"I will be there, my love! I swear it!" he told her, and she was startled to see tears in his beautiful blue eyes.
Wynne reached out and touched his face with her hand, comforting him as best she could. Though the past meant nothing to her now, she had to learn the truth of what had once been between them for both their sakes. The sadness his face had taken on unnerved her. What was so awful that he feared for her to know it, and yet insisted that she did? "Let us hurry home, my lord, for I feel my nerve beginning to waver, yet go on this journey in time I must!"
When they returned to Raven's Rock, Wynne kissed Madoc in such a way that he knew she was saying her farewell to him. He could not remain within their apartments, and fled to his tower for comfort. Megan had prepared her mistress's bath, and Wynne bathed quickly, donning a soft silk chamber robe in her favorite grass-green, which was lined in an equally soft rabbit's fur. Megan was instructed to pour her lady a goblet of sweet wine. Wynne mixed Madoc's herbs into it.
"Go to my lord, Megan," Wynne told the girl, "and say that I have taken his sleeping mixture. When I awaken I shall know all. Remind him also of his promise to me." Then lifting the goblet, Wynne immediately drained it. She handed the vessel to Megan and lay back upon her pillows.
Almost at once her eyes felt abnormally heavy. Her entire being seemed to be sinking, but before she could even consider being fearful, Wynne fell into a deep slumber. She felt as if she were falling, falling, falling; and yet there was now a weightlessness to her body. She wanted to open her eyes, but she could not. There was no sound. It was as if she floated within a great nothingness. I want to know! she thought desperately. I must know what it is that binds me to, yet separates me from Madoc! I must know!
Then suddenly above her a raven cried. Remember! Remember! About her a faint mauve mist blew like pieces of shredded silk gauze, obscuring her vision. Then all at once the mists were gone. Wynne found herself in a thick woods. A voice was calling to her, and yet it was not she who answered-or was it? She could feel her own life force ebbing, even as another life force surged forward; but she was not afraid.
"Rhiannon! Rhiannon, where are you?!"
"Over here, Angharad. Oh, come and look! Do come!"
Angharad, catching sight of her elder sister at last, prodded her mount through the trees to the edge of the dark green and gold forest where Rhiannon sat upon her own horse, peering intently through the trees. "What is so interesting that you would not answer me?" she demanded. Though younger than her sister, Angharad had always felt older, wiser, and protective of her beauteous elder sibling.
Rhiannon pointed with a slender finger.
Sapphire-blue eyes followed her sister's delicate direction. Angharad stared for a moment, and then she said in a disappointed tone, "It is only a party of Cymri huntsmen, Rhiannon. There is nothing particularly fascinating about them."
"Not all of them, silly," Rhiannon admonished her sister. "Him! Pwyll, Prince of Dyfed. Is he not the most beautiful creature that you have ever seen in all of your existence?"
Angharad looked again and, seeing nothing she thought unusual, she wrinkled her pretty nose. "He is Cymri," she repeated, as if that explanation should be enough for her sister's understanding.
"Ohhh, look!" the besotted Rhiannon cried out. "He is dancing upon the mound! Is he not amusing, sister?"
"He's drunk with mead," replied Angharad pointedly, "or else he would not dare to do it. The Cymri believe that those mounds are entries into the worlds below the earth. What foolish beings they are. I've heard it said that they think if they tread even accidentally upon those grassy hillocks that they will invite enchantment. What silliness!"
"Pwyll," called one of the huntsmen to the dancer. "Come down off that damned mound! Are ye courting trouble then, man? Ye'll bring a curse upon us all!"
“ 'Tis naught but superstitious nonsense," laughed Pwyll bravely. "Come and join me, Taran! Or is the victorious warrior of a hundred battles afraid of the fairies?"
"I am not afraid of the fairies," laughed Taran good-naturedly, "but I'm also not drunk enough to be foolish."
From her hiding place Rhiannon's eyes twinkled mischievously and she giggled. Turning to her younger sister, she said, "I think that the beautiful Prince of Dyfed lacks a proper respect, Angharad. Perhaps I can instill it in him."
"What are you going to do, Rhiannon?" demanded Angharad. "The Cymri are best avoided."
"Stay right where you are, little one. As your elder, I am responsible for you. You may watch me, however," came the gay reply as Rhiannon moved her horse forward out of the shelter of the trees. She spurred her mount gently forward into the clearing where the men were gathered, but the creature's dainty hooves made no sound as they touched the ground.
Taran saw her first as she appeared from amid the tangle of woods that surrounded the little area where he and his companions had stopped to eat and drink. His mouth fell open with surprise. Speechless, he could do nothing more than raise a hand and point. Amazed that their usually voluble companion had been rendered silent, Pwyll and the others followed the direction of that shaking finger to find themselves equally stunned.
At first they were not even certain what it was they saw glittering and shimmering as it came toward them. Was it some trick of the light amid the delicate leaves of the golden beech trees and the sturdier quivering branches of the deep green pines? Was it their half-drunken state that made them imagine that they were seeing something? Was it magic of some sort that they were witnessing? Then gradually their confused eyes perceived a young girl upon her horse.
There wasn't a man in that clearing who did not think that the girl was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. A tall, slender maiden with a serene face, mounted upon a dainty black mare with an elegant high step, whose bejeweled red leather bridle tinkled with the sound of tiny silver bells. The girl's heart-shaped face was framed by a mass of thick hair which seemed to be spun of gold and silver mixed together. It poured down her back in a rippling wave, spreading itself out over the shining dark flanks of the horse. Her gown was a pearlescent garment that appeared to have been spun from cobwebs and moonbeams. It floated about her. Her beautiful, delicate hands with their slender, bejeweled fingers rested quietly upon the reins. She seemed to be almost one with her mare. Eyes focused ahead of her on some unseen path, she did not once look toward the huntsmen as she trotted by and vanished on the opposite side of the clearing into the forest as silently and as mysteriously as she had come forth from it.
Open-mouthed, they stared after her. Then Pwyll managed to recover and called to a young huntsman, "Gwyr! Follow her! Quickly! I would know who that lady is, and where she goes."
Galvanized into action by the sound of Pwyll's voice, the young huntsman raced to his horse and dashed off after the beautiful girl.
As they watched him go, Taran said, "I think we may have seen some magical creature from another realm, my lord. Perhaps you should not have danced upon the mound."
"Aye, 'tis magic we have seen this afternoon, my lord," spoke up another of the prince's friends, Evan ap Rhys. "I hope you have not offended one of the Fair Folk."
"The Fair Folk are not to be feared," Pwyll tried to reassure his men. "They are our friends."
"They are different from us, Pwyll," replied Taran. "Oh, I know you have had dealings with them before and all has been well; but none of us knows where they live, or even how they live. They simply appear and disappear at will. They are prosperous, and yet do any of us know how they come by their wealth? Such lack of knowledge makes me uncomfortable with the Fair Folk."