They move quickly through the night, halting only for a short rest in the last few movements of the stars. Murchadh offers to keep watch. Uneasy around the unpredictable Wyddryr, and with the wound on his jaw aching, he could not sleep even if he tried. Wyddryr lies with his back to him. Ashrille remains sitting, then moves to Murchadh.
“Here, we've stopped,” she says, and gestures to his chin, “let me tend to that. You won’t be able to help anyone if it gets infected.”
Murchadh relents, knowing she is right. “I have some basic herbs in my pack if you need more,” he says, “I never travel without them.” He sits silently while she works, thinking and trying to pay attention to the night around him. Ashrille’s hands are deft and practiced, and soon enough she is done and wrapping a bandage.
When she is finished she packs up quietly. As she turns to leave, Murchadh whispers, “Thank you, it feels better now.”
Murchadh lets her sleep for a movement, then he wakes them up and they continue their trek through the forest. They travel at a constant, sustainable pace, only stopping briefly to eat or take a drink from a passing stream. They travel in silence.
They are nearing the village when Murchadh notices that the forest is still, and he can feel himself being watched. At that moment he hears a low whistle. It is the same one the guides used to signal each other during their training. Besides himself and Wyddryr, only Ffrewgí and Asgell should know of it. Murchadh prefers meeting either of them over moving blindly into the encampment, so he changes course with hesitation. Wyddryr must have heard it, too, for he does not protest.
The noise originated from a cluster of cedars on a nearby hill. Murchadh is approaching them when he Ffrewgí and Cydwag step out. Murchadh asks quietly, “What are you doing out here?”
Ashrille and Wyddryr come up behind Murchadh.
Murchadh surmises that the two captives are not here with Symbre’s permission. Something has obviously happened to the captives that has separated at least some of them from the tribe. Murchadh is surprised to find them so close to the village.
“Looking for you, actually,” Ffrewgí says.
Murchadh looks in the direction of the village. “You’ve escaped.”
Cydwag levels a suspicious look at Murchadh and the others and moves to cut off their path to the village. Murchadh considers her distrust to be wise. He does not trust his companions either.
“Why did you leave the village yourselves?” asks Cydwag.
Wyddryr responds sharply, “Our business is our own.”
“Hunting the creature,” says Murchadh at the same time. He turns to Wyddryr. “If you want their help, there will be no secrets.”
Cydwag rests against a makeshift spear, clearly ready to bring it to use in a breath if need be. “You were unsuccessful?”
Murchadh shrugs. “In a manner of speaking.”
Wyddryr gets in Murchadh’s face and hisses, “We don’t have time for this. You said your friends could help him.”
Murchadh puts his hand near the hilts on his belt and snarls, “Keep your distance. They’ll help if they want to help.”
Ffrewgí looks confusedly at them. “What are you talking about?”
Murchadh glares at Wyddryr until he backs off before turning to Ffrewgí. “His father is dying,” he explains. “We went out on the hunt to collect the creature’s gift to heal him, but there was no way we’d have caught it, because they meant to kill it, and the creature only gives its gifts to those pure of heart.”
“Then . . . none of you had a dream or vision from the creature?”
“I have lots of dreams and visions.”
Wyddryr steps aggressively in front of Murchadh. “Have you got a gift?” he asks Ffrewgí. “If the creature gave you its blood, you need to come with us.” Wyddryr’s voice is desperate, something that Murchadh now associates with danger. His hand rests on his best throwing blade---ready.
Ffrewgí stutters, “I . . . How do you know it gave us gifts?”
Murchadh quickly attempts a distraction, moving up the hill. “Come on,” he says, “take me to the others. I’ll explain on the way.” His hand never leaves his knife. He is ready. There is no way he will let Wyddryr attack Ffrewgí.
“Hold on! We’ve got to get to my father with the cure!”
Good, Murchadh muses, his anger is now on me. “We don’t know what form the gifts took, Wyddryr!” he responds, trying to keep Wyddryr’s attention on him. “And since the others have escaped, I don’t think there will be a welcome party set out for us. We left at just the wrong time on your hunt.”
Wyddryr is about to respond, but Ashrille steps forward and confronts him. “Wyddryr, your father will be alright for another day. Murchadh’s right, even if he’s being blunt. We’re suspect now, likely lumped in with the others. Let’s meet up with them and make a plan.”
“Come on then,” Cydwag says, setting off ahead of Murchadh, “let’s not waste words where they might be overheard.” Ffrewgí follows quickly behind her.
Murchadh nods to the wisdom in this statement. He is pretty sure Cydwag has guessed what is going on.
They find Anwen, Heulwen, and Ainsley waiting in a small clearing some distance away. As soon as the parties have joined, Cydwag turns to Murchadh, saying, “Okay, it’s time for you to tell your tale.” She puts down her spear and sits on a mossy log.
“Of course,” says Murchadh with a weary smile; it has been a long stressful trip with little sleep, but he feels great relief at seeing them all safe, “but you’ll all need to share yours as well.”
“Okay,” says Anwen.
Murchadh is unsure how much he should reveal about Wyddryr’s actions while he is present, but eventually just starts at the beginning, telling them the whole story up to their meeting with the creature. “It can’t have been anything else,” he says, “but none of us really remember the experience. Oh,” he adds, shooting a look at Wyddryr, “and he finally admits to being a plant from the beginning, to spy on us.”
The others react in surprise.
Wyddryr protests, “That’s not the whole---”
Murchadh cuts him off. “I’m not finished. Keep your blade sheathed.”
Ashrille breaks the tension, standing up and gesturing to Wyddryr. “Let’s gather something to eat.” Wyddryr follows her reluctantly. “Don’t start on your side of the story until we’re back,” she says in parting.
Murchadh is glad for the tall girl’s interjection. It will make it easier for him to reveal all the details of Wyddryr’s story. “Wyddryr was a slave with his father and they were rescued by Logain on a recruiting mission,” he continues after the two have disappeared into the woods. “I’m not sure why. His father is deathly ill, though, so he recruited me to help him hunt down the creature.”
“Why not wait until another official hunt is organized?” Cydwag asks.
“Because a third hunt wasn’t going to happen.”
“They were going to kill us?” asks Anwen with a shocked look.
“Probably just keep you as slaves,” says Murchadh, “and those that took the pact as just a step above. They are already planning another set of recruitment raids.”
“So what happened on your hunt?” asks Ffrewgí after that sinks in.
“We found the creature, though I can’t remember what it was,” says Murchadh, fighting to recall it clearly. “I almost remember an image of Archora . . .”
“That’s what I saw!”
Murchadh nods at Cydwag. “You meant to kill it, too, didn’t you?”
“I guess so. Didn’t we all?”
“No,” says Anwen gravely. “When I encountered it, it was... it was so beautiful. So innocent.” She struggles for words; clearly the experience had been deeply impactful. “I couldn’t have---I couldn’t have even wanted to kill it, when I saw it.”
“But I didn’t even see it. I just . . .” Cydwag grasps at memories, “well, I don’t remember what I did see, but it wasn’t any sort of creature.”
“It’s a magical being. It can appear to us as it wills. And if you’re not pure of intention and heart, then you won’t see it.” Murchadh looks around the circle, at his friends who he is increasingly sure did meet the fantastic creature.
“Go on,” prompts Heulwen.
“When that idea occurred to me,” Murchadh continues, “I knew that the creature won’t give its gift unwillingly, and that it must have given it to one---or some---of you. Ffrewgí, you mentioned a dream. Anwen, you met it.” He looks at the others. “This is the end of my story; tell me yours.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for Ashrille and Wyddryr?” asks Heulwen.
Cydwag interjects. “Hold on. If you didn’t meet the creature, how’d you get injured? I know you enough to know you aren’t careless in the woods.”
“Right. Wyddryr gives me this nice mark on my chin because I couldn’t drag the creature from the dream world. If I hadn’t moved, it would have been my neck.”
“Ffrewgí, can’t you take a look at it?” asks Anwen. “You could heal him!”
Ffrewgí seems startled. “I guess so,” he says, “if you want me to, Murchadh.”
Murchadh is bothered by their reactions. He has just told them that Wyddryr tried to kill him and they are not even acknowledging it. “You were given the blood? Or something with the power to heal?” he asks, struggling to not get lost in his disappointment and confusion. Do they even care about him? Maybe they are just uncomfortable with the fact that one of their peers did something so awful and are ignoring it for their own comfort. Murchadh suddenly realizes that Ffrewgí has answered his question, and responds off the cuff. “Were you the only one?”
“The---the only one like that,” stutters Ffrewgí.
“We should wait until the others are back to tell our whole story,” says Anwen.
“Here, let me take a look at your wound.” Ffrewgí takes a few steps over to Murchadh and kneels next to him. Murchadh undoes Ashrille’s bandage. He is not sure what to expect, but Ffrewgí does not come nearer. The boy closes his eyes, and suddenly Murchadh feels a tingling, ghostly sensation on his chin, then a strange pulling and itching. Then, nothing. No pain---not even an ache. “Amazing,” he marvels. He touches his chin with a finger. “Not even a scratch left.” An idea pops in his head. “Do you think you could fix my back? It hurts all the time. Or, maybe, make my arm whole?” Then suddenly he remembers himself and apologizes for his outburst. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “just thinking out loud. Forget that.”
Ffrewgí looks like he is about to respond when Ashrille and Wyddryr arrive. Ashrille drops a branch into the little circle; Murchadh notes that it is full of ripe elderberries.
“Not sure what breakfast you’ve all had,” she says, “but we found an elderberry bush.” She smiles wryly as Ffrewgí picks up the branch. “I figured it’d be quicker than picking them all conventionally.”
Ashrille looks at Murchadh as she sits down. Her brow furrows. “Your chin is looking... remarkably healed.”
“That was me,” says Ffrewgí. “I was visited by the creature and received the gift of healing.”
Murchadh watches Wyddryr lean forward intensely. He places his hand on his dagger.
“I can make things appear,” says Ainsley quietly. Murchadh’s eye is drawn to a snake slithering through the grass by his feet. Murchadh has never seen one with its markings---nor has he seen one curl up so quickly and perfectly, as this one does just before disappearing.
On another day, Murchadh might have been impressed by Heulwen’s demonstration of her gift, lifting herself up on a column of earth that rises solid from the grass, or by Anwen’s, casting a breeze about the circle and then having it break the fog in its center and freeing a beam of sunlight to shine down upon her, but today Murchadh is disturbed by Wyddryr and his friends’ lack of reaction, and his experiences in the dream realm form a callous over his wonder.
“My father is in the village,” says Wyddryr, his eyes fixed upon Ffrewgí, when the breeze dies away and fog covers the sun again. “He is dying, and you have the ability to heal him. Will you help me?”
Ffrewgí swallows nervously. Cydwag comes to his rescue. “We can’t just traipse back into the village,” she says.
“Then what do you suggest?” asks Wyddryr, standing up angrily.
Cydwag stands up also, and Murchadh sees her put her foot beneath the shaft of her spear, ready to flick it to her hand. “I suggest you figure it out yourself, spy.”
Murchadh slowly draws his blade part way out.
“What could I have told them that they didn’t already know?” says Wyddryr, stepping towards Cydwag. “Was I treated any better than you? Did I eat lamb while you fed on sparrow and cornbread?” Wyddryr’s shoulder slump. “My father is dying,” he says, and turns back to Ashrille, who has risen behind him. She guides him back down to the ground.
He is not going to be violent this time. Murchadh replaces his dagger fully as Wyddryr adds, imploringly, “We were slaves just like you.”
Ffrewgí breaks the ensuing silence. “We’ll need a plan. If you can sneak me in, maybe.”
“Or we sneak your father out,” says Anwen.
Wyddryr sniffles pitifully. “I’m a Gwaedwn. Can’t I return? I can explain it . . .”
Murchadh snorts to himself, knowing the pact was meaningless.
Ashrille puts a hand on Wyddryr’s knee. “We can’t do that to Ffrewgí. He isn’t of our tribe, and he did escape.”
“But we can bring him in, can’t we?” returns Wyddryr. “And then help him leave when my father is well.”
Ashrille turns to Ffrewgí. “How long does your healing take?”
“I don’t know,” he replies. “Not long, though, I think.”
“We can use our gifts to help get you in and out. And Murchadh, you know the watches and ways to slip in and out without attracting attention, right?” Anwen looks at Murchadh expectantly.
“I suppose,” says Murchadh, feeling sick. “But the watches are likely to have changed since you escaped.” He is not happy with this. They will do anything to help Wyddryr, without addressing that he tried to kill Murchadh. They are just like everyone else. They only tolerate him because he is useful, not because they actually care about him. He loves them still, but as soon as they are safe somewhere, he will leave them. He does not want to wait around to be hurt again.
“Any of our gifts can provide a distraction,” Anwen is saying. “It just depends on what sort we want.”
“What sort of things can you make appear?” Ashrille asks Ainsley.
“Anything, really,” says Ainsley with a shrug.
“A fire is always a good lure,” suggests Murchadh.
“True,” Ashrille agrees. “And that way we wouldn’t actually be doing damage to anything. Right?”
Ainsley does not look up from his whittling. “Not sure.”
Murchadh hopes it does do damage. The Gwaedwn deserve it, for the pain they have caused. He dwells on his anger and confusion as the others change tack and decide to start a real fire at the latrine building. Ainsley will disguise Ffrewgí and Wyddryr as Gwaedwn, and they will sneak into the village.
“The rest of us can wait at the edge of the woods in case anything goes wrong,” says Murchadh after the planning is done.
“This evening, then?” Ashrille asks.
It is agreed, and the circle dissolves to rest, plan, or gather: Murchadh asks Anwen to accompany him foraging. He needs to speak to her alone.
“Thanks for coming to get us. How are you doing?” Murchadh says, trying hard to hide the loneliness he is feeling.
“I'm doing alright.” She looks over at him. “I'm really glad Ffrewgí found you.”
Murchadh nods. It hurts to look at and listen to her. She sounds so genuine, but he cannot trust her intentions anymore. After this is all done and she is home safe, he will probably just fade out of her life. Not from cruelty or meanness, but just because he is less important. His gut aches. This is going to be hard; how can he keep from being disappointed and hurt again? All he knows is that he needs to help them. “How are the rest doing?”
“They're okay, I think,” Anwen answers. “They were pretty nervous about coming back.”
“They should be. It is not the safest thing.” He pauses. He needs to make sure Anwen, at least, understands the danger. “Especially with Wyddryr in the group.” Anwen looks at him with concern on her face and he elaborates, “He’s not bad per say, but can’t think straight. Things don’t go his way? Well, kill the person who seems to not be doing what he wants. So, if Ffrewgí can’t heal his father … I think it would be a good idea if someone checked up on him.” He intentionally downplays how serious he regards Wyddryr’s risk, as the others seem more loyal to him than to Murchadh.
“I'll make sure Ffrewgí is okay,” responds Anwen seriously. “And I'll make sure he gets out of the village, too. I'll blow down every tent if I have to.”
Murchadh hopes that will be enough. She seems to have taken his warning to heart. “Thanks.” He rubs his eyes, and when he takes away his hand he notices there is moisture on it. Is he starting to cry? What is going on? He takes a deep breath. “I don't know what I would do if either of you didn't get out.” Despite himself, his concern is deeply honest. He reaches out and touches Anwen’s shoulder, then suddenly turns away and crouches by a bush or sorrel. He is confused: where is all this sentimentality coming from? For a long time he has only felt fear, annoyance, hot anger, and cold hatred. Why this---why now---why here?
The two gather silently for a while. Anwen speaks again first. “Um, Murchadh?” she asks. “Do you have a flint I could borrow? For starting the fire.”
Murchadh is relieved to be asked something practical. “Oh right,” he says casually, “you will probably need that.”
“Thanks,” says Anwen with a smile. “I told everyone I’d start the fire, then I realized I didn’t have any way to start it.”
Murchadh feels uncomfortably warm under that smile and turns away. “I didn’t know if that was part of what you could do,” he says. Memories flood him, sensations of air rushing past his face. “It must be amazing … can you fly? I love the feeling if flying … I miss it.” Murchadh begins to fade out of reality. The neidraig flies using magic, like Anwen would. His unbidden memories are bittersweet, and he kneels back down and plants his mind in the ground of this world, pressing his hands into damp loam to pluck stems of sorrel.
“I can fly,” responds Anwen. “Well, I flew across the river, but I could probably go farther...” Murchadh looks up when she asks, “You've flown before?”
Battling confusion and conflicted memories, Murchadh responds without thinking. “Yes. When I dream … well, it is not really a dream, I cross the veil and have a different body there. I used to have a friend there who would have me ride on his back while he flew. I’d also jump on the back of winged enemies, and when they took off to try and kill me—well, I would get a different type of ride. But still fun.” A smile fades from his face as he comes back to himself, shocked at his openness. “But now,” he adds soberly, “I am not sure if I can ever fly again.”
“Why not?” Anwen asks softly.
“He hid knowledge from me,” answers Murchadh, “that if I kept spending every night in that realm my body on this side would fade to a ghost.” He punches the ground staring into nothingness with burning eyes. The hurt of betrayal wells up within him. He knows the neidraig is immortal while he is just a breath on the wind---but had been called a friend! A friend would not have treated him like that, yet Murchadh cannot help but still think fondly of his golden companion. “I was needed:” he continues heavily, “my friend’s rival, a giant winged cat, and its followers, were slowly winning a battle—until I came. I could drive them back without fear. If I had known what would happen—well, then I wouldn’t have been there as much. My life and presence here is a sacrifice my friend was willing to make, so I left. He is not happy.”
Anwen’s hands are still; she is turned away from her bunch of sorrel. “You're not going back?”
“Not until you are home safe.” And Symbre is neutralized, Murchadh adds silently. “And I have no idea what the reception will be. I do know I will not trust anything there for a while.” He pauses. “It will be hard. There I am whole: unmaimed and unstoppable. Here, I am weak and a liability most of the time. And the neidraig won’t trust me not to leave him again.”
“You’re staying here because of us,” observes Anwen.
“Well, yeah—why else would I stay?” says Murchadh bitterly. “I have a purpose there. Here? Well, until recently, I was barely alive, and usually just to spite those who said I should die or that I was useless.”
There is a moment of silence.
“Murchadh,” starts Anwen. Murchadh looks up. “Thank you.”
Murchadh is overwhelmed by her sincerity, but cannot trust it. Can he? He certainly wants to. He turns back to his gathering.
“I’m glad you’re not fading away,” adds Anwen a while later.
“Me too,” Murchadh says, and he means it. Despite everything, he still hopes to one day matter to someone. Properly. “I am not quite ready to leave this plane yet,” he adds, and for the first time in years the statement is true.
“It's hard being here, though, isn't it?” Anwen says softly.
“Yes, very hard. I long to be whole—without pain. To be normal and not scorned.” Murchadh stares sadly at nothing, wondering if Ffrewgí could really heal him.
“I haven’t even thought about your arm or your leg in ages. That doesn’t matter to me!” declares Anwen suddenly in a strong voice. “I care about you. You're my friend. And I'm glad you're here.”
Can she actually mean that? It seems so, but the real question is, can he trust that she will not slowly forget about him once she is safe? “You're the first person that's said that since my father died,” he tells her. Anwen regards him silently, emotion welling up in her eyes. Murchadh turns away. “If people ever seem friendly, it’s just because I’m useful to them. As soon as I’m not useful anymore, they try to get rid of me. Like my golden friend, Symbre, Wyddryr, and those in any place I travelled through.”
“That must be really lonely,” says Anwen.
Murchadh inclines his head, struggling for calm and control. A losing battle.
Anwen breaks the silence with a quiet voice. “I lost my father, too. He disappeared more than two years ago, and he never came back.”
Murchadh reaches out to her, literally and figuratively. “It is rough isn't it?” he asks, placing his hand on her shoulder. He knows the pain. He wishes she could know how deeply he knows it.
Anwen nods, tears in her eyes.
It does not take much longer to gather all the sorrel, and with it they have a decent harvest. They travel back to the others in silence, for which Murchadh is thankful. He is feeling raw, vulnerable, and uncertain. As soon as he deposits his foraging, he finds a place away from the others, lies down, and sleeps.
* * *
In the early morning, Murchadh seeks out Wyddryr. He finds him sitting against a log beyond the kids’ little camp, fidgeting anxiously. Murchadh waits for the boy to notice him.
“Why are you here?” Wyddryr asks, not looking up from his hands. “To demand an apology?”
“No,” says Murchadh. Then, “Do you and Ashrille wish to stay with the Gwaedwn?”
Wyddryr looks up at him. “Yes.”
Murchadh nods. “Then there are two things you need to figure out.” He holds up a finger. “One, how is Ashrille going to get back into the camp? That was not discussed. Two,” Murchadh holds up a second finger, “what story will you tell to explain away your father’s healing without casting suspicion on the escaped captives having received the creature’s blood?
“Ashrille and I have already talked about the first,” says Wyddryr. “Can I not just say that my father got better on his own? And why do you suddenly care?”
Murchadh frowns. “I care about my family. And do you really think that Symbre will just accept that your father ‘just got better’? No, she will see the truth in it and will hunt us.” Murchadh is sure that Anwen and the others would be able to use their gifts and their training to evade capture, but it would not be easy. Murchadh continues, “You owe it to them to do everything to make this as easy on them as possible. They are risking their very freedom to save your father. They do not need to; it is purely out of mercy and care for you and your father. They owe you nothing, but they are still helping.” Murchadh raises a hand to stop Wyddryr from responding. “Trust me, they’re not doing it because they feel they owe you. They are giving you a special gift . . . and I am jealous.” He looks intently at Wyddryr. “I want you to return the favour.”
“How can we remove the suspicion?” asks Wyddryr, compliant.
Ashrille comes up behind Murchadh; she has been hovering there for a while. “We could say we were successful in our hunt,” she says. “At least, partly. We could say the creature blessed a few berries just for his father.”
“But then,” starts Wyddryr, looking at Murchadh, “how come you are not returning to the Gwaedwn with us?”
“I tried to take the berries for myself, so you killed me and rolled me into the river,” Murchadh says. There is a pregnant pause. Wyddryr’s mouth opens to speak, but Murchadh cuts him off. “It’s always easier to sell a story with some truth to it. You did try to kill me and I will be running off with the ‘berries’.” He nods back to the other children.
“I’m---” starts Wyddryr.
“Don’t worry,” interrupts Murchadh, “I’m not holding a grudge.” He does not want to hear a false apology. He has heard enough lies from the neidraig and the Gwaedwn.
Ashrille and Wyddryr agree to the berries story. Murchadh leaves them feeling like he has done what he can, hoping it will be enough. He believes that Ashrille will carry out the plan, but as he turns away from Wyddryr, the skin between his shoulder-blades tingles; he has no faith in the blue-eyed boy.
* * *
It is evening, and the group’s plan is now in motion. Disguised by Ainsley’s gift, Wyddryr and Ffrewgí appearing as brutish wanderers head off for the village. There is an uneasy knot in the pit of Murchadh’s stomach. Nothing ever goes as planned. Something is going to go wrong. He runs over the possible scenarios in his mind.
With the others, he moves to the southern foot of the village, where he offers to keep watch at the treeline, where he slips into his archer’s brace. Bow in hand, he watches as a column of black smoke grows from the latrine house, where Anwen has started the fire. Murchadh’s gut twists as he listens to the activity in the encampment. Trusting his intuition, he leaves to monitor the fire, leaving word with Cydwag for the others. “If I’m not with you when Ffrewgí and Anwen return, tell Ffrewgí to leave me instructions by the cave. He’ll know which one,” he says in response to her raised eyebrow. “If you are able to wait, I will meet you there.
When Murchadh arrives at the other side of the village, the Gwaedwn have nearly put out the fire and Anwen is nowhere to be seen. She must have gone into the encampment to warn Ffrewgí.
“. . . not a natural fire,” Murchadh hears Fuldryn say across the distance. “ . . . search the . . . nothing else suspicious . . .” He hears enough. They will search the place and find them. Murchadh needs to buy them more time, if only by drawing some hands away from the search.
But Wyddryr and Ashrille’s story has him dead . . . He will have to risk it. He moves closer to the edge of the woods and steps on a dry twig. He is confident he can stay out of sight. He curses loudly for the benefit of the Gwaedwn, throwing disguising gravel into his voice.
Máerl’s deep voice barks out an order. Murchadh waits only until he sees her begin to move towards him before snapping a branch back from a nearby tree for added measure and slipping into the woods. They took the bait. Now, the game is on, and Murchadh just hopes he pulls enough of them away from searching the camp.
The forest is evening-dark, and Murchadh sees torches in his periphery as he looks back. They will require the light to track, which will be to his benefit, as their eyes will not be adjusted to the darkness through which he moves, almost as comfortable as he would be during the day. He has done this many times before.
Occasionally, he breaks a twig and mutters a curse to continue stringing them along.
It is the dead of night when a unique opportunity presents itself. Murchadh hears it first: a body rushing rashly through dense growth. Whoever it is, they are frustrated and leaving their companions behind. Murchadh snaps a twig to direct their heedless charge and pulls back an arrow. He hesitates when the fletching brushes his cheek. What if he kills the Gwaedwn? Murchadh searches for the reason for his unfamiliar conscience and the face of Anwen comes up before him, shaking her head “No”. Murchadh growls, but holds his shot until he can see the oncoming hunter clearly. It is Máerl. Luckily she is a large target and holding her torch ahead of her. She does not see the arrow coming, though Murchadh is only a dozen paces from her and leaves his cover to aim.
His arrow goes where he directed it, and Máerl falls back a few steps, grabbing at the shaft in her shoulder and letting loose a roar. As she sweeps her torch back and forth in front of her, Murchadh slips away in a new direction.
From a new vantage point, Murchadh watches Asgell, Ungant, and two other Gwaedwn join Máerl’s torchlight, adding their own light until the whole space is hotly bright.
Máerl snaps the haft of the arrow from her shoulder. “They’re playing with us,” she growls, staring into the darkness where Murchadh had been.
“They are proficient in woodcraft,” says Asgell. “We are at a disadvantage in the dark. You will be no help here,” she says to Máerl. “You should return with Geran and Breaca; see if anything has been discovered in the village. I will send Ungant back at daybreak with the trail.”
Máerl concedes the wisdom of the plan and follows Geran and Breaca whence they came. Even when the light of their torches has disappeared through the trees, Asgell makes no move to continue her pursuit. Instead, she looks out generally into the darkness. “I know it is you, Murchadh.”
Murchadh does not respond, but he is not surprised.
Asgell tosses a stick to the ground. “Broken by hand.” She moves a few paces forward and brushes a patch of moss. “You cannot disguise that you favour your right leg.” She turns around slowly. “I am unarmed. Ungant is, too. Will you speak to us?”
“You taught me well, teacher,” says Murchadh from the darkness. He has an arrow nocked on his string.
“Obviously too well,” says Asgell with a wry smile, fixing Murchadh’s location. “I assume you have met up with the others.”
“Yes, on our return to the village.”
“And your hunt?”
“We found the creature,” says Murchadh, “though only on its terms. It gave Wyddryr a handful of blessed berries when Wyddryr begged it for his father’s life.”
“That’s it?” says Ungant incredulously.
“Why the merry chase?” asks Asgell.
“I was a distraction to allow Wyddryr to sneak into the village with the berries. We knew Symbre would claim them as her own, so planned for it.”
“And you will rejoin the others, or do you wish to remain a Gwaedwn?”
“Wyddryr and Ashrille will remain,” explains Murchadh, “but I do not trust Symbre and the pact. I will join the others shortly and see them to safety.”
Asgell reties her hair in its familiar tight bun. “I see.”
“Wyddryr and Ashrille will tell of my death,” Murchadh says. “Let their story be true. Wyddryr did try to kill me on our hunt.”
“Is Anwen safe?” asks Ungant.
“Yes,” says Murchadh. “Safe and free.”
“That is good enough for me,” Ungant responds. He rolls his shoulders back and turns to Asgell. “Shall we return with the bad news?”
Asgell peers cuttingly into the darkness around Murchadh, then relaxes with a tight smile. “Yes,” she says. “So regrettable, that we lost the trail. In the morning, we shall send our search parties north to take it up again.”
This last was said for Murchadh’s benefit. He thanks her silently. Out loud, he calls, “Tell my cousin not to worry. I still guard the skies. May the gods smile on you.”
“And on you,” Asgell murmurs, then turns and follows Ungant into the trees.
Murchadh is not going to take any chances. He treads carefully onward until he reaches the river, which he travels down for a ways before turning back to dry ground and the south, setting his feet towards the cave, where he hopes to find his peers by dawn.