With a whispered command, the globe’s soft glow faded until Gywn sat in complete darkness. Sitting cross-legged upon her wool blanket, she kept her eyes open, allowing the close blackness to settle over her like velvet, thick and heavy. From her tiny sleeping closet only the irregular groans of the mountain’s deep bones could be heard, grinding against each other in their ageless effort. Gywn relaxed, finding the stone’s bass hum a comfort. Within a score heartbeats she felt the familiar, cool wetness of grass between her toes. A waterfall’s liquid melody called to her through the light shadows of an ancient wood. Soon there’ll be sunlight amongst these hoary old guardians, she smiled and quickly ran along a slender path of springy moss towards the pulsating splash of water.

 

. . . Glancing up, her sewing forgotten, Nest’s breath caught in her throat. The umbral shape standing in the doorway’s streaming sunlight was as familiar to her as her own shadow. True, it was taller and broader than last she’d seen it. But still, unmistakable to her heart’s eyes.

“Sweet Branwen.” She set the torn tunic down and tried to stand, but found her knees suddenly weak. A second shadow joined the first and then as if by magic they flowed forward, transforming from the world of dreams and prayers into solid flesh and bone. “Dael.”

 

“Look who I found skulking about.” A third, stocky shadow stepped through the blinding curtain of sunlight and materialized as her husband.

 

“Come here and give me a hug,” Nest held her arms wide, still not trusting her legs to stand, “before your brothers and sisters find you.”

 

“Bless you. Bless you,” she found herself repeating over and over as she held the surprisingly broad shouldered young man in her arms. “Good Goddess,” she blinked wet eyes and glanced up to the figure standing just behind Dael, “what have you been feeding him, Myrddin?”

 

“Not nearly as much as he’d like,” the druid smiled, “but enough to feed three, at the least.”

 

Pulling back to hold her foster son at arms length, Nest shook her head in pleased wonder. “Ah-h, the sight of you is a joy to my spirit. Come,” she patted the low stool to her right, “sit. And you, Myrddin, rest yourself while that great hulk next to you fetches us all some cool ale.” She waved her hands towards a bench across from where she sat, surrounded by baskets of clothes in various stages of repair. “Sit. Sit.”

 

“And you,” she cast her husband a smile that refused to be anything but radiant, “go, go!”

Three bodies tumbled through the threshold’s dust sparkled rods of light to stand blinking in the gloom, searching. With a combined shriek they spied their quarry and lunged. Before Dael could reach his feet he lay sprawled on his back with three laughing, hugging, exuberant woodsprites on top of him, each trying to out-squeeze the other.

 

“Nest!” Dael finally managed to cry out, “they’re huge! I’m overmatched by twenty stone. Ugh! I surrender. I surrender.”

 

Nest beamed down on the tangle of bodies. “Just be thankful Arawn isn’t among them. He’s a head taller than his da.”

 

“But who is this?” Dael struggled to a sitting position, a squirming, giggling bundle of arms and legs held over his head. “Great Bran, ‘tis Urien . . . or some great changeling more likely. How did that happen, Nest?”

 

“I’m no changeling!” the boy laughed. “I’m Urien!”

 

“And so you are.” Dael grinned up at the youngest of Nest and Bedwyr’s brood. “Then this must be Gwern and . . . no-o-o, it can’t be little Llewlyn.”

 

“It is! It is!” they chorused, breaking out in a fresh spate of giggles.

 

“Arawn’s gone?” Dael turned a pair of serious, gray eyes towards his foster mother even as he settled the still giggling Urien onto his now crossed legs.

 

“No, no. Not gone.” Nest smiled, reaching down to pluck children up and set them on their feet. “Just having his time with Rhodri Dda. He’ll be back before the evening meal.”

 

“Ah-h-h.” Dael nodded, reclaiming his stool. “Then let’s hope he’ll be a bit too sore and tired to be throwing me down. This bunch has roughed me up a fortnight’s worth.” He reached out and tussled Gwern’s tangle of brown curls. “And I might be asking you, Nest, just what it is you’ve been feeding this teula?”

 

Nest laughed, her eyes sparkling as she got the three settled on a bench. “A warband indeed. You have no idea.”

 

“And Fia?” Dael asked.

 

“As you said, we’re a teula.” Nest shook her head, but her smile widened to match her eyes. “She has her time with Old Rhodri, too, if you can believe it. After you, she’s the best archer we’ve seen in many a year.”

 

“She can hit an apple at fifty paces.” Llewlyn nodded his head vigorously. “Big paces. Da’s paces.”

 

“Indeed.” Dael regarded the boy gravely. “Well, now I know where all the venison must come from for you to grow so strong. All of you.”

 

All three boys sat up straighter, their chests puffed out and chins up.

 

“Be glad you’ve brought Dael here with you, you old wizard,” Bedwyr said. A servant girl followed him, carrying a tray with four wooden, frothy topped, tankards. “Otherwise you’d get the common stuff, not this prime cask I’ve been savin’.”

 

“Indeed,” Myrddin finally spoke, a knowing gleam in the look he gave his host. “Well then, it’s not too late for this . . . old wizard . . . to turn a certain deserving . . . old airbag . . . into an old, wheezing toad, is it now?”

 

The three boys giggled, casting sly looks between them.

 

“Well now,” Bedwyr grunted, handing his two guests tankards of the very fine, golden ale, “as to that, why don’t you think the boys here will miss their ma and all, her being turned into a . . . a wheezing toad, was it? In fact –

 

“Ouch! What was that for, woman? And I might add,” Bedwyr backed away beyond the range of his wife’s felt covered foot, “I’d appreciate you not referring to the love a my life as an ‘old airbag’.

“Woman! Why do you persist in trying to kick me? It’s him,” Bedwyr pointed to the druid, “that old wizard, that’s a callin’ you such things.”

 

“I’ll love-a-my-life you, you old scoundrel. Now sit yourself down and treat our guests with a wee bit a courtesy, d’ya hear me.”

 

Nest settled herself back down and glowered at her husband until he had seated himself, his own tankard in hand. With a shake of her graying head and a deep breath she reached out and accepted her own ale. “Thank you, Cy.” She nodded to the young girl. “See if you can find a platter of honey cakes, and bring a full pitcher of the ale, please.

 

“So,” Nest reached out to cover Dael’s free hand with her own and squeezed, “what brings you two to us? Or do I dare ask?” she added into the silence that settled so quickly over them.

Turning to her sons: “Why don’t you three run fast as you can and ask Master Rhodri Dda if he wouldn’t like to join us for evening sup. I’m sure he’d enjoy a good talk with our Dael.”

 

The two youngest jumped up and bolted out into the early afternoon’s air. Gwern frowned and gave his mother a veiled look before rising with a shrug and more slowly leaving the smoky shadows of the hall. He stopped and turned at the doorway, his face half lit in the sunlight. “You’ll tell me when I return, won’t you?” He held Dael with a solemn look. “Why you’re here?”

“Aye,” Dael answered, a smile breaking his lips. “And that’s a promise.”

 

With that Gwern nodded and was gone, chasing after his younger brothers.

 

“Are you training him?” Dael turned to his foster father. “There’s no wool behind those sharp eyes.”

 

“No-o-o,” Bedwyr sighed. “If any of them are to hear a druid’s calling, I’d expect it to be Fia. That is if she doesn’t don a shirt a mail and go a huntin’ a Saxon or two first.” He shook his head, but there was a grin that spoke of pride for his second eldest and only daughter. “Her favorite stories are about the fiana, Finn mac Cumaill’s warband across the sea in Ireland. Oh, and the exploits of Cú Chulainn, of course. And let us not forget the tales of the nine gwiddonod. She’s particularly fond of pointing out how so many heroes are trained in the arts of combat by women. And of course Cú Chulainn was instructed in feats of arms by none other than Scáthach and Aífe, goddesses both.”

 

“Indeed.” Dael’s eyebrows rose as he turned and gave Nest a surprised look.

 

“Oh, yes,” she laughed. “You’ve no idea the ideas that girl comes up with. A warrior druid. And Bran spare you if you say ‘druidess’ around her!”

 

“Amazing,” Dael smiled. “Sweet, little Fia, an incarnation of Boudicca herself. Will crows sing love songs next, I wonder?”

 

“They just may at that.” Nest raised her tankard. “But while we wait, it’s a fine pleasure to have you home. And to see you again, Myrddin. Welcome.”

 

When all had tasted their ale, Nest lowered her tankard and returned to her question. “And so . . . dare I ask?”

 

Dael met her level gaze with one of his own. “We’re traveling to Aque Sullis and then on to Durnovaria. From there I’ll take ship for Gallia and Auxerre.”

 

“Auxerre?” Bedwyr sat up straight. “You intend to meet with Bishop Germanus then?”

“Aye, but only in passing. I travel to the east, to the Land of Snow and the Cloud Mountains.”

“Ah-h.” Bedwyr pursed his lips and shared a glance with his wife. “So, the time has come, has it?” The keen look he cast upon Dael held a measure of surprise, as if he were seeing the young man in a new light for the first time. A very new light. “Good Goddess, but the believing of a thing, and then seeing it unfold in all truth is . . . is a startlement indeed. Indeed!” he grunted and took another deep drink of his ale.

 

“How long will we have you with us?” Nest asked in a voice that fought between hope and fear. “Before you have to set out again.”

 

“Oh, several days,” Myrddin answered, giving her a warm smile. “If you’ll have us. I warn you, Nest, he can eat a household out of every last scrap o’ fodder quicker‘n you can blink.”

 

“Well! Well, we’ll just have to see about that.” She found she was squeezing Dael’s hand with fierce strength. That hers was held as tightly nearly broke her heart. Dear Bran, but how many times must we lose you, sweet boy?

 

The day’s shadows had softened, blurred, and then melted away with the last of the western sky’s light. The moon was late in rising, leaving the homestead in darkness. By starlight the humped shapes of the outbuildings and sheds huddled together like a family of bison, shaggy and thatched. A faint, smoky glow escaped through the open doorway of the largest structure, its light quickly swallowed by the young night.

 

Inside, several lamps held the shadows at bay around a small gathering, their oily wicks adding a subtle trace of clover to the hall’s thick incense of roasted venison, ale, pipe leaf, and the sweet-sour musk of sweat. The three youngest boys, aged seven to eleven, sat in a circle on the rush strewn floor. A game of gwyeldwyll lay between Gwern and Llewlyn, its pieces set in various patterns of attack and defense. The youngest, Urien, cradled those black and white pieces of carved horn already removed from play, his eyes intently alert for the next casualties. Dael shared a bench with Fia on his left and Arawn settled to his right. Both had attached themselves with a firm determination of ownership the moment they came bursting into the hall, breathless with excitement and running. Nest had removed her ubiquitous baskets, and Myrddin sat beside her while Bedwyr busied himself with carving a wooden length of ash. Rhodri Dda nursed his tankard of fine ale, his stocky legs thrust out as if to give his stomach relief. The last of the banquet’s platters had been removed and a contented air rested over the reunion.

 

“Aye, we heard of Germanus’ victory,” Myrddin said, speaking around the slender stem of his clay pipe. An opaque cloud of smoke wreathed his head, slowly drifting up into the hall’s shadow darkened eaves. “We were just settled around Llyn Cerrig Bach’s waters when news of his ‘Alleluia Victory’ reached us. A much needed blow against the damned Saxons it was, but I fear what claiming its outcome for their Christ will mean. Their priests already cover the land with their intolerant cant. By Dôn and Dagda but they fight themselves over what they believe, and yet, they presume to preach to us concerning the gods as well.”
The druid paused to suck on his pipe before exclaiming, “What was it, the Pelagian heresy that brought the bishop? A foolish argument over an incomprehensible doctrine, if you ask me.”