The Giants' Dance by Robert Carter Page A

followed, Will heard the muted sound of merry revels coming from the rest of the inn. Voices were raised in laughter, a round of song and the scraping of a long-handled fiddle. Perhaps Gwydion’s spell of defence against eavesdroppers had spent itself. Duffred came in to collect the trenchers and to flap the crumbs from the table. He brought a measure of brisk good cheer with him that dispelled their thoughtfulness, and when he asked if they needed their tankards refilling, they agreed that that was a very good idea.
    They spoke more lightly for a while, reminiscing about this and that until at last Morann rose up. ‘I think it’s time I was away to my bed.’
    â€˜In that case, may you remember to forget only what you forget to remember,’ Will told him in parting toast.
    Gwydion drained his tankard. ‘Black swan, white crow, take good care, wheresoever you go!’
    Morann picked up his knife and sheathed it. ‘And I have a parting toast for the both of you: may misfortune follow you all the days of your life…’ he smiled a warm smile, ‘…but never catch up with you.’
    And with that Morann was walking with uneven steps towards the passageway, and soon the stairs were creaking under his heels. When Gwydion also took his leave, Willsat alone in the snug for a few moments, his thoughts darkening as he wondered about Willow and their baby daughter and the peril that still seemed to him to hang over the Vale like a dark cloud.

CHAPTER FOUR
THE LIGN OF THE ASH TREE
    W ill was surprised to find the sun high in the sky by the time he awoke. Bright shafts of sunlight pierced the shutters, and he sprang up from the mattress and got dressed as quickly as he could, fearing that Gwydion and Morann might have left without him.
    But he soon found them outside in the yard, talking with the inn’s people.
    â€˜Morning, Gwydion. Morning, Morann.’
    â€˜And a fine morning it is,’ Morann said.
    â€˜Ah, Willand,’ Gwydion said. ‘I hope you are feeling able today. There may be tough work ahead.’
    Dimmet sniffed at a side of beef that was hanging in his out-house. ‘Not too high for the pie, nor yet too low for the crow,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘Now, Master Gwydion, shall I expect you back by noon?’
    â€˜You may expect us, Dimmet, when next you see us.’
    â€˜Right you are,’ Dimmet said affably. ‘I’ll take that to mean I should mind my own business.’
    He went off to take delivery of the milk jugs, but soon Duffred had hitched Bessie, the bay cob, to the tithe wagon. Will got up onto the cart to sit alongside Morann andGwydion, and then they were off, heading east along a road that Will had travelled before.
    A rolling land of good, brown clay met them as they drove steadily onward. The going was easy past Hemmel and Hencoop. The wagon ruts that had been made in the road during a wet spring had been baked into hard ridges by the summer sun and worn to dust. Hills to their left threw out low green rises that sloped across their path, and the sun shone on the part-harvested wheatfields to their right. But soon, tended fields gave way to wilder country.
    Gwydion told of the times he had visited Caer Lugdunum, an ancient fortress that had once stood on a hill a little way to the north, and how graciously he had been received in poem and song by the druida who had lived there. Then Morann sang ‘The Lay of the Lady’ in a rich, clear voice that knew the true tongue well. His song was about the brave Queen of the East and the stand she had made long ago against the armies of the Slaver empire. It was so sad a song that Will felt shivers pass through him, and it was a long while before he returned to himself and felt the hot sun on his face again. When he did, he found that Bessie had already covered half the road to Nadderstone.
    Hereabouts the land was scrubby and unkempt, and Will looked to a cluster of