not the weather you’ve got to worry about, it’s the savages. If I were you, lad, I’d wait. A herbman’s a valuable sort of man to have around. We’d all hate to lose you, like.’
Aderyn merely smiled. Waiting was not one of his strong points.
Since he was going to be travelling farther than he’d previously planned, Aderyn decided that he’d best consult Nevyn. That night, he went up to his chamber and built himself a small fire in the hearth. When he called upon his old master, the image built up fast, Nevyn’s face floating in the flames and scowling at him.
‘So, you deigned to contact me, did you? I’ve been worrying myself sick.’
‘My humble apologies, but truly everything’s been fine.’
‘Good. Well, now that you’ve made the first link, I can contact you again without wounding your dignity, I suppose, but kindly don’t let me brood about you for months at a time, will you?’
‘Of course not. And you have my heartfelt apologies.’
‘That’s enough humility for now, please. What have you been doing with yourself?’
Aderyn told him what little there was of interest in his summer’s wanderings, then turned to his plan of travelling to Eldidd. As the old intimacy between them re-established itself, Nevyn’s image grew in the fire, until it seemed that they were standing face to face, meeting in a grey void, swirled with violet mists.
‘Well, it seems that Eldidd would be as good a place to go as any,’ Nevyn said at last.
‘Do you know of any others of our kind there?’
‘I don’t, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Keep your eyes open, lad, and see what you find. Remember what I’ve always told you: in these things, there’s no need for hurry.’
‘What do you think about this strange tribe, the Westfolk?’
‘Very little, because I’ve never heard of them before. If naught else, this is all very interesting.’
At that time Eldidd was an independent kingdom, whose rulers were ultimately descended from the legendary warriors known as the Hippogriff and the Dragon, the two foster-brothers of King Bran himself who joined him for the Great Migration. In the year 297, after a bitter struggle over the kingship of Deverry, Cynaeval and Cynvaenan, their descendants and the current leaders of the two clans of the Dragon and the Hippogriff, with all their allies, kinsmen, supporters, and dependants, left Deverry to sail west and found their own throne and royal city. For years, the small colonies eked out a precarious existence along the sea coast, but in time the Dragon’s people flourished and spread up the great river valleys of the Dilbrae and the El, while the Hippogriff clan spread north from their town of Aberwyn up the Gwyn and the strangely named Delonderiel. In the year when Aderyn crossed the mountains of the Belaegyrys range into Eldidd, the kingdom boasted a respectable two hundred thousand people.
Because he needed to gather more medicines, Aderyn avoided the sandy coast road and chose the easy northern pass through the mountains. On the western side, he reached rolling hills, brown and scruffy with frost-bitten grass, and there he stumbled upon a tiny village in a secluded valley. The small square huts, roofed with dirty thatch, were made of rough-hewn wood packed with mud to keep out the chill. Grazing on the brown and stubbled grass were goats and a few cows. The village belonged to some of the Old Ones, those unfortunate folk who’d lived in the land before the blood-thirsty Deverrians had ridden their way to seize it from them. Dark-haired, on the slender side, they had their own immensely complex languages, or rather, a mutually incomprehensible group of them, which in the settled parts of Deverry and Eldidd were forbidden by the laws of their conquerors, but kept alive by stealth. When Aderyn rode up to the huts, the folk came running out to stare at him and his fine horse and mule. In a group, the eight men of the village advanced upon him with their rough spears at the ready, but when Aderyn spoke in their language and explained that he was a herbman, they lowered the weapons. Dressed in a long brown tunic, a man of about forty stepped forward, and introduced himself as Wargal, the head man.
‘You’ll forgive our greeting, but we have great reason to fear these days.’
‘Indeed? Are the men of Eldidd close by?’
‘The despicable blue-eyed ones are always too close by.’
For a moment they contemplated each other in an uneasy silence. Wargal’s eyes flicked back and forth between his folk and the stranger. He had a secret, Aderyn supposed, and he could guess it: the village was sheltering a runaway bondsman.
‘Are there any sick in your village?’ Aderyn said. ‘I have many herbs, and I’ll gladly help anyone who needs them in return for some fresh milk and a night’s shelter.’
‘Any stranger is welcome to milk from my flock. But if you can spare some medicine, one of our women has a bad case of boils.’
The villagers tended Aderyn’s horse and mule while Wargal took him to his own home, which had no furniture except for three big pottery jars near the tiny hearth and the straw mattress he shared with his wife. Hanging on the wall were a few bronze pots, a couple of knives of the same metal, and some rough cloth sacks. Aderyn sat down next to Wargal in the place of honour by the hearth while villagers crowded in for a look at this amazing event, a stranger in their village. After some polite conversation over bowls of goat’s milk, the woman with the boils was duly treated in the midst of the curious crowd. Other villagers came forward to look over the herbs and ask shy questions, but most were beyond his help, because the real plague in this village was malnutrition. Driven by fear of the Eldidd lords, they eked out a miserable living on land so poor that no one else wanted it.
Although Aderyn would have preferred to eat his own food and spare theirs, Wargal insisted that he join him and his wife in their dinner of goat’s milk cheese and thin cracker-bread.
‘I’m surprised you don’t have your winter crops in yet,’ Aderyn remarked.
‘Well, we won’t be here to harvest them. We had a long council a few days ago, and we’re going to move north. The cursed Blue Eyes get closer every day. What if one of their head men decides to build one of those forts along the road?’
‘And decides you should be slaves to farm for him? Leaving’s the wise thing to do.’
‘There’s plenty of open land farther north, I suppose. Ah, it’s so hard to leave the pastures of your ancestors! There’s a god in the spring nearby, too, and I only hope he won’t be angry with us for leaving him.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘We thought of leaving last spring, but it was too much of a wrench, especially for the women. Now we have another reason.’
‘Indeed?’
Wargal considered him, studying Aderyn’s face in the flickering firelight.
‘You seem like a good man,’ Wargal said at last. ‘I don’t suppose you have any herbs to take a brand off a man’s face?’
‘I only wish I did. If you’re harbouring a runaway, you’d best move fast in case his lord comes looking for him.’
‘So I told the others. We were thinking of packing tomorrow.’ Wargal glanced around the hut. ‘We don’t have much to pack or much to lose by leaving – well, except the god in the spring, of course.’
Aderyn
