Chapter 21

21

" Y ou will have need of me!"

Upon entering the Máistir's hall, Gwendolyn had discovered Málik already in attendance, along with Deartháir Harri and a stranger she did not recognize, all seated at the Máistir's table. Gwendolyn examined this stranger, with his hair as white as snow and his beard hanging low on his chest. He wore neither Llanrhos black nor Lifer Pol white, but yet another robe she had never seen—undyed wool in the fashion of a newly pledged Shadow. "Emrys," she said, her gaze reverting to the Máistir. "You know I very much appreciate your support, but you would serve my cause better by remaining safe in the Druid village, do you not think?"

"Nay," he said quickly, and Gwendolyn peered at Málik, who sat still as stone, without looking at her, nor, for that matter, at anyone else in the room.

She could use all the help she could get, but concern for the elder Druid held her back. Like summer itself, the man's years were waning, and Gwendolyn did not wish to be the cause of his demise—not when she already had Aengus' death on her conscience. Emrys was still too weak from his encounter with the spriggans —all Gwendolyn's fault—and she could see the toll this campaign had already taken upon his frail body. "You are no warrior, Emrys."

"And yet, this is our battle, too. Please, hear me. Your Rot has crept so far north, I fear it now more than ever. Our reports claim it rises into Loegria. I believe my presence will soothe the people's fears."

Her Rot? She didn't appreciate the reference though, indeed it was hers. Sadly, with everything that had transpired of late, it was too easy to forget that plague upon her land—a creeping pestilence that spoiled everything in its path, leaving nought but withered, desolate lands. And, so long as it thrived, and the people perceived it to be her fault, there would be no gathering of any men to her cause.

Of course, Emrys knew this, and she sensed he'd considered his argument well. She couldn't fail to note the gleam in his eyes as he waited for her to consider.

A small fire burned within the hearth, its flame persistent even as it struggled for lack of kindling—not unlike Emrys himself. Like him, those flames appeared to be battling invisible forces, determined to thrive even as its resources dwindled, the wood crackling and popping in defiance of the end. While Gwendolyn considered this as well, the other Druid in the room said nothing.

For that matter, neither did Málik. He was as unhelpful now as he'd been in her fight against Aengus, and Gwendolyn sent him a scowl, only to find his gaze fixed upon her, his pale-blue eyes carrying a hint of something she could not quite decipher.

Regret? Concern?

His gaze held hers a moment longer, then he broke the connection, looking to the hearth, where the fire licked higher in response, its shadows dancing along the chamber walls. Gwendolyn could not allow Emrys to endanger his life any more than he already had. Leaving this village would accelerate his aging. He was better off remaining here, safe with his Druid brothers. It was enough that Lir would accompany them, but Lir was still young in body and heart. "Nay," she said, shaking her head. "I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to risk yourself, Emrys." She crossed her arms stubbornly.

"And yet I insist," said the Máistir with his chin high. "Deartháir Harri will serve in my stead, and I will join you in in Caledonia. If you'll not consider the Rot as reason enough, then consider this: You might share Baugh's blood, but he knows me better than he knows you. He will listen with greater patience if he sees the Druids will support you."

She peered at the silent Druid, assuming he was from Llanrhos. "Both orders?"

"Indeed," said Emrys, nodding. "Both orders."

Gods. This man was as stubborn as the roots of those ancient oaks upholding his village. With a sigh, Gwendolyn conceded, understanding intuitively that it would be futile to argue further, and still she tried. "Emrys," she begged. "I could not live with myself if?—"

He tossed up a hand, dismissing her complaint before she could make it. "Phfftt!" he declared. "I'm an old wretch. I‘ve lived long enough. This land will perish if you do not prevail. And no matter, though you've retrieved the Sword, it alone will not be enough to win Baugh to your side. Believe me when I tell you, banríon . He is as stubborn an old fool as there ever was, and you, to him, are only a child." He tapped his chest. "I could not live with myself if I cowered in this village, allowing a slip of a girl to face him alone—and Baugh is not the lesser of your perils."

Gwendolyn sighed, taking umbrage with his description of her—she was not a child!—but knew the advice was offered with affection. Despite that, she was far more adept with a sword than he allowed—and certainly more than he. There was no guarantee they would even reach Baugh's village. The King's Road was a dangerous place to travel, and the further north they ventured, the wilder it would be. It wasn't merely wolves and brigands they would need to worry about. Locrinus also had scouts in the area. She did not wish to play nursemaid to a stubborn, old fool of a Druid who didn't know better than to stay within the safety of his village. "There are no more of Enbarr's mares to lend," she said mulishly. "You'll fall behind, and I will have to go back to save you, else carry you on my mount—and this I will not do! I'd not do it for your brother, and his healing skills are needed."

"There are more mares," he argued with another stubborn lift of his chin. "Plenty enough to provide for two more riders. And I'll not join you alone," he said. "Now that we are decided, I must introduce you to someone you once met and do not recall." He gestured to his silent guest. But before Gwendolyn could ask how she knew this man, the Druid spoke for himself.

"I am known to many as Amergin," he said, speaking with a soft, raspy voice that commanded her respect despite its quiet tone.

Gwendolyn blinked in surprise.

Amergin—Amergin Glúingel?

Truly?

Shock gave way to curiosity as she examined the man who'd spoken. For all his years, he appeared to her like a wych elm, gnarled and ancient. Every line on his weathered face told a detailed story, and his earthy gaze seemed to peer beyond the physical realm. But it shone with intelligence. "Amergin?!"

The man smiled. "In the flesh," he affirmed with a thoughtful pull at his long, white beard, and for a moment, Gwendolyn was too dumbfounded to speak again. No wonder they had chosen that song to sing last night. She felt utterly ashamed that she'd not remained in attendance long enough to meet this man.

"You say… we've met?"

Amergin gave her a nod. "In another life," he replied cryptically. And now, at long last, Málik turned his gaze from the fire, his bright, silver-blue eyes meeting hers, a silent acknowledgment of her question. He nodded but once.

"I… I do not recall," Gwendolyn allowed. "But please… forgive my rudeness last night… you honor us with your presence. If I do not remember your face, I know your name." She inclined her head in deference.

Amergin's answering smile was kind, but there was a certain gravity in his gaze. "You have won the sword, but its retrieval is the least of your burdens."

Gwendolyn nodded, understanding the truth of this. A fortnight ago, retrieving that sword from Aengus had seemed the most impossible task. Now… she had yet another. The road ahead would be fraught with perils, and she couldn't shake the terrible feeling that they were hurtling towards events that would test their strength and unity as never before. But, indeed, these men were right. Their combined wisdom and experience could be invaluable to her. This quest loomed large, and Gwendolyn would need every bit of help she could get to face what was yet to come. If, indeed, their presence could move Baugh, she could not afford to refuse them.

"Between the two of us—" Amergin lifted his chin to indicate Emrys— "You will arrive in Caledonia with the wisdom of ages, and your grandfather would be a fool not to listen."

Emrys rose then, impatiently tapping the Máistir's staff against the wooden floor, the sound of it reverberating throughout the room. " Banríon Dragan !" he exclaimed, his voice firm but laced with warmth. "We will weather this storm together and emerge victorious. But you must not rely solely upon yourself…" He turned to regard Málik meaningfully, and rather than hear him defend Málik, she heaved a sigh of resignation, relenting fully.

"Very well," she said. "And I suppose I should thank you." Emrys bowed his head, his eyes twinkling fiercely, while Amergin's smile held a glint of mischief. For now, Gwendolyn ignored it. "Your courage and loyalty mean more than words alone can reveal," she conceded, her voice steady despite the melee in her heart—because, as sure as she stood here, she understood that agreeing to this would result in Emrys' death. She didn't know how, or when, but she knew that even as she noted his paper-thin skin, and the telltale tremble in his old hands.

"Let us make haste," said Amergin, rising from the table as well, and as he stood, a sense of reassurance washed over Gwendolyn.

Mayhap, indeed, with the First Druid by her side, she would stand a greater chance of convincing Baugh to raise his banners. And now that they had convinced her, Emrys was determined not to be thwarted. He turned to Deartháir Harri, passing off the Druid's symbol of leadership—the Máistir's staff. The elder Druid offered a solemn nod to his heir before excusing himself to go pack for the journey ahead.

Málik, too, rose, departing himself, all three abandoning the hall without a backward glance, leaving Gwendolyn alone with Máistir Harri.

A heavy moment of silence settled between them.

It wasn't so long ago that they'd stood at odds in this very room—Gwendolyn demanding passage through the portal, and Harri refusing to grant it.

It was a long, long moment before she could talk, and then, when she did, there was a knot in her throat. "Art certain you wish to spare him?"

The newly appointed Máistir met her gaze, his expression sober but resolute. "Aye," he said, his temperament a far cry from the Harri she'd first encountered. "Emrys… is determined to see this through, and we must trust his judgement. His loyalties—our loyalties—lie beyond this village, and his path is his alone to decide. We must pray his sacrifice will aid your cause, for I fear the consequences should it be otherwise." They both understood what needn't be said and Gwendolyn nodded again, accepting the Máistir's words with a mixture of gratitude and apprehension.

She kicked a leaf on the wooden floor. "So you are Máistir now, eh?"

The Druid nodded.

She gave him a crooked grin. "I don't suppose I will ask you again for passage through the portal."

He returned the crooked smile. "I suppose not."

Their discourse was awkward now, and Gwendolyn longed to leave, but she didn't know how to remove herself without seeming ungracious.

"Go with the blessing of the Ancients," said Máistir Harri, and Gwendolyn sensed in him a kindness and strength she had not noted before. At once, she regretted every dispute they'd ever had, and Gwendolyn lingered another moment, crossing her arms, knowing it was past time to go, but suddenly hesitating, sensing in her bones that, no matter what transpired in the north, she would not pass this way again. Her time in the Druid village was done, and come what may, she would not walk these halls again. And yet, everything she had learned here had truly helped to prepare her for the task she now faced. Forever more, she would be eternally grateful to these Druid brothers—all of them—many whom had lost their lives in her defense.

And still they embraced her with open arms.

Finally, she turned to go.

"Oh!" said Harri. "I almost forgot!"

Gwendolyn turned to face the man to find him grinning stupidly. "It is my utmost joy to inform you that the Llanrhos order no longer supports the Usurper. They champion your cause, and I am told by the priest who wed you that you may consider your marriage dissolved."

Gwendolyn gasped aloud, her heart lurching over the news, the weight of his words striking her like a physical blow. She lifted a hand to her breast and for a moment, she couldn't speak. Opening her mouth, she closed it again, a new rush of tears pricking at her eyes. By the gods, for a woman so intent upon hardening her heart, she could not seem to do it.

Daring to meet Máistir Harri's gaze, she found solace in their familiar depths as a dizzying array of emotions swirled within her—joy, anger, sadness—above all else, a fierce swell of relief that she couldn't deny. The ties that bound her to the Usurper had been severed by the Laws of this land, freeing her from a yoke she'd carried too long. She swallowed with difficulty, more tears pricking at her eyes.

Alas. Despite the complexities of her feelings, there was no time for dwelling upon this news. With a deep, shaky breath, Gwendolyn attempted to steady herself, and meanwhile, Máistir Harri regarded her with a knowing smile, his bright eyes reflecting the firelight with a warmth that soothed her soul.

"May good fortune favor your path, banríon ," he said softly.

"Thank… you," said Gwendolyn, her voice breaking. "For every… thing.…" He came forward without asking her leave, took her by the arm, and embraced her for the first time, and Gwendolyn hugged him back, so grateful for this news, moved beyond words. After a moment, he withdrew, smiling, and led her to the door, and as they stepped out into the cool morning air, Gwendolyn felt…

Freedom.

She was married to Loc no more!

Her journey from here forth was no doubt a quest that held the fate of realms in its balance and the burden of leadership weighed heavily upon her shoulders, but even so, a sense of liberation washed over her—like heavy chains breaking free. The black, encumbering weight of her marriage lifted, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she could not deny the spark of hope that ignited within her breast.

Máistir Harri gave her a kind little pat on the shoulder, and Gwendolyn squared her shoulders, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead. But her joy held a dark note, because her first thought was that, now, when she pushed her cousin's blade into that deamhan's black heart, she would do so as a free woman.