Chapter 22

22

A nd so it was that Gwendolyn, accompanied by Málik, Bryn, Emrys, Lir, and Amergin, set out from the Druid village, each astride one of Enbarr's mares, as unlikely a crew as any Gwendolyn could ever have imagined— a would-be Queen, a newly crowned Fae king, a Shadow, a retired Máistir and healer brother, along with a bard and poet most folks believed long dead.

Indeed, Gwendolyn might never have believed the last of it herself were it not for the fact that Amergin rode beside her, most zealously debating the art of discernment with Emrys, each elder Druid making his point with only the finest deviation, merely so the other could argue against it. This was nearly as annoying as the fog that had descended upon them the moment they set out. Essentially, they both disagreed over nothing, merely arguing semantics, but they clearly enjoyed a long-held friendship, and Amergin's presence in this day and age was no surprise to either of the Druid brothers. In fact, from what Gwendolyn could glean from their lengthy discourse, although Amergin now dwelt in the City of Light, he returned infrequently for news of his brethren, and to conduct the business of the Fae Court—and, of course, he would. The Tuatha Dé Danann had once deemed this man to be a fair and worthy judge for them—why wouldn't he be the one designated as their supreme arbiter?

It also made sense that the Druids would keep ties with those who'd appointed them—an understanding beyond the simple occupation of a once-held Fae village. And furthermore, if Emrys and Lir and the Lifer Pol Order had lived betwixt realms for more than seven hundred years, why wouldn't the Druid of Druids be granted immortality?

Gwendolyn now wondered if the Llanrhos Order had a similar arrangement on their Isle of Mona? Although they were the ones who most often attended tribunals and officiated weddings—evidenced by their advanced years—they also did not welcome visitors upon their isle, which, reputedly, could only be found when it wished to be found.

But maybe that wasn't true.

The notion of some island with a will of its own was even too fanciful for Gwendolyn. As a child, she'd found that tale to be too far-fetched, and she had rather considered it to be more the claim of bumbling old mesters to excuse why they could not summon a Druid for her father.

That, or else they feared to try. The stories of the Druids' brutality were known far and wide, and the gods save any man who dared call upon Mona without cause. Only now, Gwendolyn could hardly imagine the likes of Merlin—that old greybeard who'd married her—as some cold-hearted judge, ripping out people's entrails and using them to decide their fates. Indeed, the last time she saw Merlin he was still sniffing that yew tree, and for all she knew, there he remained.

Beside her, Emrys scoffed at something Amergin said, and Gwendolyn smirked over their eternal argument. Oddly comforted by their familiarity, she led her fledgling army ever forward, the sound of her mare's hooves on the leaf-strewn forest path chewing through the stillness of the pinewoods, even as their conversations did to her thoughts. It was not unlike so many of the conversations her father had enjoyed with King Brutus, evoking bittersweet memories of long hours spent at the King's table… with her father and Brutus in deliberation.

One such conversation could not be wrested from her thoughts—a discussion about the joining of their Dragon banners, where both her father and King Brutus had expounded endlessly upon the good that should come of their union. Rewards beyond the obvious—true-blood heirs that should have inspired peace and harmony for their people, ushering in an age of prosperity assured by a strong and capable army that was, for all their training and armament, never meant to be deployed.

So much for that, Gwendolyn thought, for here she sat, with more than two thousand Fae soldiers at her back, wending her way northward, with the precise intention of convincing her never-met grandsire to join her in battle.

How sad, she mused—to meet her mother's father for the first time under such unfavorable circumstances. And no matter… to defeat Locrinus, she must find some way to unite, not only the confederacy, but every remaining tribe.

Every. Remaining. Tribe.

This was a feat unheard of in this age of men.

So much as she would like to believe otherwise, there had not been a true era of peace and unity since the Fae lost dominion over these lands—and how terrible that must be… to watch as men destroyed all they'd begot.

Much to Gwendolyn's dismay, it could now be said that even her father had failed them, and her fingers worried Aisling's reins as she considered his fateful decisions.

Certes, what came of her marriage was not at all what her father had bargained for.

But though Urien may have proven a better match, he was still one of Brutus' sons, and Locrinus was a ghoul—his brothers, no better. At the very least, they were abettors in their brother's treason, and for this, what rewards should they reap?

A blade in the gut, if Gwendolyn had anything to say about it.

Certainly not lands free from Rot and strife.

A wee part of her had thrilled to learn that the Rot had finally reached Loegria—especially after Esme told her so plainly that it was the Loegrian alliance that led to Cornwall's decline. In her words precisely, that "pact between warmongering mortals intent upon dividing lands not their own." Everything was connected, she'd said. The smallest occurrence could alter the spirit of the world, even as the fluttering of a bee's wing could stir the fury of the north seas. And, considering this, Gwendolyn studied the state of these woods through which they now traveled… Beneath their hooves lay a heavy carpet of leaf litter, the density growing deeper and more precarious the farther north they ventured… as though no one had passed this way for an age. Indeed, they encountered no Brigantes, nor, for that matter, any of their villages—only abandoned cottages here and there, with rotting thatch roofs whence blackbirds shrieked before scattering.

With the aid of this fog that persisted, Gwendolyn grew hopeful that, with a bit of fortune, they would elude the Brigantes altogether—at least, until she was better prepared to deal with them, but then the thought occurred to her that there was something else to be gleaned from their absence here.

For so long, this tribe owed their prosperity to the Caledonii, who'd raided the southern lands and traded their plunder on the journey home. But soon after her parents wed, the raids all ended, and without Caledonii support, so many of the Brigantes villages ceased to exist. Last year, when they'd rallied before seeking Caradoc in the fenlands, they'd spent a good, long fortnight traveling these parts, and despite that they'd journeyed with so small a retinue, no one but Loc's men ever troubled their camp. What they did encounter were villages burnt to the ground, where Gwendolyn buried the dead with her own hands. And yet, though their fates had been altered by the marriage of a Caledonian princess to the King of Cornwall, these lands were free of the stench of Rot, and Gwendolyn was beginning to understand something more of this disease… something Esme had once tried to explain. As the Rot was a symptom of the people's despair, there must be people whose spirit could infect these lands. There were no people here, hence no Rot. Instead, the forest grew wild, reclaiming everything it touched—including, if it ever existed, the King's Road.

Belying its name, the "road" was no road at all, only a crude path cutting its way north through a grey, misty forest that, betimes, grew so unwieldy with underbrush that it forced Gwendolyn's crew to forge alternative paths.

But there was another more nefarious reason she must consider these lands… and this one not so favorable… The absence of people here could well be because Locrinus had already conscripted them, and if that was so, and the Brigantes should call upon their allies to the east… The possibility gnawed at Gwendolyn's guts—giving her anew a feeling of unease… because… if Locrinus should win the Iceni and Parisi as well, this would not bode well for her campaign.

Esme's words now returned to hound her…

If Locrinus prevails, the future is, indeed, bleak.

"Where are you, Esme?" she whispered.

"Did you say something?" said Emrys, remembering her suddenly and clearing his throat.

"Nothing," said Gwendolyn.