‘Even so . . .’ Owain scowled at Evnis.
He looked down at the flagstone floor. Is my Vonn hiding in the tunnels beneath my feet . . .
He shook his head, with an effort concentrated on Owain’s words.
‘On your own head be it if you choose to favour him,’ the King of Narvon was saying, ‘but keep a close eye on him. Once a betrayer . . .’
Evnis felt a surge of anger, with effort pushed it down and painted a smile on his face. Owain is not long for this earth, he told himself. The trick is to outlive him – that will be revenge enough. Rhin is coming, and then his head shall be parted from his shoulders.
‘And what of your plans, Nathair?’ Owain asked. ‘Will you be staying or going?’
‘I will stay a little while longer. I have summoned men to me here, my counsellors. I must speak with them before I depart.’
‘As you wish.’
‘I have a request, though. An unusual one.’
‘If it is in my power.’
‘I have something on my ship in the bay, something rare, special to me.’
‘What is it? Treasure that needs guarding?’
‘In a way. It is a draig, not yet full grown. It needs to come ashore, to be stabled, fed.’
‘A draig. Why . . . ?’ Owain trailed off.
‘It is an experiment of mine –’ Nathair smiled – ‘and I would be grateful of your assistance, your cooperation.’
‘Of course.’ Owain frowned, then tried to smile. ‘You have helped me more than I can repay. Stables shall be prepared, an auroch slaughtered.’
‘My thanks.’
The clatter of hooves on stone drifted in from the courtyard, there was the scuff of booted feet running, and a man burst into the hall. He hurried to Owain and fell to one knee before him.
‘Rise, man,’ Owain said. ‘What news? Is Edana caught?’
‘No, my lord.’ The man gulped a deep lung-full of air. ‘Dire news from Narvon. Rhin has invaded. It is overrun, Uthandun is fallen.’
CHAPTER NINE
CORBAN
Corban shifted uncomfortably; a tree root was digging into his back. He’d slept little, if at all, and now a raindrop dripped onto his nose.
‘Wonderful,’ he muttered, pulling his cloak over his head. He just wanted to sleep, it was preferable to getting up, having to face people, having to face his mam and Gar.
Their words from the night before were still spinning around his head. They had shaken him, stirred both anger and guilt. The things they had told him; madness, surely, born out of grief and exhaustion. And they have asked me to leave. Nothing else could have felt so wrong – to leave this small band of survivors. And so he had said no. Never had he said no to his mam or Gar – many times in his head, or muttered quietly after a reprimand – but never to their faces. And then had come the guilt. This was the worst moment in the world to have a conflict with his mam, when they were both grieving the loss of his da and Cywen. But what they asked was so unreasonable. And then anger had followed.
How can they put me in such a position? He wished their conversation had never happened. And so his night had passed, racked with anger or guilt, along with a measure of self-pity. Now, though, with the coming of dawn, he just felt alone. No one was who he thought they were. His mam and Gar felt like strangers.
Something tapped his shoulder.
He poked his head out from beneath his cloak, squinting up at a dark form silhouetted by the grey light of dawn. It was Gar.
‘Come, lad,’ the stablemaster whispered, prodding him with something.
‘Come where?’
‘Training.’
‘Wha . . . ?’ Corban said. ‘Are you joking?’
‘You still have much to learn,’ Gar said with a shrug. ‘Come on, there is not much time before we have to get back on that boat.’
He climbed upright, winced at the stiffness in his limbs and grimaced at the stablemaster. ‘I don’t want to do this,’ he muttered. ‘You and mam . . .’ He could not find the words to express how he felt, did not know where to start.
‘This way,’ Gar said, walking away. With a scowl, Corban followed; Storm uncurled and padded after them.
Marrock was standing guard, the shadow of his body merging with the tree he was leaning against. He looked inquisitively at Gar and Corban.
Gar stopped beside the stream. ‘Give me your sword,’ he said, then wrapped Corban’s blade with cloth, tied it tight and passed it back.
Without a word, Gar slid into the sword dance, his curved sword wrapped like Corban’s.