unsteady rhythm.

"In there - keep them at bay...." He panted, pointing to the nearest building with a whole door. "Ianto wants you alive...."

" _NO_!" Owain tugged at Gwalchmai's arm, but couldn't shift him. "They want to _kill_ us \- they'll let the dogs...."

He gulped, already seeing blood, feeling again the powerful jaws clamping round his arm as he fell back and hit the water.

Gwalchmai was stronger than he looked, though, and he pulled Owain towards the ruins. The whole hillside here was a treacherous mass of loose scree, and they were already setting off small landslides as they scrambled downhill. Gwalchmai was right, the only chance they had was to barricade themselves into one of the ruined buildings - if they could reach them before the hounds caught up with them.

It was just as he had decided this, and almost resigned himself to recapture, that the whole world lurched sideways in a roar of displaced stone and gravel. Hanging onto Gwalchmai's arm as the only stable point in a shifting world, they both fell, unable to avoid being swept by the rockslide into a gaping hole in the side of the hill that hadn't been there a moment before.

*****

The Copper Mine

Owain landed lightly, his instinct for self preservation moving faster than his conscious thoughts. He had lost his grip on Gwalchmai's arm somewhere in the middle of the rockslide, and he had no idea where his crutch had gone. Shards of wood landed around him. Something banged onto his back, and slid off. Somewhere to his right, Gwalchmai gave a sharp cry, followed by a low moaning noise.

Above him, scraps of wood hung over the drop. Owain could see a small portion of sky, and nothing more. He bit his lip hard, feeling the panic rise.

"Goddess, that hurts. Are you there, lad?" There were scraping noises to go with the swearing. Gwalchmai was starting to crawl about. "Speak to me, lad, will you?"

Owain swallowed on a bone dry throat. "I'm here," he managed to croak.

"Give me a hand, would you?" Gwalchmai asked. "I think I twisted my ankle in the fall."

Owain felt his way towards the voice, dragging his own bad leg, shaking less now he had something to do. The light that filtered down the shaft was dim, but he found Gwalchmai easily enough, pushed aside the bits of wood that had caught in Gwalchmai's cloak, and crouched beside him.

Then he heard the hounds again, high above them, but very close, and after them, the sound of shouting and horses moving on the loose scree. The rumbling noise was the only warning he had - he flung himself over Gwalchmai, and hid his head under his arms as more rocks slid down the hole in the roof on top of them.

When the noise stopped, it was very dark. Owain lifted his head slightly, wincing at the feeling of fresh bruises on his back. Rocks shifted and slid sideways, and he was free of them. He felt round carefully; where he had landed was now covered with a pile of rock almost as tall as he was - Gwalchmai had landed just to one side of the rockslide.

Sounds of movement brought him back to Gwalchmai's side. The Harper was trying to sit up, but he was having difficulty. The strap of Gwalchmai's harp case had twisted against his shoulder. Owain helped the Harper to shrug it over his head, and then paused, with his hand resting lightly on the leather case. Experimentally, he gave it a shake. There was a strange sound, a rattling combined with a metallic and unmusical twanging.

Gwalchmai almost howled.

"My harp!" He lay facing away from the harp case. Owain rattled the harp case again. There was no doubt at all - he didn't need to open the case to see for himself. What was left of the harp was splinter and wire.

Owain felt around in the dark. There was a wall not far away, and he helped Gwalchmai to crawl over and settle against it. For once, the Harper seemed unable to speak.

"Are you hurt?" Owain asked. There was no reply. After such a shock, Owain hadn't really expected one. he ran his hands lightly over the Harper's body, not entirely sure what he was looking for.

When he touched Gwalchmai's left foot, the Harper sucked in his breath in sudden pain.

"Should I take the boot off?" Owain asked doubtfully.

"Better not - I'd never get it back on again." Gwalchmai was doing some feeling around of his own - followed by more swearing. "We can't get out of here," he said at last. "I lost the amulet on the way down as well."

Owain thought of the pile of rock that had followed them down. he suspected that the most likely place for the amulet to have fallen was right underneath all of that. Without much hope of finding anything, he returned to where Gwalchmai had fallen, and felt around in the rubble.

"What's the point?" Gwalchmai asked. He made no move to help. "It could have bounced anywhere - or it might even still be up above."

Owain looked up at the place where the hole in the roof had been. However much he strained his eyes, he could see no chink of light there.

"If I'm careful," he said slowly, thinking it out, "I could lift myself up there and try to find that hole." Theoretically, it might be possible to dig a way out - or bring the whole roof down and kill them both. He shook his head slightly. The whole hillside seemed unstable - it wasnt' worth the risk, and he wasn't sure he had the strength left to use his Talent to fly for any length of time.

"Owain Brecca Morwenna," Gwalchmai said, in a formal voice that seemed bizarrely inappropriate under the circumstances. "I very much regret that i may have brought you to your death."

Owain shivered. The numbness of shock seemed to be keeping his claustrophobia at bay, for the moment. Everything seemed to be happening through a thick mist.

"They'll scry for us," Owain said at last. "Won't they? There'll be a search party along...."

"Eventually," Gwalchmai said, in a toneless monotone.

Owain could feel himself starting to shake. Feelings of panic were beginning to beat against the numbness. He didn't want to die down here in the dark.

Gwalchmai shifted, and put his arm round Owain's shoulders. "I'm sorry, lad," he said quietly. "I know how hard it is for _awynwch_ to be enclosed."

Owain snorted; it was almost a laugh, but laughter entirely without mirth. "This hardly counts as enclosed, not after what Kofi did to me," he said. He felt the arm around his shoulders tighten a little. Perhaps wisely, Gwalchmai said nothing.

"It was when I first got there. They wanted to force me to work the wind for them, and I refused, at first." He paused, summoning up the courage to go on.

"He had a hole in the ground, an old badger sett, I think. You had to crawl in, on your hands and knees, and then on your elbows and knees, and when you were wedged in so tight you couldn't go any further, that's when he put the binding spell on you, to keep you there - in the dark, with the earth pressing in on your shoulders so you couldn't breathe...." He stopped, unable to continue for a moment, and turned slightly in Gwalchmai's embrace, to face away from him.

"I thought it would be easier the second time, that I could endure it better - but it was worse, and the third time.... The third time they had to drag me up there, weeping like a child and begging for mercy." He stopped again, shook himself all over like a wet hound. His voice was very low. "They didn't need to do it to me again after that," he said. "The threat was enough. Kofi knew he could make me do anything he wanted." He waited, but Gwalchmai said nothing. His arm remained, protectively, round Owain's shoulders.

"So you see what a coward I am," he continued, at last, "and why I can't lead mother's people when she's gone."

"I see that they found your greatest fear, and used it against you," Gwalchmai said. "There can be no blame to you for that."

All the tension went out of Owain. He rested in the circle of Gwalchmai's arm, no longer struggling against shock and panic. He was just very, very tired.

He must have slept. He woke to the same unchanging darkness. It was impossible to guess how much time had passed. he was very thirsty. Somewhere in the darkness, he could hear water dripping slowly.

Gwalchmai's chin was down against his chest. He snored gently. Very carefully, Owain lifted Gwalchmai's arm and slipped out from under it. he crawled carefully across the cavern, heading for the sound of water.

He searched for some time. The noise of dripping continued, but he could find nothing that was even remotely damp, and he didn't dare to go too far into the pitch blackness of the side tunnels.

"Owain! Where are you, lad?" Gwalchmai's voice echoed slightly. It took Owain a moment to find the right direction to go back to him.

It worried Owain that Gwalchmai had not attempted to moved from where he was propped against the wall. He wondered if the old man was hurting more than he had admitted.

"It's all right," he said. "I was looking for water, but I couldn't find any."

Gwalchmai sniffed loudly. "Can you smell something, lad?"

Frowning, Owain sniffed too. Now he was thinking about it, there was a definite whiff of something dead down there with them. "A sheep, maybe?" he said. "Perhaps it could hear the water too."

Gwalchmai said nothing, and that worried Owain even more. He realised he had been relying on the old man to take the lead, and tell him what to do. It came to him slowly that there was nothing he could do. he would have to sit here with Gwalchmai until he died, and shortly after, he would die too, of thirst. he held out little hope of rescue. So far, his entire experience of being rescued had been a complete disaster.

There was nothing he could do - unless.... The air in the cavern wasn't entirely still. Anyone who was not _awynwch_ wouldn't notice it, but this was a small thing, and something that was easy to do.

Owain stood up, balancing with one hand against the wall. he spread his arms to each side, and he stood very still, feeling the air brush against his skin, feeling it move in the cavern, trying to read in those feelings what it could tell him. "I think - Gwalchmai, I'm listening to the Air," he said. "It has a way out of here, but it's narrow."

"How narrow?" Gwalchmai asked. He sounded as if he didn't really care.

"Wide enough for me," Owain said, frowning as he tried to interpret what the Air was telling him. "And a long crawl, I think."

"No use for me, then," Gwalchmai said. "No use for you, either, surely, if it's as narrow as you say."

"I'll try."

"Are you sure?" Gwalchmai sounded disbelieving.

Owain gave a shaky laugh. "Meaning - you think I'll get in there and panic, and the last thing you want is me being hysterical in a narrow tunnel while you're stuck here?"

Gwalchmai had the grace to sound embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

Owain turned towards the low tunnel again. "Look, if it does get too much for me, I'll come back, and we'll think of something else - but I'm quite thin. I - I shouldn't get - stuck." He started stripping off his tunic and undertunic with quick, jerky movements. When he was down to his braies and hose and his shoes, he stopped. He took the pile of clothes and put them close to Gwalchmai. "I can put them round your ankle, if you like," he said. "Might make it a bit more comfortable, maybe," he murmured. He managed a wavering smile, even though Gwalchmai couldn't see it. "W-wish me luck."

"Luck," Gwalchmai said, "and Goddess protect you."

Owain was already on his hands and knees at the other side of the cavern, ducking under the arched entrance to the tunnel.

For a time, the tunnel angled downward, and reasonably straight. The miners would have hauled baskets of stone up here from the workings. The floor was smooth and in places, Owain could almost stand. Here and there, other tunnels led off this first one, and there Owain would pause, feeling the Air on his bare skin, trying to gauge which direction the freshest air was coming from - and trying not to think about the labyrinth he was losing himself in.

Gwalchmai would never have made it. Even the wide tunnels would have been too much for him to crawl down. When the easy going ran out, he would have had no chance.

The air came now through a crack in the rock, horizontal with the cave floor. Owain felt around it carefully. There was just about enough room for him to get his head and shoulders through, and if he could do that, the rest of his body would be able to follow. He lay flat, and wriggled. One arm through, and his head. He shuffled sideways and pushed - and knew suddenly that he was under a knife edge of rock, with thousands of tons of rock above him, pressing down.... For one terrible moment, he was back in the tunnel where Kofi had trapped him, struggling against the binding spell, scrabbling to get out even though he was facing inwards and all his struggles just wedged him further in.

Gasping for air, he heaved himself forwards, feeling the stone scrape against the skin of his back. The sudden lurch sent him tumbling down onto the floor of a larger cavern - still pitch black, but he couldn't feel the walls closing in on him. He stood, and almost fell as his bad leg twisted under him, stumbling on the uneven ground, his hands stretched before him to stop himself from running into a wall.

When he tripped, and fell headlong, he lay for a moment, winded, and then tried to go more slowly and carefully.

He could see his hand, groping along the wall. He was crawling again, his head occasionally bumping against the roof, but the roof was getting higher, and somewhere ahead of him there was light.

Owain pushed his way up through the crack in the earth, crawled clear, and lay face down in the springy turf. Once he stopped moving, he felt that he couldn't go any further. He turned his head to one side. Somewhere above him, hidden by cloud, a lark was singing.

He sucked the sweet, fresh air into his lungs, and listened to the lark, and waited for his limbs to start working again.

He lay on the grass, regaining his strength, and he worried.

Underground, he'd lost all sense of direction, and any sense of distance. Around him, the moorland all looked the same. he couldn't pick out any landmarks at all. That being so, he wondered how he would be able to lead anyone back to the cave to rescue Gwalchmai.

His second problem was that he could see no signs of human habitation at all. There were no buildings, and no smoke rising. The nearest thing to a trace of human activity was the ghost of a track, halfway down the hill. Further down the hill, there was a stream, and bushes. Water was the first priority, and after that, maybe he could find a stick to lean on among the bushes. He lurched to his feet, arms spread wide for balance. If he stretched his bad leg as far as it would go, he could rest his toes on the ground. he didn't think he would be able to get far like that, though. He fell twice on his way down the hill. If he couldn't find a stick, he'd be reduced to crawling, and from the look of the country it could take days to get help if he had to move that slowly. Gwalchmai needed help now.

The cold stream water was the most wonderful thing he had tasted in his entire life. He gulped it down, and threw some over his head and shoulders. It just made the rock dust that was coating him streaky, but it felt good.

The bushes looked like a mix of hazel and alder, though it was hard to tell this early in the year without their leaves showing. The branches that looked strong enough for him to lean on were too thick for him to break off. He was beginning to resign himself to a long crawl when he saw the silver birch sapling, growing out of the bank of the stream a few yards away. Growing out of a loose shingle and sand bank. He could uproot the whole thing, and break off the little branches, and walk with it.

He wasn't sure how far he walked, nor for how long, with the sun hidden behind the clouds. He was hungry, but at least his throat didn't hurt every time he tried to swallow. His knee hurt. There was a smear of blood where he'd caught it on something sharp, and the joint was starting to swell. The long scratch on his back smarted, and he had to constantly resist the urge to scratch it.

He limped on, leaning heavily on his stick.

A whitewashed cottage stood alone, a little way off the track. He scrambled across the ditch that followed the track here, and limped towards it, hoping it was occupied. A dog barked; dogs meant people, and his hopes started to rise. Then the thin brindled lurcher loped round the corner of the cottage, teeth bared and growling. Owain nearly fled. He stopped stock still, heart hammering, while the dog danced round him, barking furiously.

"G'arn. Hold 'im, Giff!" The voice, raised in anger, belonged to a broad shouldered, squat man, following the dog round the corner of the house. He carried a spear as if he knew how to use it, and he made no attempt to call the dog off.

Owain forced himself to meet the man's eyes. He had some idea of what he must look like, stripped to his underwear, torcless, his hair full of rock dust and with streaks of blood on his arms and legs and back. He was deathly weary now, too, though this was not the time to show it.

The man with the spear wore a copper torc and a shepherd's cap - and an unfriendly expression.

"Peace on this house," Owain said, slightly desperately. "I am Owain Brecca Morwenna, and I need your help."

"A strange sort of peace you bring," the shepherd said, but he raised his fist at the dog, who cowered sideways. "G'arn. Get in the house." The dog slunk away. Slowly, Owain's heatbeat returned to normal.

"Owain Brecca Morwenna?" he asked. He spat on the ground. "You're trying to pass yourself off as one of the Lady's brood? here in Lord Ianto's lands? You've got a nerve, boy. Besides, Owain Brecca's dead."

"Don't believe me then, if you don't want to," Owain said desperately, realising what a mistake he'd made in telling the man his real name. "But my companion needs help. He's somewhere back there, trapped in a cave \- an old mine - and I came for help. Is there anyone here who can come back with me and get him out?"

"Here?" The man laughed. "No - just me and the dog."

Owain's shoulders slumped in defeat. How much further would he have to walk? How much further _could_ he walk? "How far...?" he began.

"Three miles to the nearest Dun," the man said, shrugging. He was already turning away.

"And will they be as inhospitable as you?" Owain snapped, at his retreating back.

The man stopped. Owain had just given him one of the worst insults he could possibly give, here in this land where hospitality was a sacred duty.

"Come on then," the man mumbled, over his shoulder. "S'pose I might have some beer and a bite to eat."

It was almost dark when Owain limped wearily up to the gates of the Dun.

The shepherd had given him a lump of barley bread and a mug of weak beer, but that was as far as his hospitality went. The dog had growled at Owain from a corner the whole time he was there.

A man was at the gates, just in the act of shutting them. In the gloom, he could have been the twin of the shepherd Owain had just met.

"Peace on this house," Owain shouted, lurching towards the closing gate. "I'm - a stranded traveller, and I need help for my companion, who's injured, back there."

On the way down the hill, he had decided not to risk naming himself again, not in the lands of the uncle who wanted to hold him hostage.

The man at the gate stopped to stare at Owain. Then he turned, without a word, and went inside, leaving the gate swinging half open. Owain limped as far as the gate and held on to the edge of it to hold himself up. He wasn't sure which of the three buildings in front of him the man had disappeared into. There was a large round hut, and two rectangular halls, or barns, maybe.

After a moment or two, the door of the round hut opened, and half a dozen men and women came out, armed with spears.

"A poor idea you have here of the laws of hospitality," Owain said scornfully. He gripped the rough edge of the gate tightly, afraid he might fall otherwise.

"And a strange sort of hearth-guest you are, to come here at dusk in nothing but your braies." The speaker was an old woman, the only one in the group who was not carrying a spear.

"I don't do it by choice," Owain said. "I've come for help. My - uncle - is trapped in an old mine back that way. I managed to get out to seek help." He drew himself up to glare at them all. "Is that shepherd up the hill one of your people?" he asked. "He nearly set his dog on me."

The old woman came closer, leaning on the arm of a man with a spear. "How far did you say you'd come?" she asked.

Owain shook his head wearily. "I don't know - miles."

"And on that leg?"

Owain looked down dully at his throbbing knee. It was twice the size of the other now and he could barely put any weight on it.

"On this leg," he agreed.

The old woman shoved the man with the spear forward. "Well, give the boy a hand, then, nephew." The man passed his spear to one of the others and put his arm round Owain's shoulders. Owain leaned on him gratefully. Around him, the others were putting up their spears too. "Come into the hall and tell us what happened," the old woman said. "And welcome to Dun Darren Isaf. It is Devorgilla Goch who welcomes you," she added.

They sat him on a stool by the fire, and gave him a bowl of stew from the communal cauldron to eat. It was mostly kale, and dried peas, with a little barley to thicken it. These people were not starving, but they were on the edge of it.

Owain looked around the circle of faces in the firelight. He could see children bundled up in shawls over cut down, shabby tunics. Even Caradog, nephew to the headwoman of the Dun, had a patch on the knee of his trews. There were no lamps, and the fire had been carefully built up under the communal cauldron to use the minimum of firewood. At the edges of the round hall, the draughts whistled.

As he ate, Devorgilla Goch herself rubbed honey on his scratched and bruised back. Owain looked at her thin white hair and tried to imagine the flame red hair she would once have had, with that nickname. Caradog had long red hair, and so did half the others in the hall.

Devorgilla came round to kneel at his feet. She had a bowl of water, and carefully washed his feet - though she ignored all the other places where he was dirty, which was just about all over his body. Owain relaxed slightly after the footwashing; it meant that they were treating him as a hearth-guest now, not just a visitor. He could think about a wash to get clean later, when he wasn't so tired. When she had finished with his feet, the old woman brought a pot of oil of wintergreen and smeared it on his knee, covering it all with a linen cloth.

Caradog Goch squatted to one side of him and Devorgilla, sending away the bowl and cloths she had been using with a younger woman, made herself comfortable on a roughly woven cushion on the other side. They didn't even have a chair for the head of the Dun, unless it was the stool Owain was sitting on.

"Hearth Guest, tell us your tale," she said, in the old formal style. Owain had been thinking about this on the way down from the mine. he couldn't tell them what had really happened - they were Ianto's people.

"I am Owain Eryl," he began. It was a common enough name, after all, and not a lie. "I was travelling with Gwalchmai Morgan, the Harper. You may have heard of him." A murmur around the hall told him they had. "We were walking across the moorlands when we came to the old copper mine. There was a landslide and we fell together down one of the shafts. I managed to find a way out of the mine, and I came here to seek help. Gwalchmai is hurt. Without your help, he will die." They wer looking doubtful. "Please," Owain said. "The Lady Morwenna values his life. I'm sure she will be generous to those who help him." He couldn't promise more than that. He hoped it would be enough.

Devorgilla Goch nodded slowly. "We have heard you," she said. "Now we must discuss what you have told us."

Now she draped an old checked blanket round his shoulders and led him away from the fire. A pallet had been made up for him against the wall, with a hurdle propped up as a screen to give him a semblance of privacy, and some protection from the draughts.

Owain lay down, wrapping the thin blankets close. His knee throbbed, and the long scratches down his back smarted despite the honey. He closed his eyes, and listened to the murmur of voices around the fire.

"How can we believe him?" one voice said. "He looks like a runaway slave to me."

"But he speaks like a lord," a man said, doubtfully.

"We could use a slave here," said another woman. "We could get some work out of him, and if his real master came looking for him, we might get a reward for giving him back, too."

Owain lay very still in the darkness, wondering how easy it would be to slip out of the hall and disappear from the Dun.

"Too late for that," said Caradog. "We've already offered him hospitality. And why would he make up this story about the Harper? We can go to the mine and find out the truth of it easily enough."

Owain relaxed slightly. Maybe he wouldn't have to run after all.

"The Lady's Harper," said Devorgilla. "Some of us here still remember what it was like whenthe Lady was our patron. We always had enough, then, even in the worst years. _She_ looked after us. If we help now, she'll look after us again."

There was a murmur of agreement.

"We'll go to the mine tomorrow, then," Caradog Goch said. "If the Harper is there, then we'll rescue him, and take him back to the Lady. If he's not - then we will still have the boy, and a torcless liar doesn't deserve hospitality. We'll do as Tegau suggested, in that case."

Owain shivered. One thing he had never considered, when he decided to go for help, was that he might end up enslaved by his own people.

He was aware of movement in the hall. The whole extended family was bedding down by the fire, along with their dogs. This was such a poor Dun that the headwoman didn't even have a bed of her own.

If they found out who he really was, and that Ianto wanted him, they would sell him for a sack of barley.

*****

Peredur

Owain was awake before dawn, and listened impatiently to the snores of his hosts for what seemed like hours before a cockerel crowed, at length, somewhere in the Dun, and people started to shuffle about, fold their blankets and make up the fire for breakfast.

Which was porridge, and pretty thin stuff, too.

Only then did Devorgilla Goch get a small party organised to head up to the mine, and this, too, took some time, with much discussion about ropes, and how to get an injured man back to the Dun. In the course of this, someone thought to bring Owain an old and much patched tunic to wear.

In the end, they harnessed a couple of elderly ponies to a small cart, loaded ropes, blankets, and Owain in the back, and set off along the narrow track. Devorgilla drove the cart. She had her rudimentary medical supplies in a big basket under the seat. The other would-be rescuers walked. Owain had found it hard just to hobble to the cart. He ached in every muscle, and his knee was still badly swollen.

The villagers seemed to be treating the journey as a day out. None of them seemed in any hurry, so Owain sat fretting in the back of the cart, looking round for any landmarks that would tell him they were getting close, and wishing he could yell at them to get a move on. Biting his tongue, he listened to them talking instead. Every man and woman there had worked as a miner, when the copper mine was open. That at least was hopeful. They'd know what they were doing when they got to the caves.

It was almost noon by the time they finally arrived at the mine, up the wide track that Owain and Gwalchmai had seen the morning before.

Owain looked out across the banks of scree with something like despair. It all looked the same. he couldn't possibly tell where the landslide had been.

Caradog Goch came to the side of the cart and stared at Owain. "Well?" he said at last.

"It all looks different from down here," Owain said helplessly. He pointed up the slope, at an angle from the buildings. "I think we came down that way."

"Best take him up there," Devorgilla suggested. "And take Ebisar and Crommen, too. They helped close the mine down, after all."

The one called Crommen, an older man almost as broad as he was tall, helped Owain down from the cart. "There are a lot of shafts on that hillside. I helped cover some of them to stop the sheep falling in. If the hole got covered, though...." He shrugged. "Maybe we'll find it, maybe not."

Owain limped up the hill, holding onto Crommen's arm. When they got close to the top, he spent some time walking backwards and forwards until the buildings below looked as close to his memory of them as possible. From above, some of the scree did look as if it had moved recently. It was too clean, somehow, and the edges were sharper and lighter than the rocks to either side. He pointed down the slope, and Crommen nodded in agreement.

"There was a fair-sized shaft just about there," he said. He took one end of the rope that Ebisar was carrying and knotted it round his waist. "Just hang on to that while I go and look," he said.

Ebisar paid out the rope steadily as Crommen made his way slowly down the slope. he went much more slowly than Gwalchmai and Owain had done, and at times on all fours, inspecting the ground. At length, he stopped. "Chuck us a pick, someone," he said. "I think I've got it."

One of the villagers passed a pick across to him, and sat beside him as he used it to probe at the loose rocks. A few of them tumbled down the slope, and Crommen looked up and waved at Caradog Goch and Owain. A hole had begun to open up close to his feet.

Owain slid down the slope on his backside, as carefully as he could, and at an angle to the newly opened hole. It wasn't wide enough yet for a person to get through, but it was wide enough to shout through.

He stopped on the edge. "Gwalchmai! Can you hear me? Gwalchmai?

"Still here." The voice was faint, but at least he was still answering.

Owain turned. Caradog Goch was ambling down the slope to one side of him, on firmer ground, with another skein of rope over his shoulder. "It's true, then?" he said. "Gwalchmai Morgan really is down there?"

"Of course it's true," Owain snapped. he clenched his teeth together. If he yelled at them now, it would take them twice as long to get Gwalchmai out of there. All he could do was to stay out of their way while they stood around the top of the shaft, scratching their heads.

Crommen and Ebisar were joined by two of the women, and together they set about widening the top of the shaft. They did the job so slowly that it took all Owain's willpower to stay silent, but at least there were no further landslides.

Once they'd got the ropes set up to get Gwalchmai to the surface, though, it all went much faster. One of the women, Tegau, being lighter than the others, went down the shaft. Owain was too far back to see anything once her head disappeared down the hole (she was another of the Dun's redheads), but he could hear her sliding down the rockpile at the bottom. He could hear everything that was happening down in the mine much better than any of the others. Now he knew that Gwalchmai was still alive, he could concentrate on this small exercise of his Talent - he'd been too worried to settle to it before. So he could hear what Gwalchmai said to the young woman while the miners from the Dun only heard murmuring.

"There's something else down here that you must bring up," Gwalchmai was saying. "It's very, very important. Over there - can you see?"

"Have you got the rope round him?" Caradog shouted down, from the top.

"Just a minute -" They could all hear Tegau clambering over the loose rocks. They all heard the very beginnings of a scream before she stopped herself. "That lad never said there were three of them," she shouted up.

Everyone looked round at Owain. "Three?" he murmured. "What has she found?"

More movement from below, and this time Tegau made a disgusted sound. "Goddess - he must have been dead for weeks - the smell!"
"He didn't come with us," Owain said. "Gwalchmai! Who is it? What's going on?"

"Get us both out of here, and I might be able to tell you!"

It didn't take long, then, for Tegau to rig a blanket around Gwalchmai in a sort of hammock arrangement that he could sit in while he was hauled to safety. he was on the surface in minutes, and carried down to where Devorgilla could see to hisinjuries.

While they were doing that, they lowered the blanket down the shaft again to Tegau. "I don't want to touch him!" she protested.

"Well, I'm not sending anyone else down," Caradog said. "See if you can roll him onto the blanket, and get the ropes under him."

With much muttering and sounds of disgust, Tegau did her best. "Oh, Goddess, oh, Taranis - he's wearing a cold cloak pin! Oh, Esus! His face is black!"

Owain was torn between listening to Tegau and watching Gwalchmai down on the slope below him. They'd given the old man water, and now Devorgilla had a big pair of scissors in her hand, and she was hesitating over the top of his boot. "Such good boots," she said. "It seems such a waste."

"Damn the boots, woman," Gwalchmai growled. "Just get on with it!"

She tried, but couldn't get through the leather. One of the other women took over, and peeled the leather away from the Harper's leg, and pulled at the heel to get the whole boot off.

That was when Gwalchmai fainted.

Devorgilla got to work on his ankle with linen bandages soaked in some herbal concoction she'd brought with her.

And that was when the body came awkwardly through the narrow hole at the top of the shaft. "Goddess, what a stink!" None of them wanted to touch it, but they got it out and laid it to one side. Finally, they sent the rope back down for Tegau.

"Look at this." Ebisar had moved the dead man's cloak, which was bundled around his neck as if he had been feeling cold when he died. "Gold!" he said. "This is - he was from one of the Great Families!"

"Not just any Great Family," Caradog said quietly. "Look at the finials on the torc. This is one of the Raven clan."

Owain felt sick. "Peredur," he said. They all turned to look at him. "Lord Ianto's cousin Peredur went to visit him, and hasn't been seen since. Gwalchmai told me."

"This is too great a thing for us," Caradog said quietly. "I don't know what we should do."

"We'll do what we can do, first, and worry about the rest later.," Devorgilla said. She'd finished bandaging up Gwalchmai's ankle and had come up the slope to see what was going on. "The Harper will advise us, when he wakes up - so we'd better get everybody in the cart and back home. Then we can start worrying."

It was a grim journey. Gwalchmai lay on one side of the cart, wedged in with the ropes so he didn't roll about. He groaned occasionally, but was never fully conscious. The body lay on the other side, and the smell of him made everyone walk as far away from the cart as they could. Owain was wedged in at Gwalchmai's head, and couldn't escape the stink. The ponies didn't like the smell either - but it did mean that they got back to the village much faster than they had got to the mine.

It was early evening when they got back. Gwalchmai was carried into the round hut, and put on the pallet that Owain had used the previous night. By now, Gwalchmai was conscious again. Devorgilla offered him some water, with another herbal concoction from one of her stoneware bottles, but he waved it away. "Later, madam - it's nearly sunset, and there's something important we must do then."

Owain shivered. "You want to talk to the body," he said.

"Only way to be sure," Gwalchmai said. "Where's your shrine, madam? Lay him out towards the west, before the Mother, and we'll see what happens."

The shrine was on the other side of the hall, at the west end of the inner courtyard, slotted in between the bread oven and a tool shed. Under the canopy, the stone statue was very old, and worn, but obviously well cared for. A jar of daffodils had been placed on the shelf in front of the Mother, and there were other small gifts - a goose feather, a leather thong plaited around a stone, a twist of wool. Down on the lower shelf, before the thunderbolt symbol of Toutates, was a fist-sized lump of rock veined with something glittering, and an old mining pick. The body was laid out in front of the shrine, in the open. The sun was already low over the hill behind the Dun.

The whole village waited, quietly, in the open space, leaving plenty of room around the body, until the lower rim of the sun's disc touched the hilltop beyond the defensive bank that surrounded the Dun.

"Tell us your name," Gwalchmai said. He was lying on the pallet close to the body's head, with Devorgilla standing to one side of him, and Owain sitting on the ground on the other. "By Taranis and Toutates and Esus, and the Goddess over them all, speak to us."

" _Thirsty - so very thirsty._ " A small grey cloud, like thin woodsmoke, hovered over the body's head. " _I can hear the water, but I can't find it...."_

"Tell us your name," Gwalchmai repeated. The sun was sliding slowly under the horizon. They didn't have much time.

" _I am Peredur Generys Morwenna,_ " he said.

"Tell us how you died," Gwalchmai said.

"So thirsty...and it's dripping, dripping, all the time, out of reach...."

"Tell us how you came to be there, in the mine," Gwalchmai said.

" _Justice! I accuse my uncle Ianto Morwenna of my death and I want justice! he sealed me in...Dark...tricked me...._ "

"I promise you justice," Gwalchmai said. "I am Gwalchmai Morgan, and i swear it on my honour as a Harper."

With a gentle sigh, the grey cloud thinned and disappeared - and the sun slid down behind the hill.

Gwalchmai looked up at Devorgilla from the pallet he was lying on.

"This is a bad thing," she said, shakily. "We need to talk."

The body was moved into the toolshed beside the shrine, until they decided what to do. Everyone else moved into the hall, quietly. Owain stayed with Gwalchmai as he was carried inside and laid close to the fire. Across the room, he could see Devorgilla Goch talking to a man and a woman who had stayed behind. Whatever news they were giving her looked serious.

Even so, the evening meal came first. It was the same thin mixture of kale and barley and peas, and there wasn't much of it, but despite the horrors of the day, Owain scraped his bowl clean.

Then the children were taken away, and only the adult members of the Dun were left around the hearth. Devorgilla enthroned herself on the one stool the Dun possessed.

"Gwalchmai Morgan, honoured Harper," Devorgilla began formally, "we have many problems because of your coming."

Gwalchmai propped himself up on one elbow. His face looked almost as white as his hair, and there were dark circles under his eyes, but he answered, equally formally: "Speak your problems, madam."

"I have offered you both the hospitality of the Dun. That is a sacred duty. But you bring with you danger to me and mine, and much trouble. We have heard the words of the Lord Peredur, but before we consider them, there is another matter. While we were away, a messenger came here, warning this Dun against you. Lord Ianto is looking for you and your nephew, who is not your nephew, but his." She turned a steely glare on Owain. "You brought a lie under my roof tree," she said, "when you told us your name."

"Only half a lie," Owain said, carefully, "and I hope you will forgive me for it. My name is Owain Brecca Morwenna by my mother's right, but my father's name was Eryl, so I can call myself Owain Eryl in truth. And you are Lord Ianto's people - and we are trying to escape Lord Ianto."

"That's not how he put it," Devorgilla said. "He claimed the Harper here has kidnapped you!"

Gwalchmai snorted. "Just the sort of rubbish he would come up with," he said.

"But he has said also that he will burn this Dun to the ground if he discovers that we have helped you," Devorgilla said.

"If I'd stayed with my uncle, I'd have probably ended up like my cousin Peredur," Owain said. "I'm sorry he's threatened you, but what else could I have done?"

Gwalchmai shifted on his elbow, and spoke over the beginning babble of voices. "I am Gwalchmai Morgan the Harper, and I have a story to tell you. You all know that the Lady Morwenna is very old, and that one day she will die. When that happens, who from her Family will inherit Ravenscar? She has many children and grandchildren who all have some claim - but Lord Ianto wants Ravenscar for himself. There will be a vote, as there always is on these occasions. If I'm spared, I hope to be one of the Harpers who witnesses that vote to make sure everything is done fairly. Owain - tell these people the offer that Lord Ianto made to you."

Owain was not a practiced public speaker like Gwalchmai, but he did have the adavantage of being able to make his ordinary voice reach to the farthest corners of the hall. "He wants me as a hostage," Owain said. "When the time comes that my grandmother should die, he wants me to vote in his favour - and if I am his hostage, he hopes for my mother also to vote in his favour, and my sister if she is old enough. His threat was quite plain - if I didn't do as he wanted, he would kill me. He didn't say it right out, but he mentioned Peredur's name as a warning to me of what would happen if I didn't go along with his plans."

There were murmurings now, all around the fire. "What you're talking about is kin-murder!" Crommen said.

Caradog stood up then. "And what the Lord Peredur said - he accused his uncle, our Lord Ianto, and we all know that the spirits of the dead cannot lie. We all know what sort of Lord we have. We all know what he can do when he's angry. I've been thinking about this ever since we found the body. Kin-murder is the most terrible crime - the crime of a man without honour, but what can we do against our Lord?"

"Get us to the Lady Morwenna, and she will protect your Dun." Gwalchmai sat up as tall as he could to look at them. he looked like death, but his voice was steady enough. "I can speak for her in this much - she will reward you for saving my life, and she will not allow Lord Ianto to destroy your Dun. Do you believe she can do this?"

Caradog shrugged helplessly. "She is a great lady, but she is far away, and Lord Ianto is near - and we know what he is like when he is angry."

"These are not the words of free men," Gwalchmai said. "These are the words of serfs from the Palatinate. Lord Ianto has a responsibility, as your patron, to protect you. He does not have the right to override the rules of hospitality - and I swear he will not get away with kin-murder, while there is breath in my body to sing a satire against him. Do you have no druid to speak for you? No brehon? No Harper?"

Caradog shook his head. "This is a wild and lonely place. We last saw a druid at Samhain, and then we were sharing the celebrations with Siobhan of Dun Ffald Uchaf. And how can we pay a lawyer, or a Harper, when all we have is taken in tribute to our patron?"

Owain had never seen Gwalchmai look so angry. "Is this true of all the Duns on the moors here?" he asked.

"Of course." Caradog spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "When Ianto became our lord, there was the copper mine, and our tribute was high, but fair. This was a good place to live then. When the mine closed down, he demanded the same tribute, even though we had nothing to give. All we have up here are the sheep, and a few fields to feed ourselves. And now we have nothing left to sell."

"It's true," Owain put in. "You've seen what they've got to eat here. Soon the children will start to starve."

"This will change," Gwalchmai growled. "Get us to Lady Morwenna, and I swear to you, by Taranis and Toutates and Esus, and the Goddess above them all, that this will change. We will not have a Tiraeg of gold torced rank behaving like a Palatine baron. Get us to Ravenscar and I will compose a satire that will flay the hide off him and rub salt in the wounds after. He'll never be able to lift his had up in Ytir again." He sank back on the narrow pillow, breathing hard. His clenched hands on the blanket were quivering with fury.

"Tomorrow, Lord Gwalchmai," Caradog said. "Tomorrow we will take you to Ravenscar. And tonight -" he wrenched the copper torc from round his neck and held it in his hand. "You said a true thing when you said that free men do not talk as I have been talking. We have been living like this for so long that I think we had forgotten. No longer. I am not Lord Ianto's serf. I am a free man. We are all of us free Tiraeg, and I would rather live free and torcless than another night under Ianto's rule." He flung the torc down before Devorgilla. "What do you say, Aunt?"

"I say you have said all that is needful," she said. She pulled the copper torc from her own neck and flung it down with his. "I say there will be no more tribute to Ianto. We will go to the Lady and ask for her protection - and if she will not give it, we still have our spears left to us, and our bows, and we will protect our own Dun ourselves if we die doing it."

More torcs joined the pile by Devorgilla's feet. Everyone in the hall was on their feet, pushing round the fire to add their torcs to the pile. And it was as if the air was clearing after a muggy, oppressive day. That damp feeling of depression that Owain had noticed when he first arrived had lifted, and the people of the Dun looked alive again.

The rain started in the night, and drummed on the thatched roof of the round hut.

Caradog peered out of the hall doorway into the still pouring rain, and shook his head slowly. "No sense in setting out in this weather," he said. "We'll wait an hour or so. It may have cleared up by then."

That suited Owain \- he was glad to have the excuse to wrap himself up in the blanket and doze for another hour or so. His knee ached horribly, and he wasn't looking forward to being jolted about in the cart again. He imagined Gwalchmai would be glad of the respite, too. Glancing across the hall, he saw that the old man was still snoring.

Sure enough, by mid-morning, the sky had cleared, and a watery sunshine was filtering through the open door of the hall. And there was something else - the shepherd from up the hill was running down the track towards the Dun, his dog loping beside him. As he got to the gates of the Dun, he shouted: "Lord Ianto's coming - and all his warband with him! They can't be far behind me." Then he stopped, panting, and looked, aghast, at all his bare-necked kith and kin. "What's going on?"

"Well, shut the gates, you fools," Devorgilla shouted. "And get the spears out." She took the shepherd by the arm and pulled him further into the stockade. "We forgot about you, last night," she said. "Things have changed here." She looked very pale, and her voice was shaking just a little. "Ianto isn't our Lord any longer. It's time to stand and fight as free Tiraeg."

"What? Are you mad, auntie?" The shepherd stared round, uncomprehendingly, at the rest of the villagers, who were bringing out their spears and bows and giving every indication of defending their home from attack.

"Look, we've got the dead body of Lord Ianto's nephew in the shed over there, and another nephew of his in the hall, and the Lady Morwenna's Harper, and - it goes beyond taking too much in tribute. He murdered his own kin, and now he's threatened to burn the Dun down against the laws of hospitality."

She left the shepherd with his mouth hanging open, and scuttled back into the hall. "Where's that sack?" she asked, at random. "I never thought he'd come to collect it personally."

Owain leaned down close to Gwalchmai. "They're all going to die, aren't they?" he murmured. "They've got no chance, surely?"

Gwalchmai leaned up on his elbow. "How many in the warband?" he asked. Nobody was paying him any attention.

Owain grabbed a small girl who was standing near the fire. "Go and ask the shepherd \- how many are coming? Would you? Good girl."

There was no time for her to return with the answer. A shout from a woman on the roof of the pigsty told everyone that the warband was in sight. Owain limped out to look. Then, grimly, he went in search of Devorgilla.

She and Caradog had the sack of torcs between them, and were heading for the gates. "Headwoman, madam - you can't do this," Owain said. "He want's me - all right, I'll go with him, as long as he leaves you in peace."

Devorgilla dumped down her side of the sack and looked at him as if he was an idiot. "And how long do you think that would last?" she asked scornfully. "As soon as you were away from here, he'd be back to burn us out for defying him - as an example to all the other Duns on the moor."

"Go back inside, Lord Owain," Caradog said. "We made our choice last night. We're not changing our minds now."

Owain limped back inside. The hall was almost empty now. Everyone was outside, around the walls of the stockade.

"They're not backing down, are they?" Gwalchmai asked. "I thought that Devorgilla was a tough old bird."

Owain sat down beside him. "I don't think I can do anything," he said. "This isn't like a sea battle, where I can take the wind out of their sails - and how long, really , will they be able to hold out against a trained warband?"

"We'll find out soon enough" Gwalchmai said. "But, when the end comes, and they do fail, our lives won't be worth a thing. I'm sorry, lad, to have brought you to this."

Owain shook his head - he was about to say that it wasn't Gwalchmai's fault - when he heard someone shouting outside. He patted Gwalchmai's shoulder instead, and went out to have a look.

Devorgilla and Caradog, and a crowd round them, had gathered close to the gates, on top of the bank that surrounded the Dun. At some point in the distant past, someone had started to build a drystone wall around the top of the bank. What was left of the wall was about waist high, and it didn't go all that far around. If Ianto's people really wanted to get in, there wasn't a lot to stop them. Owain hauled himself up the side of the bank until he could see over the wall, and got as close as he could to Devorgilla.

A horseman holding Lord Ianto's raven banner had ridden close to the gates, but far enough away to be out of spear throwing range. "My Lord says open the gates, and send out the Harper and the boy, and no harm will come to you."

"Does he really think we're that stupid?" Devorgilla said, quietly. "You tell him, nephew."

"We know what you have done, Ianto Morwenna, and you are no lord of ours any more," Caradog shouted. he held up the sack, and then delved inside it to hold up one of the torcs. "We will not be sworn to a kin-murderer. We will not break the laws of hospitality - and we will not give you tribute any more."

The bannerman looked back at Ianto, and they all heard him quite clearly. "Then you have brought your own doom down on your heads," he said, conversationally, but clear enough for everyone to hear. "This Dun will burn, and every person in it."

Caradog threw the sack across the ditch. It landed in the mud, and spilled a few torcs out onto the grass.

Several of the riders had dismounted. Owain watched them from the walls as they moved about over the nearby moorland, searching for something. Devorgilla laughed. "They're trying to find fuel for a fire," she said, "after the rain we've had - and there's nothing worth burning out there anyway - we go down -"

"Hush - he'll be able to hear you," Owain said. "Let them search without your help."

But some of the riders were already moving away, widening the search for burnable wood. Devorgilla moved along the wall walk a little way, to where Tegau was standing, leaning on her spear. "Best pass the word along, grand-daughter, she said. "Tell everyone to keep their mouths shut - Lord Ianto can hear everything we say here, and we don't want to give him any help."

Owain found a flat stone on top of the wall and sat down. his knee was throbbing horribly, but he didn't want to go back in yet. He needed to see what Ianto would do next. So did the rest of them \- that was why they were all clustered round the gates - even down to the smallest children and the most ancient old men who could still lean on a spear. _They should be spaced out, all around the bank,_ Owain thought, but he couldn't see any way of getting them to do that.

The rain had started again by the time one of the horsemen had appeared, laden with branches. A sheet of canvas had been unloaded from one of the pack horses the war band had brought with them, and was being staked out to provide a small amount of shelter from the rain between a couple of wizened hawthorn bushes. Ianto was standing under it, and Rhianmelt was standing with him, in a more servicable cloak than she had been wearing (to impress him?) at the quayside.

Owain smiled. Here was something he could do.

The wood was slow to catch fire, and they didn' t seem to have any dry kindling with them. A few clouds of smoke appeared, but no flames yet.

Owain waited until most of the war band were watching the efforts of the fire starters \- and concentrated. The canvas shelter flapped, buckled - and blew away over the hill. Owain could hear Ianto swearing. He grinned.

And his grin faded as another troop of horse appeared on the skyline.

"Looks like Ianto's got re-enforcements," he said quietly.

The appearance of the newcomers stirred Ianto's war band to action. Everyone remounted, and drew up in a half circle around Ianto and his banner.

Owain sent a small breath of wind towards the newcomer's banner, hanging soggily against its pole. The wet fabric lifted, briefly - long enough for everyone to see another green and black raven standard. This one, though, was instantly recognisable - and not Ianto's. "It's the Lady," Devorgilla said. She turned to Owain, her eyes bright. "The Lady has come to save us!"

*****

Re-union

Two riders went forward to meet Ianto. Owain noticed that Rhianmelt had positioned herself towards the back of the war band, not beside him - she had pulled up the hood of her cloak, so it was harder to pick her out, but most of them were hooded against the rain now, on both sides. Owain shifted his shoulders under the sodden tunic. He was wet through to the skin, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The leader of the grey-cloaked troop, a young man, halted his horse a spear's length from Ianto. A woman dressed all in black was beside him.

"Is that the Lady?" Devorgilla asked.

"Too young," Owain said. "She's got dark hair - grandmother's hair is white. Hush - I want to listen in."

Ianto was protesting. "...none of your business what I do in my own estates."

"And what were you doing here?" the young man asked pleasantly. "They're your people. Why haven't they let you in?"

"I'm here to punish their lack of hospitality...."

Owain gasped - for _Ianto_ to accuse the _Dun_ of a lack of hospitality...!

"And I'm here to collect my son!" said the woman in black. "We know he's in there, brother, and the Harper with him. So tell me, what exactly were your plans for them?"

_Mother?_ Owain squinted through the rain, trying to see her more clearly. _Is that really...?_

"There seem to have been misunderstandings all round," Ianto said, smoothly. "I merely wanted to ensure young Owain's safety...."

"Shall we ask him?" Brecca interrupted. "Shall we ask the Harper? What will they say about you, Ianto? What will the head of that Dun say about you?"

"As I said - there have been misunderstandings," Ianto said. He sounded angrier now. "You can't trust anything these Moorlanders tell you."

"Is that so?" Brecca said. "I think I ought to judge that for myself, don't you? Or don't you trust my judgement either?"

"Go on, then," Ianto backed his horse until he was no longer standing in Brecca's way. "Listen to their lies if you want to."

"Lady Brecca's coming in," Owain said, as the Lady's banner was carried towards the gate. "And you ought to know that Ianto has been accusing you of lying, and the Dun of a lack of hospitality."

Devorgilla clutched her spear so hard the knuckles went white. "Let him just come in here and say that!"

But Ianto was leading his troop away, south over the hill.

"Open the gates," Devorgilla shouted. "See - Lord Ianto is running! We're saved!"

The riders from Ravenscar crowded into the courtyard, surrounded by Devorgilla's people. Owain slid down the bank on his backside to meet them. Devorgilla followed more slowly, on the arm of her nephew Caradog.

As the Ravenscar guards dismounted around her, Brecca kept her seat and scanned the crowd. "Where's Lord Owain Brecca Morwenna?" she asked.

And Owain, sitting at the bottom of the bank as he got ready to lever himself to his feet with his stick, realised that she had looked straight past him and hadn't recognised him.

"And the Harper, Gwalchmai Morgan? Where's he?" the young man asked - and he and Brecca disappeared into the hall, surrounded by the crowd, before Owain could get close to them.

Devorgilla grinned at him, showing all of the few teeth she had left. "Don't take it to heart," she said, patting his arm and abandoning Caradog to lean on Owain. "You hardly look like a Lord from a Great Family just now."

Owain realised that she was right. His hair was filthy and hung in rats' tails round his shoulders, and he was still wearing the patched old tunic that Devorgilla had lent him. He looked even more scruffy than most of the peasants.

As they crossed the hall, though, he wasn't sure who was giving more support to who \- his stomach was knotting up in sudden panic, and Devorgilla didn't need help to walk across her own hall.

Brecca and the young gold torced man were kneeling beside Gwalchmai, who was leaning up on one elbow. They all looked up as Devorgilla batted one of her relatives out of the way and stepped into the clear space between them with Owain.

"I am Devorgilla Goch," she said, "and I welcome you to Dun Darren Isaf."

The young man stood up and bowed slightly. "I am Aidan Howell Morwenna, and I accept your hospitality on behalf of my troop and my aunt, the Lady Brecca Morwenna. Madam headwoman - where is Lord Owain Brecca?"

Gwalchmai was chuckling from his pallet on the floor. Owain didn't spare him a glance. he was looking at his mother, watching her face change from puzzlement to slow recognition....

...and then he was being crushed against her, and they were hugging, and she was saying "Goddess! What _happened_ to you?" in his ear.

And then Owain was on the floor beside Gwalchmai, and someone was fetching a blanket, and someone else was peeling his wet tunic off his back and over his head, while his mother knelt beside him with her arm around his shoulders. One of the women of the Ravenscar guards had laid aside her spear and was kneeling beside his knee, and then his filthy, ragged hose and braies were coming off as well, and he clutched at the blanket that was all he had left to cover himself - and yelped as the woman pressed on his scar. "How did this happen?" Brecca asked. "What did they do to you?"

Owain gritted his teeth until the guardswoman stopped prodding him. "That's - two things," he began.

"The lad saved my life," Gwalchmai interrupted him. "He crawled through an abandoned mine and walked for miles to bring me help."

"But that's an old scar," the guardswoman said.

" _Please,_ mother! Not here. Not now. I'll tell you everything later," and to his surprise, Owain saw that his mother was crying. He shrugged one arm out of the blanket and embraced her, and she clung onto him - and everyone left them alone for a while.

It didn't take long for Brecca to get herself under control. "I'm sorry - that was stupid of me. But it was such a shock - I didn't know what I was expecting, but...."

"It's all right. Really, it's all right."

"But, you've been injured - and your arm as well." She reached out to touch the scar where the dog had bitten him. "Owain, I swear to you - I will hunt down the ones who did this to you and I will tear their heads from their bodies with my bare hands...."

"You don't have to do that. I'm home now, and it's all right."

Brecca took a deep breath. "You're right. Later, for that. For now, I'm just happy that you're here, and safe." She hugged him again. "Now, shall we get someone to see to that knee?"

He leaned against her, and squeezed her hand, while the guardswoman put some more of Devorgilla's salve on his knee and bound it up with linen rags, and she gave him something vile-tasting out of a little stoneware bottle that she swore would ease the pain. Someone found the Palatine tunic he had been wearing - it was grubby, but at least it was dry - and Crommen offered a pair of trousers that almost went round Owain twice, they were so wide. But they fitted easily over his bad leg, and at last he could lie down, clothed, and swaddled in blankets, and let the drug numb him so that all the noise and chaos around him could wash over him without him caring about it at all. And his mother sat beside him, and held his hand.

After a while, Owain started to make sense of things again. he could smell mutton cooking - a feast for Devorgilla's people. His mother was still holding his hand, but now her attention was elsewhere. She was looking across him, at Gwalchmai.

"How did he know? How did Ianto know that you were coming back with Owain? We were so careful to keep it a secret."

"Ah." Gwalchmai looked away. "When did you last see Rhianmelt...?"

"She's at Pengwern...."

Gwalchmai shook his head. "She was here, today."

"Rhianmelt? But - I've known her since we were both five years old!"

"She met us at the quayside, straight off the boat from Moissac. I'm sorry."

"I can't believe.... No - I can believ it. I knew she was friendly with Ianto, but it never occurred to me that she might.... I'll kill her. If I see her again, I will kill her. how could she betray me so completely? And for Ianto! Of all people, for Ianto! I can't believe how _poisonous_ my little brother has been!"

"You still don't know the worst," Gwalchmai said quietly. "There's a body laid out in the little shed beside the shrine here. We found him when we were trapped in the mine. It's Peredur."

"No. How?"

"We spoke to his shade. Ianto trapped him there. He died of thirst."

"Mother will have to do something now. Ianto can't be allowed to get away with this - and with his own people deserting him.... She has to act, now, for the honour of the family." Brecca slipped her hand gently out of Owain's grasp. "I need to talk to Aidan. We need to deal with this now."

Owain couldn't summon up the concentration he needed to listen in to his mother and Aidan talking on the other side of the hall, through all the other conversations that were going on at the same time. He could barely summon the concentration he needed to sit up and eat a bowl of mutton stew when the time came. And he was only dimly aware of his mother lying down beside him when the time came for them to sleep.

When he woke up again, she was gone from his sie, and sunlight was streaming through the open hall door. A few people were still folding blankets and rolling up pallets, but most seemed to be already up and about. Gwalchmai was lying with his head back, snoring lustily. Owain smiled, and thought about his mother, and smiled some more - and then thought of Ianto, and wondered where he might have ridden off to.

Two men carried Gwalchmai out to the cart. Owain was just about to get up and follow when the two men came back and insisted on carrying him, too. They laid him beside Gwalchmai in a nest of blankets, under a canvas cover. Although it was a sunny morning, there were clouds threatening more rain later. Owain sat up as soon as the men had jumped down from the cart tail, and shuffled round so he could look out.

Across the yard, a couple of skinny plough oxen were being harnessed to a second cart. Devorgilla was climbing into the driving seat of that one, swathed up in so many shawls that she could barely move. Tegau, her grand-daughter, climbed up with her and took the reins. The oxen looked disinclined to move, so two of the guardsmen stood by the heads of the oxen to lead them out. In the back of that cart, they had laid Peredur. Owain could smell the body right across the yard without needing to use his Talent. The sack of copper torcs, retrieved from the muddy ditch, was heaved into the back of the cart with the body. Around them, the Ravenscar guards were mounting up and getting ready to move out. One of them brought Gwalchmai's harp case across. The Harper winced slightly. He'd emptied out the wreck of his harp the night before, and now he stowed Peredur's torc and cloak pin in there, muffled in rags. "When Morwenna sees this - things are going to change over these moorlands."

Caradog himself climbed into the driver's seat, swathed in an ancient leather cloak. He leaned back and lifted an edge of the canvas to look at his passengers, but he seemed suddenly too shy to speak to them.

Owain saw Aidan talking to four of his troop - leaving them behind at the Dun. He nodded to himself quietly - they couldn't leave the Dun without protection, at least of witnesses, if Ianto decided to come back to take his revenge. Then Aidan mounted up, and gave the order to move out, and the column of cavalry began to pass through the open gates of the Dun. After some minor protest, the two ponies pulling the cart ambled out after them, their heads down, and Caradog set their faces to the south. Behind them, Tegau was driving the ox cart, and behind her came the tail end of the Ravenscar guards.

The journey was hardest on Gwalchmai. The little stone bottle that had been offered to Owain the night before seemed to be empty now, and Devorgilla seemed to have no more pain killers worth speaking of amongst her medicines. The cart had no springs worth speaking of either. After a while, Gwalchmai didn't even try to make conversation - he was too busy gritting his teeth against the jolting of the cart.

It took them most of the day to get there, but at least the rain stopped in mid afternoon. By that time, too, they were off the moors, and into Ravenscar lands. It was still open country, but there were more farms, and fields bounded by hawthorn hedges or drystone walls. They'd stopped, briefly, for a meal of bread and cheese and watered wine from the saddlebags of the Ravenscar troop - but the rest had made it even worse when they started off again. Gwalchmai had refused the food, drunk all the wine that was on offer, and now lay staring at the canvas roof of the cart with his teeth clenched. His face was waxy pale, and he was sweating, and shivering. Owain began to worry that Gwalchmai might not survive the journey and there was nothing he could do to make things any easier for him. So he stared out across the fields, trying to take his mind off his own pain by counting trees, or sheep, or - anything to distract him from the misery of the journey.

He could smell the sea. If he craned his neck, he could even glimpse it occasionally, between folds in the hills. They had to be getting close now. There was even a rider, coming out to meet them - a girl on a pony, with her four plaits swept back over her shoulders.

She disappeared from his view as she approached the head of the column, but he could hear her clearly even without his Talent. "Mama - did you get him? Where's Owain?"

"Over there - Olwen, calm down -"

"In the _cart_? What's he doing in there?"

Owain looked up to see his little sister leaning down across her pony's neck to look inside the cart. One of her plaits was coming unravelled at the end \- and she had freckles. He'd forgotten the freckles.

" _Where_ in the cart?" Olwen demanded, over her shoulder.

"Hello, Little Flower," he said.

"No-one calles me that any more," she said, looking at him properly for the first time. "Are you really Owain? Why are you in a cart? And Master Gwalchmai, too -" She stopped abruptly, looking harder. The old man hadn't even opened his eyes, and he moaned quietly as the cart rattled over a pothole. She looked more carefully at Owain, too, taking in the dirt, and the way he was sitting huddled in the blanket. "Owain - are you all right?"

"We'll both be fine - when the cart stops jolting us about. Don't worry about us."

"Olwen - stop bothering them." Brecca appeared, putting her hand on the reins of Olwen's pony. "Come here and I'll tell you all about it."

"Thank Esus for that," Gwalchmai said, opening one eye to make sure she had gone. "Give that child the slightest encouragement and she'd be bouncing all over us."

Relief made Owain grin at him. "I thought - well, I was worried about you."

Gwalchmai grunted, gave a ghastly grin in return - and shivered again. "Never again," he muttered. "I'm retiring. Too old for this sort of thing."

And then they were at the gates of Ravenscar, the ancient bank and ditch cutting across the headland - cliffs to the seaward side, and the tall grey stone tower near the edge. Seagulls and pigeons - and an occasional raven - flocked around the tower. A cluster of grey stone buildings, tall in their own right, but dwarfed by the tower, straggled across the headland, a maze of interlinking courtyards and open spaces between the walls. Caradog's cart was led off to the right, around the edge of the complex, with Brecca and Olwen riding ahead. Owain didn't see where they took Devorgilla and Tegau.

They stopped beside a low building near the edge of the cliff top, a little way from the other buildings. Owain got the impression of a small formal garden, laid out with rose beds and benches, before he was whisked efficiently away into the infirmary. A young man in a long green robe seemed to be in charge. he was the only one there with a silver torc, anyway. Owain lay back and let it all happen to him - hot water appeared, in bowls, and soap, and his clothes were taken away, and when he was considered clean enough, he acquired a clean linen undershirt and was laid in one of the beds.

To the side of him, much the same was happening to Gwalchmai.

Only then, clean and warm and lying back on soft feather filled pillows, did the doctor start to peel off the linen bandages and examine Gwalchmai's ankle. When he'd finished with Gwalchmai (and the litany of swearing had faded away), he turned his attention to Owain. "This is a bit of a mess, isn't it?" he said cheerfully. "Still, you seem to have had the best treatment you could have, under the circumstances. The main thing," he added sternly, "is to lie there and not use that leg - at all - until the swelling has gone down. Then we'll see what else we can do for you."

He half turned as the door opened behind him.

"Well, Gwalchmai Morgan?" The speaker was a tiny old lady with her four plaits pinned up around her head like a coronet. She was wearing black, unadorned apart from the heavy gold torc around her neck. A raven hopped in beside her, and then spread its wings and flapped to the foot of Owain's bed. It turned its head on one side to regard him with one beady eye.

"Madam." Gwalchmai waved one hand in the direction of Owain's bed. "As you see."

"Grandmother?" Owain said. he wasn't sure he could trust himself to say anything more. This was it - the moment he'd been dreaming of when he sent off the pigeon with his plea for help.

Morwenna cocked her head to look at him in much the same way as the raven did. Then she extended one claw-like hand for him to kiss. "Owain Brecca, welcome home."

*****

Recuperation

Gwalchmai threw his stylus down. It bounced off the bed and rolled across the floor, amost to the feet of Brian, the servant who had just come in carrying a mop and bucket. "How can I write my satire if I'm always being interrupted?" Gwalchmai demanded, furiously.

Brian waved the mop handle weakly. "Sorry, sir, but I have to clean the floor...."

Gwalchmai snorted. "First it's breakfast - I have no argument with that! Then there's a whole procession of functionaries measuring young Owain for tunics and boots, and Goddess knows what other items for his wardrobe. I don't begrudge you that, lad, or your sister and mother coming to visit you - it's what we were working for, after all. But I can't work here!" He shoved the wax tablets across the bed covers impatiently. Even from the other bed, Owain could see there were more crossings out than anything else. "And now you've come to mop the floor!" he continued, full of exasperation. "Will it never end? Well, you can put that bucket down - yes, down, there - and go and get my servant Kai Vaughan. Tell him to get a stretcher, or a litter, or something, over here so I can get back to my own rooms - and make sure to tell him to have a jug of mead waiting when I get there!"

Brian bowed his way backwards to the door, and fled.

Gwalchmai smiled sheepishly. "Not his fault, poor man. Not your fault, either - but I must get that poem written while it's fresh in my mind. It's what Ianto deserves."

Owain smiled back, cautiously. He thought he could have suggested that he should be the one to leave the doctor's house. After all, his knee was only a little stiff now. He knew he was capable of walking on it.

But until the tailor came back, in another couple of days, he didn't even have any clothes to call his own, and he couldn't wander round Ravenscar in his undershirt, not with so many strangers arriving. He could hear the bustle outside, even though the doctor's house was in a quiet corner of the Llys. People were arriving hourly; pavilions were being erected on open ground, and wagons of provisions were creaking round to the kitchens to feed the army of newcomers.

It made Owain even less anxious to leave the doctor's house, because all those people had come to see him. Morwenna had called a Family conference, and she was holding a great feast, to publicly acknowledge him. For a young man who had spent the last three years trying to be invisible, it was a daunting prospect. he didn't want to leave the house until he was forced to.

Morwenna had told him what she intended to do personally. She had already sent the invitations out, before Owain had even arrived. She had smiled maliciously as she told him her plans for Ianto. "He's here, of course," she said. "Installed himself in the best rooms in the guest house as soon as he arrived, and he's still bleating on about 'misunderstandings' to anyone who'll listen. We'll see what 'misunderstandings' there are when he has to face the headwoman of that little Dun in front of the Family - he doesn't know she's here yet, and we're making sure we keep it that way. He doesn't know that anyone knows about Peredur yet, either. It will be amusing to see him try to talk his way out of _that_ in front of Generys!"

Owain had shuddered. he didn't think it would be 'amusing' for Aunt Generys to learn how, exactly, her son had died.

Shortly afterwards, Kai Vaughan arrived with two strong working men carrying a litter, and Gwalchmai departed for his own quarters to work in peace. As soon as he'd gone, Brian started swabbing the flagstone floor with the mop. he wasn't doing much more than moving dirt around, though, as the water had to be almost cold by now. Owain thought of mentioning it, but the servant's presence wasn't bothering him and, if anything, Brian looked glad of something to do out of theway of the crowds, too.

There had been so many visitors. He hadn't talked so much for months - and there was still a visitor to come that would be the hardest of all to talk to. He had spoken to his mother when she came, and she had sent for Ferdia's father.

He wasn't looking forward to that at all.

Nidan, the new servant that Brecca had sent to Owain, had set up a fidchell board at the side of the bed, and Owain was trying to remember the rules of the game. Nidan was old enough to have grizzled patches in his brown hair, and he looked as if nothing could surprise him. He was also, Owain was discovering, endlessly patient. "That's a chess move, sir," he said, for at least the tenth time that morning. "A fidchell piece can't move like that."

"But I could go there? Like that?" Owain asked.

There was the faintest flicker of a smile under Nidan's bushy moustache. "You _could_ , sir, but then I'd just do _that_...." He demonstrated taking five of Owain's pieces in one go. "Are you really sure you want to do that?"

With his head down over the board, and aware only that Nidan was going to thrash him at fidchell for the third time that morning, Owain hardly noticed the outer door open. When he did look up, his mother was standing by the bed - and with her was Rhys Gronw, Ferdia's father.

He had changed. He looked thinner in the face than Owain remembered, and his hair was greyer. He was completely unsmiling, but not grim - more nervous. Owain took some comfort from that. If both of them were going to find the conversation difficult, somehow that made it easier for him.

Brecca said: "I brought Lord Rhys here as soon as he arrived. It has been hard for him, and all his family, not knowing what happened to his son - as it was hard for me - but Lord Rhys will not see his son return again, will he?"

Brecca knew that Ferdia was dead. Owain had told her that first day, just the bare bones of the story, at the same time as he'd told her as much as he could of what happened on the beach, to his father, and to Casmael the charioteer - and all the other difficult things that he wished hadn't happened. But it seemed Lord Rhys didn't know yet, and she had left it for Owain to break it to him.

"You'd better sit down," Owain said, and waited while Rhys Gronw pulled a stool over from the doctor's table by the window. Nidan quietly excused himself and slipped outside. Brecca sat on the corner of the table, far enough away to give a semblance of privacy to Rhys Gronw, but near enough to hear everything for herself. Owain sighed unhappily. He wasn't sure where was the best place to start.

"It was all my fault," he said. Better to admit that now and get it over with, he thought. "Ferdia - well, Ferdia always wanted to go where I went. That's why he was down on the beach with us when the corsairs came. We all thought it was a merchant ship - until it was too late. They caught us both - I was hurt and he wouldn't leave me. They got Casmael the charioteer as well, and Arianrhod.... When we got to the island, they were waiting for a ship to arrive. Then the others would be taken to be sold as slaves. The corsairs wanted me to work for them, raising the wind. Ferdia didn't want to wait. We didn't know where we were, but we knew the corsairs didn't ever cross the causeway to the mainland, so we thought we'd be safe if we got that far. he could have gone alone - it would have been easy for him to go alone, but he wouldn't leave me, and I couldn't move very fast. So it was my fault. They set the dogs on us, and Ferdia wouldn't leave me, and one of the corsairs had a spear.... I'm sorry. He could have got away. I'm really, really sorry."

Rhys Gronw said slowly: "Then he died saving the life of his patron's son. It was his fate and his destiny, and an honourable death. He is buried there on the island, then?"

"Not - exactly." Owain couldn't face him. He looked down at the blanket, focusing on the strands of wool that made up the thin red stripe on the dark brown background. "They have a wizard there, Kofi. He's got protection spells all round the island, to keep the corsairs' base a secret. They buried Ferdia's body in a scrape of sand in the dunes at the end of the island - but Kofi bound his spirit to give more power to the protection spells. He can't get to the Summerlands."

Rhys Gronw turned to Brecca. "All the resources at my command are at your disposal," he said. "The honour of my family demands this."

Owain flinched, but Rhys Gronw was not talking to him now. He had thought he would feel better when he had told the story, but he felt worse. He didn't think to wonder what Rhys Gronw had meant.

He had to face the doctor, next. Duncan Mark had come back to check up on his patient, and Owain lay still and unresponsive as the doctor poked and prodded at his knee.

"Nothing much I can do for this, now, except to recommend that you don't over-exert yourself," Duncan said. "What butcher treated it in the first place, anyway? I'm assuming that there's no doctor on that island you were stuck on."

"They have a very good doctor," Owain said. "They didn't want me to run away." It had been such an obvious thing to him, for so long, that he was surprised at how angry Duncan Mark looked.

"Barbarians," he muttered. "It'll never be right, and I'm afraid you'll always need a crutch, or at least a stick. It's been too long since the original injury for me to do anything more for you. Some people recommend swimming as an exercise, especially in salt water. Your mother's main Dun is by the sea, isn't it?"

Owain thought of the blood on the pebbles at Pensarn Beach, the bodies of all the people he knew, and his father. He thought of slaughtered horses. he could not imagine ever going down there to swim again.

It the doctor had noticed Owain's silence, or the way he suddenly tensed up, he ignored it. "I'd say you still need rest, though, so the best thing for you to do for the next couple of days is to stay here in bed. It's chaos out there. There hasn't been such a gathering at Ravenscar for years - well before my time here."

And they'd all come to see him, Owain thought apprehensively. How could he face them all? How could he face his mother again, now she'd heard the full story of Ferdia's death? He hadn't thought of that when he first saw her, but now - she must be ashamed of him. She had left without saying a word.

What he really wanted was to stay there in bed until they had all gone home.

He still felt wretched the next morning. After breakfast, he stationed Nidan outside, to fend off any more visitors. Nidan had grumbled a bit, wrapped himself in his cloak, and gone to sit on the bench outside the door.

The door swung open only a few minutes later. Owain turned to see his sister ducking under Nidan's outstretched arm, grinning.

"Sorry, sir," Nidan said.

Olwen, now safely inside, grabbed a stool and perched on it next to the bed. "He said I couldn't come in," she said cheerfully, "but I was sure you couldn't mean _me_ , Owain."

"You don't really want to talk to me," he said.

"Yes, I do. Or I could read to you, if you don't want to talk." She slipped one hand into her pouch and brought out a small leather bound book. "I brought The Silver Branch."

She opened the book at a ribbon bookmark and looked up at Owain expectantly. "I'm up to the part where the ship's ready to sail for the Empire, and the hero's got to decide whether he wants to go or not," she said, "but I could read another bit if you wanted?"

He sighed. "Actually, I don't remember The Silver Branch, so you'd have to start at the beginning for it to make any sense to me. You're right \- we should talk instead."

She put the book to one side and laced her fingers around one upraised knee. "Isn't it all exciting?" she asked. "Aren't you looking forward to the feast?"

"Truly?" He managed half a smile. "I'm terrified. Everyone will be looking at me, and I won't know what to say."

"But it's all _family_ ," she pointed out. "It's not as if they're going to eat you or anything."

"We don't have that many relatives!" Owain said. "I can hear them setting up camp all over the Llys."

"Oh, of course there are lots of servants, and retainers and so on," she said dismissively. "You needn't worry about them. There are going to be jugglers, too, you know, and acrobats."

_And Rhys Gronw,_ he thought. How would he be able to look Rhys Gronw in the face now that he knew the worst.

"Olwen...."

"Yes?" she drawled, drawing the word out over the strained silence.

"I had to tell Rhys Gronw some bad things."

"Oh, I know that!" she said. "He spent ages talking to mother after they left you."

Somehow, this did not reassure Owain.

"What did - do you know what mother said to him?" he asked.

"They kept the door closed on me," Olwen said, "and Lliros - that's my tutor - had the cheek to say it's rude to listen at keyholes!" Then Olwen grinned. "Of course, I didn't need to listen at the keyhole to hear what they were saying - which is why mother swore me to secrecy as soon as she came out!"

"Olwen! Come on, don't be unfair - tell me _something_!"

To his surprise, Olwen suddenly became very serious. "They don't blame you," she said. "All that you told mother, about your friend Ferdia - she doesn't blame you. That's really why I came this morning. I thought you ought to know that."

"Then why can't she say that?" Owain asked bitterly.

"Because she's busy," Olwen said patiently. "And so is Lord Rhys. There's a lot to organise, you know."

Some time later, the door opened again.

"I'm sorry, sir." Nidan appeared in the doorway, looking apologetic in the extreme. "But I _can't_ refuse the Lord Aidan, sir."

Owain had been lying on his back with his hands behind his head, thinking about what his little sister had told him. What he really wanted was to have a proper talk with his mother - but he couldn't refuse the Lord Aidan, either. He sat up in bed as his cousin sat down on the stool at the doctor's table, and Owain saw that he had wax tablets and a stylus with him, and that he intended to take notes with his own hand. What he wanted to discuss had to be highly secret, if he didn't want a secretary to overhear anything.

"Your mother didn't want me to come this morning," Aidan began. "She thought you might still be distressed by something that happened yesterday - she didn't say what. However, time is short, and there is a lot of organising to do, so I hope you will forgive me if I press you for information. There is need."

Owain nodded cautiously. His throat was doing its usual trick of closing up just when he needed to speak.

"Firstly, then," Aidan said, "I want all the names you can remember from your time with the corsairs - men, ships, places they talked about, anything at all. We want to know who we're dealing with."

Now he made himself think about it, the island seemed strangely distant, his memories of his life there already beginning to blur slightly. "There are three ships," he began, "Raha, al-Khadar and Sohar. The leader of the corsairs is called the Bey - I don't know if that's a real title, or one he's just taken as a pirate chief. His full name is Jumail Marhouri Jameel al-Saad, and when he goes out, he captains the Sohar. Captain of the Raha is Ahmed bin Zayed Al Nahyan. He's some sort of cousin to the Bey, and the other captain is Sayyid Faisal al-Saad."

"Another cousin?" Aidan asked.

"I suppose so. There's another ship, for cargo, called the Utamaduni, but that one doesn't stay on the island - it's too deep bellied for them to pull up onto the beach."

Aidan made him say the names slowly, three times over, before he was satisfied with the spelling.

"There's something about that name - al-Saad," Aidan said. "Uncle Liam will know. Where do they come from, do you know?"

"Kharazan," Owain said. "They were always talking about what they'd do when they got back there - sometimes it was how many wives they'd have and how rich they'd be, and sometimes it was all about taking revenge in some blood feud. I'm sorry, I didn't take much notice - I didn't know anyone who was involved, so it really didn't mean a lot to me. I was just trying to keep my head down and not be noticed - and sometimes they would notice me and change the subject, as if I wasn't supposed to know any of it."

"But you're sure the name is Kharazan?" Aidan asked sharply. "That's not in the Caliphate."

Owain shrugged. "That's what they said. And there's a city - Bandar Abbas. They never took me that far south, so I don't know where it is exactly."

Aidan wrote it down, thoughtfully. "We know they have a powerful wizard on the island," he said next. "What can you tell me about him?"

"Kofi," Owain said, almost whispering as if the wizard would hear it. "I don'tknow if he has any other names, and he comes from even further south than the corsairs - his skin is darker. They were always very respectful when they talked about him, made the sign to avert the evil eye, stuff like that. I think even the Bey is a little scared of him. Gwalchmai can tell you about the protection spells - and the blood magic." He shuddered slightly. Even saying that much about Kofi seemed to make the room a little darker and colder.

"Hm," Aidan said thoughtfully. "Let's turn to something more straightforward - how about a list of the crews of each ship, as far as you can remember them?"

It was a long list, and Owain couldn't imagine why Aidan needed to know the names of every crewman - but by the time he'd finished, he no longer felt as if Kofi was watching them.

Aidan wrote it all down. "This helps a great deal," he said, beginning to pick up his writing materials. "I thank you for it. Now, have you got everything you need? Anything you'd like sent over while you're here?"

Owain thought for a moment. "Have you got a spare copy of The Silver Branch?" he asked at last.

It came sooner than he was ready for it. Wearing a borrowed pair of slippers, shrouded in one of Duncan Mark's long cloaks, and walking with the aid of a new crutch that had been made specially for him, he left the doctor's house for the first time since he had arrived, to go to the bathhouse.

He was clean, of course - Duncan Mark's assistants had made sure of that, but now he was going to have a proper bath for the first time since the corsairs took him away.

The place was crowded. As soon as he got through the door, Owain could hear voices raised in conversation over the sound of splashing water. Someone was singing, loudly and untunefully, from one of the cubicles, and servants were passing back and forth along the corridor with clothes, and towels, and buckets of steaming water.

Nidan led Owain to the cubicle reserved for him, and took the cloak. The tub was steaming and a variety of soaps, and combs and shaving kit, were laid out to one side.

"I'll be back shortly with towels and things, sir," Nidan said, and left him. Owain kicked off his braies, lowered himself into the hot water, right up to the neck, and smiled blissfully.

He soaped himself all over, and washed his hair. Nidan returned all too soon, but only to shave him, and then left again. Owain was far from ready to leave the tub. He lay back, with his head propped on the rim, eyes half-closed in the steamy atmosphere; he couldn't have moved if he tried.

Nidan returned carrying warm towels, and a pile of clothes that he put down on a shelf to one side. He wrapped the towel round Owain, who reluctantly hauled himself out of the tub. Owain shivered slightly as his bare feet touched the tiled floor. He couldn't put off thinking about it any longer - there would be no more hiding away in the doctor's house; the feast was almost ready to start.

He towelled himself dry with great concentration before he turned to his new clothes - and then he stopped. On top of the pile was a gold torc with raven head finials.

He put it on first, still naked. It meant that Olwen had been right - his mother didn't blame him. She had heard everything he had said to Rhys Gronw, and she still accepted him. He hadn't been entirely sure until that moment. Every time he thought about the people arriving, and the conference, and the feast, there had always been that little niggling doubt, that this was nothing to do with him. It was all to deal with Ianto, and he would be quietly forgotten about - and it hadn't helped that he hadn't seen his mother since that painful conversation with Lord Rhys.

He pulled the thick, cream silk undertunic over his head. The new braies were linen, and so were the green trousers. The green silk tunic was fairly plain - there hadn't been time for extensive embroidery. It fitted perfectly. They had even managed to find him a green belt, with a bronze knife in a scabbard decorated with a raven's head, and a pouch with interlaced decoration also with ravens' heads.

"There wasn't time to finish the boots," Nidan said, apologetically, producing a pair of simple turnshoes. But the turnshoes fitted him without needing extra socks for padding.

Nidan took the comb to Owain's damp hair then. He hummed quietly to himself as he made the traditional four plaits.

Finally, there was a cloak, of russet wool lined with fox fur, and secured on his right shoulder by a great gold penannular brooch.

There was a mirror in the cubicle. Owain looked into it, through the fog caused by the steam, and didn't recognise himself.

Nidan led him out to the entrance hall, where Brecca and Olwen were waiting for them.

"You look more as you ought to look," Brecca said, approvingly. She and Olwen were also wearing green and cream, with russet overmantles. There could be no doubt in anyone's mind that they were all of one family. Brecca kissed him lightly on one cheek, and took him outside.

*****

The Feast

They crossed the Llys to the great hall, past the array of brightly coloured tents, and the marquee where everyone who couldn't fit into the main hall would be eating. Just inside the hall doorway, Brecca settled him to perch on a high stool, whisked away his crutch, and draped his cloak to hide the stool before he worked out what she was doing. There was a table beside the stool, and he didn't have time to wonder why they had stopped there before the guests began to arrive. Relatives that he dimly remembered, the heads of families that owed allegiance to Tir Bran, and Ravenscar, and Pengwern, merchants from Aberllong - he found himself bowing and murmuring polite words of greeting to them all, and accepting so many gifts he almost didn't dare turn around to look at the pile of them on the table - books, and a chess set, and a decorated bridle, and a tunic length of purple silk, and mirrors and combs and - too many things.

When Brecca finally returned his crutch and led him away from the table to the dais, he felt punch-drunk.

Fortunately, all he had to do now was stand on the edge of the platform, looking out over the sea of faces. Morwenna was there, wearing black, as usual, but today it was black brocade trimmed with jet. She took Owain by one hand, and Brecca took him by the other, holding it low so no-one would notice him balancing on the crutch beneath his cloak. Olwen stood on the other side of Brecca, grinning at him. Above them was a huge lantern. The rest of the hall was a dim blur, with islands of candles where he could see faces turned towards him.

"This is my grandson, Owain Brecca Morwenna," Morwenna said. She had not raised her voice, but her Talent carried the words clearly to the corners of the hall. "We welcome him back to the Family."

Then she let go of Owain's hand and turned to Aidan. He presented her with a huge golden goblet. Sh raised it in both hands then, turned to Owain, and drank. She passed the goblet to Owain. He lifted it, tasted good, sweet mead, and passed it on to his mother. Around the hall, other goblets were raised, and in the clamour of welcoming voices, Morwenna led Owain round the table to sit at her right hand, with Brecca on the other side of him. He was dimly aware that he was smiling foolishly, and that Olwen had taken her place on the other side of his mother, and was still grinning at him.

On the other side of Morwenna sat a stout man, his black hair peppered with grey - one more surprise on top of all the rest. He could only be Uncle Liam, who never left his citadel at Aberllong. He hadn't travelled to Ravenscar for longer than Owain had been alive, yet he was here now. On the other side of Uncle Liam, there was a fair haired woman; her torc had swan's head finials, so Owain knew she must have been sent by the Ard Ri, Dervaloc, of the Swan clan. Porec and Aidan took up the other places on the table.

As the food began to arrive, Owain gazed around the room. Racks of candles brightened the darkest corners, and the fire had been built up to make even more light. Candlelight glinted off gold and silver jewellery, and tunics of every colour - and illumined the slightly amused smile of Ianto Morwenna, who had found himself a place near the centre of the long table nearest the old-fashioned fireplace in the middle of the hall.

"Look at him, sitting there as if he owns the place already," Brecca muttered darkly. "I'd say that my little brother knows no shame, but we'll see the proof of that later."

Owain was about to ask his mother what she meant, but he was distracted by a servant, leaning between them with a platter of roast pork. Owain suddenly found that he was very hungry. Pork was one meat that the corsairs never ate, but now he was home, in Ytir, and at this feast the hero's portion of roast pork was for him.

Between courses, much to Olwen's delight, there were jugglers and tumblers, though there was little room for them to perform between the crowded tables. Now the formal recognition was over, no-one was paying overmuch attention to Owain, and he was beginning to enjoy the entertainment. It hadn't been as frightening as he had thought - and soon the assembled Family, and all those people who owed them allegiance, would have something else to think about.

When the last course was cleared away, Gwalchmai Morgan was helped up onto the platform by his servant. As he settled himself on a stool, Kai Vaughan handed him a harp much more ornate than the one he had lost down the mine.

"You will be expecting me to sing in praise of the young man who has so recently been returned to his family," the Harper began. The sound of conversation dropped to a murmur. "That would be a pleasant duty, and one that I would gladly perform. Tonight, however, I have a new satire, with my patron's permission. While all are gathered for such a happy occasion, we must not forget more important matters. This touches upon the honour of the Raven Family."

Over a buzz of puzzled murmuration, Gwalchmai played the introduction to his poem, and began to sing.

The hush that normally accompanied a new composition by a great Harper turned gradually to a strained silence. Owain could see Ianto growing ever more white with fury, and unable to leave the room from his place close to the dais. Others in the room were looking at him too, and there wasn't a sympathetic expression among them.

The applause, when it came, was muted, but sincere, and Owain was glad of it. The plight of the people at Dun Darren Isaf had filled him with a sense of injustice on their behalf. Making it public like this should lead to an improvement in their situation - and make it harder for Ianto to retaliate against them for helping Owain and Gwalchmai.

he looked back to the table where Ianto was sitting. A couple of the grey cloaked guards had quietly appeared close by. Morwenna stood up then and looked straight down the table at her youngest son. "One of your people has been searching for you, Ianto," she said. "They have a rather important matter to raise with you, and you do seem to have been rather elusive when the heads of your Duns have complaints against you."

"Can't it wait, mother? How I deal with my estates need not concern you, or the rest of the Family."

"But it does concern the rest of the Family when a Harper feels moved to sing such a satire against you. And you will see this headwoman now, where we can all see you."

The door at the end of the hall opened, and there was Devorgilla, closely followed by Caradog and Tegau, lugging the sack between them. They walked straight to Ianto and emptied out the torcs at his feet. "I am Devorgilla Goch, headwoman of." Dun Darren Isaf," said Devorgilla, and Owain could hear the shaking in her voice. "You are our Lord no longer. You well know our many complaints against you." She turned then to Morwenna. "Lady, we seek your protection. Life was better for us when you were our Lady before."

"I accept the allegiance of Dun Darren Isaf," Morwenna said. "And I promise to do all those things that are the responsibility of a Ruler in the Land. Do you promise to do all those things that are the responsibility of those who seek the protection of the Great Families?"

Devorgilla came to stand before Morwenna at the dais. "Lady, I promise, for myself and my Dun, by Taranis and Toutates and Esus, and the Goddess over them all."

"This is ridiculous!" Ianto was standing now, and brushed past the old woman to confront his mother. "You can't take a Dun away from me, just like that!"

"They took themselves away from you, Ianto, when they realised what you had done," Morwenna said.

"Where is my son Peredur?" Lady Generys stood from her place of honour as Morwenna's eldest daughter, and pointed an accusing finger at Ianto.

He tried to laugh, but he couldn't make it sound convincing. "How in Toutates' name should I know, sister?" he flung back at her. "He came to visit me, we did a little hunting, and he went home as far as I know."

Gwalchmai was rummaging around in a small bag beside his seat. "Perhaps the Lady of Evan Avlach should see these," he said.

She stepped up to the dais, and looked. "You slimy little toad, Ianto. What did you do to him?"

Ianto had seen the flash of gold too, but no more than that. "Let me see." He examined the torc and cloak pin and tossed them onto the table. "So what fanciful tale are you going to tell to explain how you came by these, Harper?" he asked scornfully.

"We were all there when the body was brought up out of the mine," Tegau said, from behind him.

Ianto swung round to face her. "And what was the body doing in the mine?" he asked.

"That's something you should tell us," Morwenna said.

"I told you - he went home. How should I know what happened?"

"Alone? Without a single servant or escort? Do you really think your family that stupid?" Morwenna said.

"Look, I didn't kill him! Get that _yspridwch_ of yours to read my mind if you don't believe me!"

A chair was brought and placed in front of the dais. Glynis Aide stepped forward from where she had been sitting further down the hall. With every impression of confidence, Ianto sat down on the chair and faced her.

Glynis place her hand over his forehead and closed her eyes. She stood like that for a long time. "One thing is true," she said at last. "Lord Ianto did not kill his nephew."

"Then what -?" Lady Generys began.

"Then how did -?" someone else asked.

Morwenna raised her hands for silence. "Go on, Glynis," she said.

"He did not kill Peredur, but he did imprison Peredur'sservants at his Llys, and he did trick Peredur into the mine and close up the shaft behind him."

Generys' hand flew to her eating dagger, and she launched herself on her younger brother. he hardly had time to react before she was on top of him, slashing down at his unprotected face left handed. The chair fell backwards, and half a dozen people from the nearest tables jumped up to drag Generys off Ianto.

"That's enough, Generys!" Morwenna snapped. "Do you want to lower yourself to his level?" As Generys stepped back, panting, in the grasp of one of the guards, Morwenna turned to Ianto, who was still lying on top of the chair. he rolled lightly to his feet.

"So, Mother, now you know it all," he said.

"Now I know it all," she agreed. "And now I pronounce sentence on you. We have all the Family here as witnesses, and Lady Iona Terrwyn, the representative of Dervaloc Ard Ri." She bowed slightly in the direction of the woman with the swan headed torc on the top table. "So don't think you can go bleating about 'misunderstandings' to Dervaloc, Ianto. There will be no misunderstanding about this. I want you to be on the first ship that leaves Aberllong. I don't care where it's going as long as it doesn't touch Tiraeg soil. Never come back. Your lands go to Generys, as some small compensation for her son's life." She glanced down at Devorgilla. "Is that acceptable to you?" she asked. "Will you pledge allegiance to my daughter Generys rather than to me? I can promise you that she will rule you better than my son ever did."

Devorgilla took Generys by the hand. "By Toutates and Taranis and Esus, and the Goddess over all," she said, "I promise that my Dun will be faithful to you if you will rule us well."

"I promise to protect your Dun, and all the other Duns that were Ianto's," Generys said, slightly unsteadily, "and I think that my own Duns have had no complaints thus far. It is a bargain between us, Devorgilla Goch." She held her hands over the pile of torcs. "Take these back to your Dun, headwoman,and accept them as tokens of your allegiance to me."

Devorgilla kissed her hand. Caradog and Tegau scrabbled the torcs back into the sack, and they left the hall together, heads held high.

"Then that, I think, concludes the matter," Morwenna said. "Ianto - you may stay tonight, but I want you gone first thing in the morning."

It was dismissal, and he took it as such, bowing elaborately to Morwenna before he marched out of the hall, with his people falling into step behind him.

As they left the hall, Morwenna spoke again. "The feast continues," she said. "I have a grandson to welcome home, and I want to do it properly. We have more wine yet." Even as she spoke, servants were bringing more jugs out around the tables, and the acrobats came back in for another display.

"That's not going to be the last we hear of Ianto," Brecca said quietly, but she still held her goblet out for more wine as the servant came round the top table.

*****

Preparations

Owain slept that night in a small room off his mother's quarters. With the Llys so full of visitors, he realised now what difficulties there had been in finding him anywhere at all close to his mother - but she had made the effort to provide him with a bed.

The party had carried on till late, and it was only when Brecca insisted that Olwen should be in bed that they finally left the hall, with Owain tagging along because he wasn't entirely sure where his mother's quarters were. Everyone in the hall had seemed to be determined that Ianto would not spoil the party, and there were still plenty of hard core drinkers there when Owain left.

There were more clothes the next morning, laid out on the bed by Nidan, who had spent the night on a pallet in the same small room. Owain put on a linen undershirt, and a dark red wool tunic with a little blue braiding, over blue trousers. There was a plain brown belt and pouch, too, but he transferred the decorated green scabbard to it, because there was only on bronze dagger. he left Nidan folding the silks. He and his mother were summoned to Morwenna's tower.

The old woman was already there, sitting on the window seat, her white hair immaculate in the gusty breeze. Beside her, Gwalchmai was sitting in a high backed chair, his broken ankle propped up on a cushioned stool. He kept looking up at the rafters suspiciously as he sipped small ale from a wooden mug.

There were more mugs and a jug of ale on the side table, along with scones, and cream and jam. Porec and Aidan were already helping themselves when Brecca and Owain arrived. The _yspridwch_ Glynis was sitting on a high stool near the door with her staff balanced casually against her shoulder as she ate. Liam was sitting in another high backed chair, his knees apart, thoughtfully consuming a plateful of scones one by one. Sitting in a corner, looking rather out of her depth, was Lady Iona Terrwyn. Owain went for the food first, and then found a stool.

"Last night was one thing," Morwenna said. On the way to the tower, they had all seen Ianto's people packing a wagon outside the guest quarters. "This morning, we have other business. We have a score to settle with the corsairs. Our honour as a Family demands that we take action, for those who were killed, and those who survived." She nodded slightly in Owain's direction. "It may not be possible to trace those who were taken as slaves, but we can at least make the attempt."

"You know I agree, mother," Liam said, around a mouthful of scone. "I have two ships in harbour at the moment that are at your disposal. They can be ready to sail whenever you like."

"On behalf of the Ard Ri," Lady Iona said, "I must stress that, should the Duke de Moissac make any complaint, this is a purely private matter and has nothing to do with the Ard Ri. If anything should go wrong, we would disclaim all knowledge of the participants in this raid."

"We don't want to start another war," Morwenna said tartly. "We just want to sort out this troublemaker. He will regret ever raiding the coasts of Ytir. It has nothing to do with de Moissac - apart from making clear just how useless the young puppy is."

"I have a ship, as well," Brecca said. "Rhys Gronw has already pledged to provide more oarsmen for her, and she can be at Aberllong in two days, if I send for her now. Lord Rhys will be accompanying us, for the sake of his son Ferdia, and I will be commanding personally."

"I give you also Glynis," Morwenna said. "You will need her, with this Kofi fellow on the island. And Aidan will be in overall command. That is acceptable to you, Liam?"

Liam nodded. "He's a sensible young man. I trust him not to wreck any of my property."

"We will need Owain, too," Aidan said, turning to speak directly to him. "Gwalchmai speaks Turkic, but he's not really fit enough to travel, and you speak the language, and you also know all the corsairs by sight."

Owain stared at Aidan, his scone forgotten in his hand, and his mouth hanging open. "You - you're going to attack the island? Because of me? Three ships?" he stammered. "I'm not worth all this."

Morwenna glared at Owain. "Don't ever say anything so stupid in my presence again," she snapped. "If you were the lowest pig boy on my poorest Dun, still I would exact vengeance against the pirates for what they have done to you. _But you are my grandson!_ Never forget that - never! How much more, then, should I want revenge against them? We will wipe them from that island utterly, and I shall have their captain's skull fashioned into a drinking goblet for the insult they have given our family." She paused for breath, her knuckles white on the handle of her walking stick.

"We do need to contact Sir Bernard Lansargues," Gwalchmai said. "He wants to get rid of the corsairs, if de Moissac doesn't. It was his manor, after all."

"I may have to forego the pleasure of having the Bey's skull made into a drinking cup, too," Morwenna said dryly, "if we're being realistic. I understand that the Amir of Kharazan his cousin is very anxious to meet him again, a feeling that is not reciprocated by the Bey. Or so the seagulls tell me," she added with a faint hint of amusement.

"I knew there had to be some reason for such elaborate magical defences for the island," Gwalchmai said. "Just being so remote would normally be enough for ordinary pirates, but to make an entire island permanently invisible there has to be a pressing reason for it."

"The Amir wants his head on a spike," Liam said casually. "Shortly, we will be in a position to grant his wish. It'll be good for trade between our two countries if we can do such a great favour for him, and todo it at the same time as we exact our private revenge -" He beamed suddenly. "It's magnificent," he said, "when two aims come together to so happy a resolution."

"It will have to be quick," Owain said suddenly. Liam turned to look at him with a quizzical expression. Everyone else in the room had turned to look at him as well. He wished, momentarily, for the floor to open up and swallow him.

"Well, explain yourself, boy," Morwenna prompted.

"It's just that - all the corsairs stay on the island over the winter, but after the spring tides, they start going out again, raiding. It's - I've lost track of the time - have we had the equinox yet? Because if we have, and we want to catch them all...." He ducked his head down, full of embarrassment - at having spoken at all, at having forgotten which month of the year it was....

"Then we must move quickly," Morwenna said crisply. "A pity - I had hoped to have more ships ready to go. See to it, Aidan."

Owain was very quiet on the way back to his mother's quarters. It was a relief, in a way, that all this effort, almost a fully fledged invasion fleet, was not just for his benefit, but for Uncle Liam's trade interests as well. He had been too young to appreciate, when he was last at Ravenscar, what a wily politician Morwenna was. She had sixty years of experience, after all. And he should have guessed that Liam Tir Bran would not stir out of his citadel just to welcome a half-remembered nephew home. Trade with Kharazan would be a much more pressing matter as far as he was concerned - that, and the honour of the Family. What did worry Owain, as the idea gradually sank in, was that they wanted him to go with them, back to the island, to face the men who had been his masters - he counted back on his fingers - not more than three weeks ago.

He didn't have time to think about it. As he followed his mother across the grass between the tower and the main range of buildings, he caught sight of Devorgilla and Tegau and Caradog, standing by their two small carts and looking as if they didn't know what to do next. he hobbled across to them. Now he was wearing the gold torc, he saw, it changed things. Caradog pretended to be doing something with the horse harness, Tegau dropped a nervous curtsey to him, but Devorgilla held out her hand to him. She looked more confident after last night - and they were all under the wings of the Raven clan together, copper and gold torcs alike. But she still looked a little bit lost in this warren of stone buildings and courtyards. They all did.

"I suppose you'll be going home soon," Owain said.

Devorgilla nodded. "First, the Lady promised us a reward for bringing you and the Harper back here," she said, "whatever we needed for the Dun that will fit on our carts. But the steward disappeared...."

"Do you need any help?" Owain asked. "Shall I tell them what you need?"

"That would be a kindness," Devorgilla said. "I think he went into the kitchens...."

Owain led them round to the kitchen door and peered inside. Everyone he could see looked very busy, and it was hard to catch anyone's eye. Then he saw a man in Morwenna's grey livery coming towards them. "Ah, you're here, headwoman - and, my lord Owain," he bowed smoothly. "I was just discussing with Lord Porec what we can give these good people."

"I know what they need," Owain said. "Bread flour, to start with - not grain; that's just making extra work for them. Some barley would be good, too. And fuel - they have to be very careful with their wood, so some coal or peat would be welcome." While he was speaking, a couple of servants appeared at the steward's elbow. The steward sent them off in different directions and, while they were gone, Owain racked his brains to think of other things that would be useful to the Dun.

"Blankets - lots of blankets," he said, glancing across to Devorgilla for confirmation. "And cloth - they all need new clothes. And soap. Tools, too - if you've got any mattocks, or hoes or spades. And a sheaf of hunting arrows - I suppose you have enough bows?" he added, to Caradog. He nodded. Then Tegau said, hesitantly, "Could we have some goose feathers, to mend our old arrows?"

"Anything else?" the steward asked.

"Oh, yes," Owain said, quite cheerfully. He was getting into the swing of it now. "How about a breeding pair of piglets, Devorgilla? And a couple of geese?"

"We would have to collect those from the home farm, my lord," the steward said, neutrally. "We will, however, leave room in the cart for the cages."

The carts were filling up quite nicely now, with servants coming from all directions with bundles and sacks to load into them.

"And seeds? Maybe a sack of seed barley, and some beans?"

"Again, the home farm can provide that," said the steward. "We will take you there, when you are finished here."

"I knew we could rely on the Lady to be generous," Devorgilla said, beaming.

A man in a leather apron approached the carts, carrying a small box. "I hear these are the people who brought the Harper back," he said. "I've been having a clear out of my workshop," he went on. "These leather needles and punches any use to you? I was only going to throw them out."

Tegau nearly snatched the box, stammering her thanks.

Owain looked at the piles of bundles and sacks in the carts, and felt well satisfied. Things would be better at the Dun now - Aunt Generys, he was sure, would be a fair Lady to these people.

Devorgilla took his hand, and he helped her up to the driving seat of the cart. "It was a good day for Dun Darren Isaf when you came walking through our gates," she said. "You will not be forgotten."

And that, really, made it all seem worthwhile.

When they all came out of the hall after lunch, it seemed that the stables had been emptied - the big courtyard was full of riding horses.

"Where are we going?" Owain asked. He hoped it wouldn't be too far.

"Can't you guess?" Brecca led him to the mounting block, and held his crutch for him while he mounted up. Then she adjusted the stirrup to suit his bad leg herself. "Poor Peredur has waited long enough for a proper burial. Generys got all this organised this morning, while the rest of us were in conference. We're going to the Barrows."

Over by the gates, Owain could see the cart now, swathed with grey silk and swags of evergreen foliage. He could also smell the strong spicy scent of it \- and under that, the smell of decaying human flesh. Just behind the bier, Generys sat a tall chestnut filly. Beside her was a man Owain didn't recognise. "That's Taran, Peredur's father," Brecca said. "Generys' first husband. And the other two are her second and third, with all their children. They came through Portals this morning - Glynis Aide brought them through. Generys came on her own to Ravenscar, just to humour mother. None of us knew what was going to happen."

"Is Uncle Ianto gone, then?" Olwen asked, from behind them.

"If he hadn't gone by now," Brecca said grimly, "we'd be riding past his severed head on a spike over the gate. That's how seriously mother took this whole affair. Honestly, exiling him was letting him off lightly."

They were riding out of Ravenscar in a long column now, heading inland towards a wooded hill in the distance. Olwen craned round in her saddle, just to make sure there were no heads adorning the gateposts.

"And if I had my way," Brecca went on savagely, "Rhianmelt's head would have been up there with him. If she'd been brazen enough to come to Ravenscar, I would have killed her myself."

"So - where is she then?" Owain asked. "Do we know?"

"Heading off into exile with Ianto, I devoutly hope and wish," Brecca said. "There's no place for her in Ytir any more. And I wish them both joy of each other."

As they got closer to Branlow, they could see the ravens flying up from the woodlands \- more than would ever have been there naturally. They didn't flock, like jackdaws, except here, in the place that took their name - Bran was the ancient word for Raven.

At the foot of the hill there was a little college of priests, wooden halls bounded by a low bank, and close to the college, the barrows of the Raven clan, all of Owain's ancestors going back for a thousand years or more.

The priests were waiting for them, in the hornwork at the end of a newly re-opened long barrow, black as ravens themselves in their robes of office. Somewhere close by, and unseen, there were drummers, beating out a rhythm that resonated down to the bone.

They left the horses a little way outside the barrowfield, except for the litter Morwenna was riding in. Liam heaved himself down from his huge gelding and led the horselitter himself. Generys' husbands and children gathered round the coffin to carry it to the entrance to the barrow, and all the rest of the family fell into step behind them. It was nearly sunset. The family spread out around the entrance to the barrow, and waited. Behind them, on the open moorland, Owain could see servants putting up tents and lighting fires.

By the time the sun's disc had touched the horizon over the hilltop, the priests had opened the coffin and chanted the poems that would open Peredur's path to the Summerlands. The drummers had dropped into a steady heartbeat rhythm - and they waited. From the crest of the hill, with a cloud of ravens wheeling around it, a rainbow pathway seemed to stretch from the sun to the body in front of the barrow. As the sun sank, anyone squinting along that path might have seen a hazy figure, lingering at first to say goodbye - then moving more swiftly towards the West and the setting sun and the merest hint of a land beyond that, green and warm and ever joyful - until the sun sank behind the hill, and the watching family blinked their dazzled eyes in the twilight, and the spirit of Peredur was gone.

Generys walked forward then and put one hand on the body of her son.

Silence - this was not part of the usual ceremony. "On my son's body," Generys said, her voice carrying to the furthest reaches of the crowd, "I curse my brother Ianto for the crime of kin-murder. May he never find a place to rest in his exile, as he denied Peredur rest. May Taranis and Toutates and Esus, and the Goddess over them all, witness to this and grant it."

She turned then, and walked through the crowd of her kin folk without speaking, to where the tents had been put up.

The torches were lit then, and the priests took the body into the barrow, while the drumming started up again and everyone there sang the Farewell. By the time that was over, and darkness was falling in earnest, a buffet supper had been laid out at the tents, and the wagon with the beer barrels had been brought up.

It was the first time Owain had been able to mingle freely with his cousins and uncles and aunts - at the feast he'd been on the dais, away from everyone else, but now they were all sitting on the ground around him, looking up at the moon rising, and talking about Peredur, and horses, and ships, as if he'd never been away.

The beer flowed freely - and Generys and Taran, at least, looked determined to get very, very drunk. Morwenna sat in state outside her tent - not the biggest, but the one with the Raven banner outside - long enough to drink a goblet of dark beer and eat a modest supper before she retired. Owain found himself sitting by a fire with a drinking horn in one hand and a chicken leg in the other, discussing the differences between Tirage longships and Turkic lateen sailing rigs in exhaustive detail with cousin Drustic and Aunt Hennin.

When Owain woke the next morning, he had only dim memories of the latter part of the evening - and a sore head. He remembered a moment, very clearly, when he could choose to either walk across to the beer wagon and fill his drinking horn again, or to finish the conversation with cousin Eileen and go to bed. He knew he should have finished talking to Eileen about the hot springs on one of the Koine islands, and he distinctly remembered staggering back to the beer wagon at least twice after that. And - he winced, remembering \- there had been singing, with Drustic and Eileen and cousin Porec. He remembered leaning heavily on cousin Porec on the way back to the tent, but he didn't remember getting there or finding his bed.

"I've been up for ages," Olwen said brightly, just behind him.

Owain winced.

"Does your head hurt? Serve you right," she continued cheerfully. "Come on, they'll want to take the tent down soon, and there's still some breakfast, and I want to show you something."

Owain groaned. Breakfast was the last thing on his mind.

"Drink some water, anyway," said Brecca, who looked pale and just a little bit fragile herself. She gave Owain the flagon that she had been drinking from, and waited to be sure that he took a good few swigs of it. "I ended up looking after Generys. After that curse, she more or less fell to pieces. But it's over now. Go with Olwen. Do your duty."

"Duty?" Owain followed Olwen out of the tent. The sunlight was painfully bright.

"Of course. To Father. I don't suppose you brought anything?"

"I didn't even know we were coming until we were mounting up," Owain said. Now he was moving about he didn't feel quite so bad.

"We can go up to the wood first then," Olwen said. "There's bound to be something we can give him."

It was dimmer, under the canopy of new leaves, and Olwen picked wood anenomes as they walked slowly up the path, and made them into a garland. "I always give him white flowers," she said, "because of my name. I know he's gone to the Summerlands, but I'm sure he knows when we remember him."

Owain remembered; his mother pregnant, his father placing his hand over the bump and saying "Olwen of the White Path, with white flowers springing up everywhere she stepped," and his mother laughing and calling him a romantic idiot - and calling the baby Olwen even so.

"Where's the stream?" he asked. "I remember a stream."

"This way." Olwen led the way around the foot of the hill, to where a narrow stream flowed over a little rocky waterfall into a pool. Owain splashed some water over his face - he was starting to feel more human now - and searched around until he found a quartz pebble at the edge of the water.

"There are quartz pebbles on Pensarn Beach," he said. "That's the first thing I always remember about him, before I can remember the good times." He remembered the blood. He started to see the blood being washed from the stones by the clean water. he clenched the pebble in his hand. "This is the right thing," he said.

They walked down to the barrows, taking their time. They reached the barrow they had been standing around last night - where Peredur was buried, and where Eryl was buried, and the men and women of the Raven clan who had died between their two deaths, and before them. The door had been sealed again already, and there was a small stone table to one side for offerings. Owain put the pebble down, and Olwen arranged her garland around it, and then they came away.

*****

Back to the Island

In the end, Owain could think of nothing to say that would get him out of going with the fleet. Aidan had been right - he was the only person in Ravenscar, apart from Gwalchmai, who spoke fluent Turkic, and the only person who would be able to recognise all the corsairs by name. The thought of seeing them again still made him feel queasy, though.

His boots arrived, and a thick sea cloak in dark green leather lined with wool, with brass buckles up the front. Nidan packed a small bag for him.

The ships were ready to sail all too quickly - Owain didn't have time to feel too nervous, and he was with his mother when she took command of the Albatross.

Olwen, on the other hand, was making her displeasure at being left behind very obvious. She rode down to Aberllong with them, of course - she could hardly be prevented. Once at Aberllong Castle, though, she stuck to her mother like a burr, and followed her down to the quayside on the morning that the tide was right, and the troops were ready, and Brecca went down to take command of her ship. Owain trailed along with his mother rather less enthusiastically, carrying his own small bag. He could see Olwen flitting along behind them, trying to be unobtrusive, and he could see Lliros, Olwen's tutor, making vain attempts to persuade Olwen to go back to the castle with her. Just ahead of him, his mother's expression was grim.

Brecca stopped, just at the entrance to the quayside, beside a pile of barrels. Olwen nearly ran into the back of her - and skidded to a halt. "Mother - you have to take me! It'll be good experience for me - Lliros is always saying I should get experience."

Lliros hovered behind Olwen, looking apologetic.

Brecca bent down so she and Olwen were nose to nose, and hissed: "That's _enough_! One more word out of you, and you'll find you're not too old to be whipped for your bad behaviour. We are in public, Olwen."

Olwen swallowed hard, and was silent.

Brecca straightened up. "While I'm away, you are my representative at home, with your cousin Porec's help. I need you to be responsible, so I can concentrate on what I have to do. And you are my heir - we cannot both go into danger at the same time."

Olwen stood very straight, and nodded gravely. "I apologise, lady Mother," she said quietly. "I hadn't thought of that." She managed a small grin for Owain, though, and murmured, "Come safe back."

Brecca stepped aboard the Albatross without a backward glance, already focussed on Lord Rhys Gronw, standing by the master of the vessel at the stern. With one final backward glance at his little sister, Owain stepped onto the gangplank after his mother and limped quickly after her.

Two days at sea, following the coast, brought them to the salt marshes along the coast of Moissac. From the seaward side, Owain found it impossible to see anything recognisable as a landmark. Even if the island had not been hidden magically, it would have been hard to find.

Sir Bernard's castle was easily found, though, with its little fishing village clustered around the stream mouth - and the sudden presence of three Tiraeg warships just outside their harbour sent the villagers into a panic.

Owain got the news from a passing seagull at much the same time as Aidan did, aboard the Crow Maiden. "They're evacuating the women and children into the castle," he told Brecca. "Look - you can see them all heading up to the main gate."

"You'd think de Moissac would provide his front line castles with Mirrors, wouldn't you?" Brecca said. "Then we could have contacted this Sir Bernard ahead of time and saved all this panic."

The Crow Maiden was towing a small boat, and it was being rowed towards them now with Aidan on board, carrying a flag of truce. None of the rowers were armed. "Are you coming, Aunt?" Aidan asked. "We need to talk to them before they start shooting at us! And Sir Bernard has met Owain before, so he'd better come too."

Sir Bernard and his son Miles were waiting for them on the beach - and Owain was relieved to see that they had a flag of truce, too. Behind the lord of Lansargues was a crowd of fishermen - and a few women - who looked less friendly.

Sir Bernard stepped forward as soon as he saw Owain. "You're the boy the Harper said was his nephew, aren't you?" he said. "I didn't recognise you at first with those plaits - and," he glanced at the gold torc that was clearly visible around Owain's neck, "he wasn't quite honest about who you are, was he?"

"Would you have ransomed me, if you'd known I belonged to the Raven clan?" Owain asked.

"Hell, yes!" Sir Bernard grinned. "And to think we gave you an escort all the way to the ferry!"

"You spoke with Gwalchmai Morgan about the corsairs," Aidan said. "Now is the time to do something about them."

"We did, yes. Where is the old devil?"

"He couldn't come. I'm Aidan Howell Morwenna, in command of the three ships you see out there, and we are here to get rid of the corsairs. We'll need your help, on the landward side."

"As we discussed," Sir Bernard agreed. "Come up to the castle, out of this wind, and we'll get the maps out."

He got the wine out, too, and Lady Berenice brought honey cakes while they went over the plans and Owain pointed out again the weak points in the island's defences. "But only when you're past the protection spells," he insisted. "If Glynis Aide can't bring those down, then there's no way to find the island in the first place."

They agreed times and places, and shook hands on it. "And you have no interest in taking the island for yourselves," Sir Bernard added, "just to be clear?"

"What do we need it for?" Aidan asked. "We're here on a private matter of family honour. We don't want to start a war with the Palatinate. The island is yours."

It had occurred to Owain that he might see the man-at-arms Stephen at the castle. It occurred to him, too, that it would be an easy thing to point him out to Aidan and Sir Bernard and have him flogged - and when he saw Stephen, trying to be inconspicuous at the back of a group of men-at-arms, he saw that Stephen had considered that possibility too. He looked sickly white with fright. Slowly, Owain turned to look straight at him, and then he smiled. The man-at-arms took a step backwards, glancing around for a place to hide - and Owain decided that it would be more satisfying to let him stew. Beatings were one thing - but that cold knot of fear in the stomach, as he knew well, was far worse.

The three ships turned then, out to sea, and Owain was kept busy. As the only _awynwch_ aboard the Albatross, it was his job to make sure the ship kept up with the others as they sailed contrary to the natural winds. it was a fairly easy job for him - the square sails of the Tiraeg ships were easier for him to handle than the lateen sails of the corsair ships - and it kept his mind occupied during all the other preparations that were going on around him.

The oarsmen were transforming themselves into a fighting force, hauling damp gambesons out of sea chests, and sliding into chainmail that was slick with pig fat to keep it from rust. Then the swords and spears came out, their edges checked for sharpness and their blades for any speck of rust. Owain kept up by the steersman, out of the way. The sight of all that cold iron made him feel nervous. Some time after dinner had been eaten - a cold, rushed meal - a lantern flashed from Aidan's ship and the steersman brought the steering oar over to bring the ship about. They were heading back to land under cover of darkness.

Brecca made her way up to the little after deck, her own chainmail concealed under a dark cloak - but Owain could feel the iron in the same way that he would feel the heat of a fire if he sat too close to it. it was taking all his concentration now to keep the wind steady in the sail, in the presence of all that poisonous iron.

"I'm just checking that you know what to do in the morning," Brecca said.

Owain shrugged. There wasn't much to remember. "I'll just stay here until I'm called for," he said. "While you're all in the battle." he knew he'd be no good in a battle, but it was still hard to be left behind.

Brecca took his hand. "I want you safe," she said. "After all this time, not knowing where you were or what was happening to you, I want to be sure you're safe. I know it's hard, but you'll be much more useful afterwards." She got up abruptly. "The boat's ready," she said. "I'm sending you over to the Crow Maiden now. You and Glynis may as well be together until you're needed. And Aidan may be in charge at sea, but he's not going to be in the battle either."

Dawn arrived gradually, pale grey with just a touch of rose, the waves grey under the keels of the three ships. Gradually, Owain could make out the rigging on the Crow Maiden, and then on the Albatross, and then the Griffin some way behind them. To the north, he could make out a line of darker grey that must be the salt marshes.

There was something else as the sun rose - birds. Seagulls swooped low over the Crow Maiden, as if they knew there were _awynwch_ aboard. Over the salt marshes, Owain noticed a small flock of birds that were not seagulls. As he watched, they wheeled as one bird, and began to fly out over the sea, straight for the ship.

Glynis saw it too. She had only just emerged from her bedroll, and her hair was a mare's nest of tangles, but she wasn't missing a thing. "Is this something we should be worried about?" she asked.

Owain squinted towards the land. Slowly, delightedly, he grinned. "It's all right," he said. "They're my pigeons."

he moved out to an open bit of deck - not an easy task in a ship so full of fighting men and women - and held out his arms. The pigeons wheeled once around the ship, and then came in to settle on the rigging, and on Owain's arms and head, and around his feet. All his anxieties about what would happen later in the day disappeared in that moment. He felt supremely happy.

"You look like your grandmother," Aidan said. He was standing just outside the circle of pigeons, and he was smiling.

Aidan signalled tothe other two ships. They needed to get close in to land now, but still look as if they were going to pass by the island without noticing it. The wind was against them, blowing steadily off the marshes, but that was a problem that was easy for Aidan and Owain to fix. Even so, the three ships had the oars out as they got nearer to land - they didn't want any lookout to guess that there were _awynwch_ aboard.

"You're sure the island's there?" Aidan asked.

Glynis was frowning. "With all that power being used, I should be able to feel something.... but he's good. There's not a trace. If we go straight in, I'm not sure where we'd end up."

"The pigeons can help us," Owain said. "The protection spells around the island - they're just for humans. Pigeons don't navigate the same way. They can take us straight there."

"If we can take down the protection spells from the inside," Glynis said quietly, "the ships will have no trouble landing." She'd gone a shade or two paler than she had been a moment ago. "I think - Owain, are you willing to do this with me?"

Owain looked out at the salt marsh for a moment, and then back at the pigeons. he was thinking of the last time he had helped to take down the protection spells from the inside - but this time there would be three ship loads of soldiers to back him up. He thought, very briefly, of his mother who wanted him safe. "I think I've got to," he said. "The pigeons will only talk to me."

"Give me a moment to comb my hair," she said, "and we can go, then."

The Crow Maiden's small rowing boat was made ready. Two of the sailors climbed in, gambesons over their shirts to give them some little protection - having two of the Talented in such a small boat, there was no way they could wear chainmail. With the pigeons fluttering around them, Glynis and Owain climbed down after them. "I feel like the Goddess Rhiannon," Glynis said, nervously smiling, "surrounded by her birds." Owain slowered himself carefully to the seat in the bow. The initial feeling of happiness at meeting all his old friends again was beginning to wear off, and he was feeling nervous, too. He avoided looking across to the Albatross - he didn't want to see Brecca's face just then. the sailors looked solid as a pair of rocks. The man on the port oar didn't even flinch when one of the pigeons landed on his shoulder and left droppings all over his gambeson. As they began to pull away from the ship, the pigeons flew above the boat.

They followed the flock into the shallow waters where the reeds grew tall, and Glynis let her concentration go with a sigh of relief. Anyone watching from the land would not have seen a rowing boat approaching, though they might have noticed a few pigeons appearing and disappearing over empty sea. After a while, it was difficult to see where the ships were - all they could see were reeds hemming them in, and the pigeons, circling overhead.

Then the fear started, and the pressure on their minds, the feeling that they were going the wrong way, and they shouldn't be here, in the reeds.

"Nessa, is it, and Keith?" Owain asked. The sailors nodded. "Just keep rowing," Owain said. "Follow the birds and don't think about anything else." He was watching, anxiously, for any landmarks he could recognise, though he knew he wouldn't see the island until they were right on top of it....

....with a jolt that sent them all flying, as they ran aground on the soft sand.

Owain knew this beach very well. He scrambled over the bow, planting his crutch firmly in the sand, and turned back to see Nessa helping Glynis up from where she had fallen in the bottom of the boat. "Come on," he said. "We won't have much time before Kofi knows we're here."

She followed him out of the boat, standing ankle deep in water. Nessa came behind, trailing a rope to tie the boat to the nearest bush, while Keith stowed the oars.

Owain looked around. "It's over here, somewhere - the nearest one," he murmured. he caught sight of it, half hidden in the bushes, its crude wooden face staring out to sea. Small dry bones clattered in the breeze, tied with feathers and stained with blood.

"This is - it's worse than Gwalchmai told me," Glynis said. She didn't sound nervous now - she sounded angry. "Let's get rid of this obscenity."

She set the sailors to collecting dry wood and starting a fire, while she and Owain dug around the base of the post.

"He'll know," Owain said. "He'll come."

"Let him," Glynis said grimly. She was doing something more than just digging - she touched a bundle of bones, shuddering as if at something disgusting, and closed her eyes. Owain had no idea what she was doing - he just hoped it worked.

The post began to rock in the ground, and Owain gave it a good shove. It fell on its face. "That fire ready?" he asked, over his shoulder.

"Aye, sir."

Glynis withdrew her hand. "Throw the vile thing in," she said.

Nothing happened for a while. The salt tinged flames licked at the thicker piece of wood, but it wasn't even smouldering. Then there was a bang, and a brilliant white light, and Owain found himself lying on his back half under the bushes, with Glynis sprawled beside him.

Kofi was standing on the low ridge just above them.

_"Is this all they send - the pigeon boy and a woman? Do they really think me so weak?"_ he asked.

Glynis sat up. "Tell me what he's saying," she said quietly.

"He's not impressed by us," Owain said.

Glynis reached for her staff, beside her on the sand - and then not beside her any more, as it flew to Kofi's hand. Glynis stood up, looking worryingly vulnerable without it. Owain glanced over to the fire. The sailors crouched beside it, unmoving, blank faced. There would be no help from them.

Glynis raised her arms in a warding gesture. She was muttering something under her breath that Owain couldn't catch. Kofi was glaring at her - he had thrown her staff aside and was doing something with his own hands now.

He seemed to have forgotten about Owain. Maybe he was counting on Owain's fear of him to prevent him from doing anything to stop him. Owain was afraid, and he didn't know what he could do to help Glynis.

She staggered a pace backwards, and then onto her hands and knees. She stayed perfectly still for a long moment. Then, head down, she began to crawl towards the fire.

"Owain - stop me!" She sounded terrified now, and Owain understood that Kofi was forcing her to crawl right into the middle of the fire.

He threw himself at her, rolled her over, and lay on top of her. She screamed, and wriggled, and tried to worm her way out from under him. He hung on grimly, and looked up at Kofi.

"You think to defy me? But it is easy to control you - I have done it so often."

He could feel Kofi's mind in his mind, familiar and painful. This time, though, things were different. Before, he had been alone, and afraid. He was still afraid, but here had always been that small place in his mind that Kofi had never been able to penetrate. He had hidden his most secret thoughts in that place before - now he tried to enlarge it, to cover his mind and Glynis's mind and throw Kofi out of his head. Before, he had always been on his knees with his head bowed down - now he looked up, directly into Kofi's eyes, and defied him.

The pain was terrible. He felt sick. But it had been bad in the caves, too. He'd been so terrified by the dark enclosed space that he had expected the fear to tip over into panic - but he had got through it. The pain from his knee had been terrible when he'd limped to the Dun, but he'd got there. He hung onto Glynis, dimly aware that she was still struggling. She would have bruises, later, but that would be better than burns.

Something white exploded against Kofi's face. Kofi swatted at it, and a pigeon fluttered to the ground. Another pigeon dived at him, claws out, and another, and another. Kofi threw up his arms, and fended them off, but they circled his head, and kept swooping in, pecking and clawing wherever they could reach. A cloud of birds surrounded him, darting in and out, screaming.

Kofi began to run, back along the dune, waving his arms and yelling. The pigeons stayed with him all the way.

Owain sank down on top of Glynis, totally limp. He closed his eyes to keep the painful light out, but it didn't help the pain inside his head. Glynis shifted under him, and he tried to hold her again.

"Let me up, Owain." Even that quiet voice made him wince, and he couldn't move. He felt hands on his shoulders - big hand - but he couldn't bring himself to care now. The big hands rolled him over, and he opened his eyes just a slit. Nessa was leaning over him, with concern on his weatherbeaten features.

"Are you all right, sir? What happened?"

"It's all right." Glynis's voice came from a little distance away, but turning his head to find out where seemed too much effort. "Stay with him - there are things I have to do now."

Owain wasn't sure how long he lay beside the fire. It felt like a long time. The sailor soaked rags in the sea and laid them over his forehead, which seemed to help a bit. The feeling that he needed to be sick gradually receded.

"Here we are, sir," Nessa said cheerfully. "Transport for you."

Owain lifted his head carefully, and saw a group of Tiraeg soldiers coming over the dunes. One of them was carrying a stretcher.

"I don't think I need...." He started to sit up, and got far enough to rest his hot forehead against his drawn up good knee before he admitted defeat. "Stretcher - good idea."

He watched the tips of the marram grass waving at nose level as they carried him towards the stockade. Inside the gates, there were huddled shapes on the ground, roughly drawn up into a line and, looking down at the nearest face he thought he really would be sick now. He knew them all. He'd lived with them for three years, and he knew them, and now they were dead.

He felt a small weight on his chest, and looked down. One of the pigeons perched there, looking at him with her head on one side. Another hopped down from the eaves of the hall to land by his shoulder. One of the stretcher bearers made as if to bat them away. "Leave them alone," Owain said. And winced, because he hadn't realised his voice would be that loud.

"Owain?" He recognised his mother's voice and turned his head towards her. "Bring him through here - and you'd better leave the door open for the pigeons."

He was put down on the floor, and as soon as the stretcher bearers moved away, the two pigeons perching on him were joined by others. He could feel feathers against his cheek, and those small weights all the way down his legs. Brecca knelt beside the stretcher, and took Owain's hand. "What did he do to you?"

Owain attempted a smile. "I'll be all right - eventually - just have to suffer through it."

"There's no need for that - Duncan Mark says he has something for you," Brecca said. She hesitated. "Glynis says you saved her life."

He grimaced. "I just lay on top of her," he said. "Kofi tried to make her crawl into the fire."

"And the pigeons saved your life," she said. "We found them all at Kofi's little cottage, guarding the door - but he was long gone by then."

Duncan Mark took his mother's place by his side, and squinted down into his eyes. "Hmm," he said. He felt Owain's forehead, checked his pulse. "I'm not sure even dwale's going to be strong enough," he said, "but it should take the edge off the pain for you. Do you feel sick?"

"A little."

"You'd better drink this as well, then." Duncan Mark raised a second small stoneware bottle to Owain's lips, and he swallowed something vile-tasting.

"I'm sorry, Owain," said Brecca, "but we need you. You're our only translator, and you know who all the pirates are. Can you do anything?"

Owain sat up slowly, moving the pigeons gently to one side. The movement made him feel sick again. He leaned against his mother's shoulder. "If you prop me up in a chair, I should be all right," he said. "I'll try, anyway." A thought struck him, now he wasn't completely immersed in his own misery. "The kitchens - has anyone been to the kitchens? Don't hurt the two old women, or anyone who's hiding with them."

Brecca nodded. "I'll see to it. Duncan, you get my son to that room off the main hall and make him comfortable. I'll meet you there."

They had found a high backed chair - Owain thought that it was probably the one the Bey used, and the thought might have amused him if he could have spared any energy for amusement. He leaned his head against a pillow, and tried to keep absolutely still. The dwale had taken awya the worst of the headache, and he no longer felt sick, but he still felt as if his head would bounce away across the room if he moved too much.

Brecca stood to one side of the chair, her arms crossed. She looked grim. "The men I saw outside," Owain said, "the dead ones. They were all from the Raha. How many ships are there?"

"Two," Brecca said. "You were right - we were too late to catch one ship at least."

"But if the other one is the Sohar, then we'll have the Bey."

They started to bring the captured corsairs to him more or less at random, a line of them pushed against the wall in front of Owain.

"Raha, Raha - and this is Rabiah al Basri," Owain said, "of the Sohar."

The corsair spat in Owain's general direction. " _Son of a pig,_ " he said.

"Is he insulting you?" Brecca asked. "Tell him I'll have him flogged."

Owain hesitated. It was a bad insult, for him and his mother - and he realised he'd be quite happy to see Rabiah flogged for it. "He said 'son of a pig'," he said.

To his surprise, his mother laughed. "Tell him I forgive him, the boar being such a noble beast," she said.

" _The noble lady could have you flogged for that,_ " Owain said. " _Be thankful that she is merciful._ "

Rabiah spat again, but he was on his way out by that time - and no-one really cared about him.

"Let's see if we can find the Bey," Brecca said. "We need to keep this brief."

"Big, bushy beard," Owain murmured. "Usually he wears a blue turban."

The next two men they brought in had big, bushy beards, but were not the Bey. On the third try, they got it right. Jumail Marhouri Jameel al-Saad was cradling one arm with the other, and there was a lot of blood on his shirt. Even so, he was holding himself erect. He looked down at Owain. " _Ah, the Pigeon Boy,_ " he said, nodding slightly to himself. " _Tell the woman I will speak only with your commander._ "

"He wants cousin Aidan, mother," Owain said. "He said he won't talk to anyone else."

While they were waiting for Aidan to be found, Duncan Mark busied himself with the Bey's wound. Owain closed his eyes. He found he couldn't bring himself to care about what happened to the Bey now. Now that he didn't have to concentrate, it was all too easy to just let things slip away....

When he woke up, he was lying down, in a darkened room. He could feel warm feathers against his cheek. The room was full of the gentle sound of coo-ing pigeons. They were roosting all over his bed, and anywhere else there was a perch. And someone was holding his hand, very tightly.

Owain turned his head - and it didn't hurt. The headache was gone, leaving him feeling hollowed out, and fragile. That would pass, too, in a while, and he'd be back to normal, as long as he didn't have to do anything much in the meantime.

The person sitting beside his bed was his mother.

She put a hand up to brush the hair from his forehead. "How do you feel now? Any better?"

"Better, yes - thanks.... Shouldn't I have stayed? To translate?"

"No need. Aidan speaks Koine, and so does the Bey. They can manage without you."

Owain moved his fingers. His mother was holding so tight his whole hand felt crushed.

"Shouldn't you be \- doing things?" he asked.

"There are other people to do what needs to be done," Brecca said. "At the moment, this is the most important place I can be."

"Oh."

"I wanted to tell you something," she went on, quietly. "I was so afraid when I saw you in that boat with Glynis, and so angry, because I wanted to keep you as safe as I could, and there you were ignoring me and heading straight into danger."

Owain shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well. I'm sorry...."

"But you did the right thing. Owain, I am so proud of you. I didn't know what you'd be like, after all this time - I didn't know what had happened to you, or how it might have changed you - but I am so proud."

Owain squeezed her hand, tight enough to crush her fingers.

*****

Aftermath

Owain wasn't left to lie down for long. Aidan came looking for him, with Sir Bernard in tow. They spoke in Occitan, for Sir Bernard's benefit. "Is he any better yet?"

Brecca stood up, and released Owain's hand. "He'll manage, I think. What do you need him for?"

"There's an old woman at the kitchens waving a ladle about...."

"I thought I gave orders to leave the kitchens alone," Brecca said.

Owain grinned, and sat up. It didn't hurt. Brecca handed him his crutch. "That'll be Paraskevi," he said, as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. "She'll talk to me."

He made it, slowly, and Brecca pushed aside the knot of Sir Bernard's men-at-arms who were standing in the doorway to let him through.

Something whizzed past his ear, and Owain turned to see a wooden bowl clatter against the wall and fall to the floor. "Hang on a minute! It's me, the Pigeon Boy!" He turned back to see Manoli holding a wooden plate like a discus. "Manoli - it's me! Don't throw that!"

Paraskevi peered out from behind Manoli, brandishing the ladle. "I might have known this was something to do with you," she said sternly.

"It's all right - I told them not to harm you. Well, as soon as I could I told them. Are you all here? And all right?"

Paraskevi sniffed. "We'll do." Reluctantly, she put down her ladle, and nudged Manoli until he put down the plate. "You look peaky."

"Kofi," Owain said briefly. "Listen - we've rounded up the corsairs and they're all locked in the hall." He turned to his mother. "It's safe for them to come out now, isn't it?"

Brecca nodded. "But what are we going to do with them?" she asked. "Where are they from?"

"There's an island called Kalymnos - the way they describe it, it's full of orange groves...."

"We could take them home, you know." Aidan had slipped into the kitchen behind them, without anyone noticing. "We'll be taking the prisoners back to Kharazan, and a Koine island can't be far out of the way. Do you know where it is, Owain?"

"I don't think so, but there are charts, in the Bey's quarters, and on the ships."

"Show me."

Owain hesitated, and turned back to Paraskevi. She hadn't been able to follow any of that. "It's all right - you can come out. It's safe, and they'll even take you home."

Owain led Aidan to the house that the Bey had taken over. He'd only been inside a handful of times, but he knew that was where the Captains met to plan their voyages - and the charts were easy to find, piled up in rolls at one end of a big table.

"This doesn't help us very much," Aidan commented, opening a chart at random and letting it spring shut again in a rattle of parchment. "It's all labelled in Turkic."

"There's something else here, too," Brecca said. She was standing over by a shelf piled high with scrolls. She pulled one down at random, opened it, and frowned.

"All in Turkic again, of course," Aidan said. "Any idea what they might be, Owain?"

"I think he kept records," Owain said. "So they could divide up the spoils fairly. There must be a lot of money stashed away here somewhere, too."

"Records," Brecca said thoughtfully. "If we could get someone to read them, we might be able to find out what happened to Arianrhod and Casmael."

"Uncle Liam will know someone, in Aberllong, I'm sure," Aidan said. "I'll have them collected up for translation."

"Speaking of money," Sir Bernard said, "and dividing it up...."

"Well, we'll take the ships, of course," Aidan said. "We'll need them to get the prisoners to Kharazan. If we can estimate what they're worth, I'm sure we can come to some agreement over the rest."

"I wonder if the horses are still here," Owain said. "The ones Gwalchmai brought. I think he'd like to have one of them back."

"And I'd like the other one," Brecca said. "Show me the stables ,would you?"

The horses were still there, well fed, recently groomed, and they looked as if they'd been regularly exercised, too. "Khamees must have been looking after them," Owain said. "Is he - did he survive the attack?"

"No idea," Aidan said. "We just separated out the officers after I'd talked to the Bey. Brave man, by the way - someone I think I could respect under other circumstances. He knows he's going to be taken back to be executed, but he's being very dignified about it. Do you want to check the prisoners?"

Owain hesitated - and thought that, in the end, he really didn't want to know. He had liked Khamees. He shook his head slowly. "I think - actually, I think I need to sit down again. Mother, could you come with me?"

She took his arm without hesitation. "Where's best for you?" she asked.

"Over there." He pointed to a nearby cottage. "That's where I slept, while I was here, in Captain al-Saad's room." He gave a wry smile. "I suppose all my stuff is still there."

The cottage looked untouched as yet - and the sea chest at the end of Owain's bed was still there. He sat down heavily. He felt hollow, still, and he knew he'd been doing too much running around. Brecca stood and watched him as he opened the chest and hauled out his good blue silk suit and turban. "If we're going to Kharazan," he said, "it's probably best if I wear my good clothes."

Brecca raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"They'll think we're barbarians," Owain went on. "If I'm dressed like one of them, they'll listen to me better. And I know how to be polite." He started to stuff the clothes into the bag he used when he was going on ship-board.

Gently but firmly, Brecca took the coat away from him. "But you have no idea how to fold things neatly, do you?" she said, laying the coat out on the bed beside him and deftly folding it into a small, compact bundle. "And the trousers - the Amir won't be too impressed if you speak for us while your clothes are rumpled up like an old rag." She smiled at him, to take the sting out of her criticism, and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

Rhys Gronw appeared in the doorway, his helmet tucked under his arm. "Lady? If we could, please? The light will be going soon."

"Oh. Of course." Brecca turned to Owain. "Can you show Lord Rhys where his son is buried, please?"

Owain nodded.

"I've got the priest here," Rhys Gronw said, "and enough of my troops to sing the Farewell."

Owain led them to the western end of the island. The priest Rhys Gronw had brought was carrying a bowl of water and a flaming torch, and another man with him had a bundle of long sticks in his arms, and a bag. At a little distance from the sandy point, everyone who was armed laid down their weapons and took off their chainmail. No-one brought iron into the presence of the Goddess.

Seagulls flew up as they approached. There were always a few seagulls there, on the beach.

There was no sign of a grave, but Owain knew exactly where Ferdia was buried, and went to stand at his feet. The others moved out to form a rough semi-circle. All of Rhys Gronw's people were there, and a few of Aidan and Brecca's. The priest stepped forward. He placed the bowl of water on the ground, and scratched a circle about ten paces across with the tip of his bronze dagger, with the grave in the centre.

While he was doing that, his assistant put the poles and the bag on the ground, close to hand.

At the Southern quarter of the circle, the priest thrust the torch into the sand firmly.

To the West, he thrust two of the long poles into the ground, and tied a shorter crossbar between them, making a crude doorframe. To one side of that, he placed the bowl of water.

To the North, the priest sprinkled black soil onto the pale sand.

At the East, the priest placed a little copper bowl. He filled it with something else from the bag, and lit the mixture with a taper from the torch. Blue, aromatic smoke began to arise.

He moved, then, outside the circle, passing through the doorway, motioning Owain to follow him. He stood close to the burning torch, facing the North across the circle. His voice carried clearly to the watching crowd.

"I call the spirit of Ferdia Rhys Gronw. If you linger here, make yourself known to us."

They waited. Seagulls settled again on the sand. Otherwise, nothing moved. The sun edged down towards the horizon.

"Ferdia! Come for your father." Rhys Gronw moved to stand beside the priest, outside the circle. "We have come to avenge your death, and to deal justice to your murderers."

There was a grey presence in the circle now, a solidness of the air, only vaguely human shaped.

" _Justice....?_ " The word was little more than a whisper on the breeze. There was a pause, and then, " _Father?"_

"Lord Owain told me what you did," Rhys Gronw said.

" _I'm sorry.... I was stupid...._ "

"I was told you died with honour."

" _Still stupid....all my fault.... I'm sorry, Owain...._ "

"We've come to send you to the Summerlands," Owain said. "Kofi's gone, and Glynis Aide has dismantled the protection spells. You don't have to be bound any more. And you did die with honour. I only told your father the truth."

Beside Owain and Rhys Gronw, the priest was chanting the poems that opened the doors of the Summerlands. Someone had a drum, and was beating out a steady, slow rhythm. Some of the others were clapping in time to the beat. As the sun slid towards the horizon, a little breeze blew up inside the circle. The human shaped greyness began to swirl, and melt downwards until it looked like a small whirlwind. It moved towards the doorway - and now Owain could see the rainbow path, and beyond it that glimpse of green and warmth and joy that was the Summerlands.

And the sun set, and the glimpse was gone, and there was nothing left of Ferdia on the beach. The drummer picked up the beat, and everyone sang the Farewell, and then it was over. They were standing in the twilight while the priest dismantled the doorway and picked up the bowls and the torch, and slowly they turned away.

"Is there anything to drink on this Goddess-forsaken island?" Rhys Gronw asked, back in his chainmail and walking slowly beside Owain back to the manor buildings. Everyone else had gone on ahead. "We can't have a proper wake, but at least I'd like to raise one goblet of wine for the boy."

"There'll be some in the kitchen," Owain said, "and probably some raki, too." He was feeling very tired, now, and it occurred to him that he hadn't eaten or drunk anything all day. No wonder he was feeling lightheaded. "And coffee - but I shouldn't drink coffee just now." He wasn't sure why it was, but all his nervousness around Rhys Gronw had disappeared now, and he felt that Rhys Gronw was no longer wary around him.

Ferdia had blamed himself - that needed some thought, when Owain had thought it was his own fault all this time. But he was too tired now to puzzle it out.

Paraskevi was crossing the courtyard when Owain and Rhys Gronw got back. She was now wearing a brown silk robe over white cotton, hitched up with a scarlet sash because she was so much shorter than the original owner of the robe. Her hair was bound back with another, multicoloured, sash, and she looked twenty years younger. "Someone else is doing the cooking!" she said happily, showing off her new clothes to Owain. "So we have been going through the sea chests in the officers' quarters. You should see Manoli - he looks like a Captain!" She leaned forward conspiratorially. "And that's not all we found in the sea chests," she said. "There were purses of gold coins as well. When we get home, we will buy a farm, with an orange grove, and olives, and Manoli will run it for us, and we'll hire a girl to do the kitchen work!"

"Good for you!" Owain said. "Could you do something for us, though, if you're not too grand now? Would you find us some wine?"

"No wine for you, little weather witch," she said, "and no coffee, neither. I'll make you some herbal tea to help your head - if those barbarians will let me near the fire."

Rhys Gronw put his head round the kitchen door - and saw that everyone there was wearing Sir Bernard's silver and blue livery. He headed off to one of the barns and, a few minutes later, returned with Sir Miles. After a short conversation with the man in charge of the cooking, Paraskevi was given free run of the place. She filled a jug with wine for Rhys in the store cupboard, and then busied herself at one end of the fire brewing a herbal mixture that she had made for Owain before, when Kofi had been particularly heavy handed with him. As soon as it was ready, she brought it out to the bench in the courtyard where Rhys and Owain were sitting, looking up at the stars. Then she disappeared into the cottage that had been the officers' quarters of the Sohar. She seemed to have commandeered it with her sister and Manoli, and the rest of the slaves who were left on the island.

"It seems strange to be drinking to Ferdia's memory after all this time," Rhys Gronw said, after a while. He poured more wine into his goblet.

Owain sipped his tea. "I used to go down to the dunes at sunset, and talk to him," he said. "Not at first - when my leg was healing I felt too guilty to go near him - but later, when I felt lonely, and when I realised that he was still there, bound. It helped - that and the pigeons. And now it's all over."

"You'll go back to Pengwern, now?" Rhys Gronw asked.

"Later, maybe. Cousin Aidan will still want me now, to translate for him. So I'll be going to Kharazan first."

"I think we might all be going to Kharazan," Rhys Gronw said. "And then your mother will want to find her people who were taken with you."

"They could be anywhere by now," Owain said. "There are lots of ports along the Southern coast, for the Empire and the Caliphate, and I don't know which ones the Bey used. I never got taken on those trips. I'd like to see Paraskevi and the others go home, though. She and Anna were always good to me."

Brecca appeared out of the gloom. "Have you two eaten?" she asked. "We're all in the barn over there, since Aidan decided to put the prisoners in the hall. There might be some of that lentil stuff left, or there's plenty of dried fruit."

Rhys Gronw drained his goblet and set it down on the bench beside the jug. He turned and held out his hand to Owain to pull him to his feet. "I suppose it's time to be sociable," he said.

Owain nodded. "Are there any dried apricots left?" he asked. "I think I could manage a few of those."

"I'm going to settle the manor on Miles," Sir Bernard said. They were standing just outside the stockade, watching the corsair ships being refloated. The prisoners had already been taken aboard, and were in the holds, apart from the officers, who had been taken out to where the Crow Maiden was anchored just off shore.

"We may as well treat it as if it's new land to settle, except that new tenants won't need to build their own houses. There's good fishing here, for a man who has his own boat, and there'll be a need for a blacksmith, and a carpenter or two - opportunities for skilled men and their families."

"And tenants, not serfs?" Aidan asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sir Bernard huffed into his moustache. "Bit old hat, serfs, you know. Much better value to get a money rent out of them and hire the labour you need. More efficient in the long run."

"I see," Aidan said blandly. "I thought the Duke was all in favour of the traditional way of doing things."

"The Hell with the Duke," Sir Bernard spluttered. "Fat lot of use he was all the years I've had a pirate nest on my doorstep. No, I'll set it up in the modern way or not at all. Besides, you get a better class of peasant this way - men who'll work hard because it's to their own benefit, as well as the lord's."

Two of Aidan's women-at-arms came by, leading The Drake and the little mare further down the beach to where the Albatross was waiting for them to board. Rhys Gronw was in command there - everyone else was going south. Brecca was adamant that she would not go home until she had searched for her missing people wherever they might have been taken. The scrolls they had found in the Bey's house were already on board, to go straight to Liam Tir Bran to be translated. Brecca had spoken to him earlier that morning, by Mirror, and he already had a Turkic translator in mind from one of the bigger bookshops in Aberllong.

Paraskevi and Anna stood waiting for the rowing boat to return from the Crow Maiden, to take them to the Griffin. They had come straight from supervising the emptying of the store cupboards onto the ships. Owain had made sure to have a quiet word with her while she was doing that, and he now had a sack of coffee beans as part of the luggage he was carrying. The old ladies had suspiciously large bundles of luggage with them, too. From what he could see, most of it seemed to consist of silk clothing. Manoli was wearing Captain Al Nayhan's best blue coat, and was carrying a sea chest on one shoulder. He looked very pleased with himself. With them were four of the ex-slaves who had come from the Empire, also ready to go home.

"Aren't you worried that the al-Khader might come back?" Owain asked.

"We'll be ready for them if they do," Sir Bernard said. "He won't get a foothold back here again. And one ship, without a base - what's he going to do? If he has any sense, that cousin of the Bey will be heading as far away from here as he can, as fast as he can - and hoping that the Amir will forget about him."

A man-at-arms in Raven livery came scrambling up the beach through the soft sand. "Lady Brecca says they're ready for you to board, Lord Aidan," he said. "And the ship master would like your advice about lateen sails, Lord Owain. They're aboard that one, there."

"The Sohar," Owain said. He smiled. "I never thought I'd be leaving the island for good on the Sohar."

He looked back at the stockade. There had been times that he had thought he would never leave the island at all. As he limped towards the rowing boat behind Lord Aidan, there was a clatter of pigeon wings overhead, as the entire flock wheeled over his head. He stopped to watch them as they said their farewells to him.

THE END

The story will continue in Ravens in the Desert.

Lesley Arrowsmith works in a bookshop in Hay-on-Wye, but she trained as an archaeologist, specialising in the medieval period. She is also a historical re-enactor, with Drudion, a group of 13th century Welsh mercenaries.
