Cadoc looked behind him in the fading light. “Genethig, if we push the horses we should arrive at Pendragon’s caer by the time the moon awakes.”

“No, we are staying here tonight.” The dark-haired, lithesome youth looked at the older, gruff guard with a hard glint he recognized. She had allowed him to direct the travel with no complaints up until now. “We will not arrive at dusk, like weary vassals. We are not coming to Artoros like a beaten curr, but as equals. Politics is more about setting and arranging of players than about strength and the sword. We will have to arrive in the bright morning sunlight when the hills come out of shadow, or even the foggy midst. The weather lately has been as changeable as one of father’s moods. Hmmm, I think—yes--- just as the rhyfelwyr are finishing their morning exercises. Yes, that would be perfect.” Modron had trailed off knowing that Cadoc had stopped listening. Her mind working with the turbulence of a springtime flood examining every angle she could think of.

The two travelers made camp within sight of the hillocks of the walls of Artoros’ great hall, Ehangwen. The rain began it appointment with the ground in big fat droplets, then faster, harder. The travelers constructed a small lean-to of young branches and oiled cloth to keep most of the rain off thier heads for the night, as a fire would be useless at this point. Tomorrow, time will have to be taken to clean up properly and wash in a stream or river before making the appearance. The rhythmic sound of the rain lulled Modron to sleep as the tywysoges contemplated what she will face on the morrow.

Even on the misty isle, tales of Artoros’ exploits, as a young man, followed and exceeded in greatness beyond the old war-lord Aurelius Ambrosius. His inner life was a mystery though. Did he embrace the Christos, or cling to the old ways and marry to the land? Modron knew she would have to use every advantage she could press to determine that, albeit slowly and only revealing her skills when absolutely necessary. For now she will play the part of the spoiled princess, and political link to Avalon.

---

Sounds of grunting and metal upon metal filled the air as the rhyfelwyr excercised. Cadoc and his charge trot at a stately pace toward the walls of the caer. Soldiers still warming up after the freezing rain of last night and large group of visitors arriving, startle at the seemingly sudden appearance of the emissary and her guard. It did not hurt that Modron, teased and convinced a small waft of fog to surround them until she could just “appear” at the castle gates.

Cadoc raised the pennon of a white field with a single ogham character and an apple blossom. He personally thought it was ridiculous way to communicate who they were, but in the lands of man he would consider their customs for the sake of his pledge to Afallach.

“Oh-ho! Visitors!” The call was heard as the gates opened and the two riders and their pack horse entered the gates. Whispers reached the sharp hearing of Modron and she smiled to herself as several members of the crowd gathered began to speak in hushed tones of her sudden magical appearance, regal bearing, and the pinion of Ogham alluding to the old ways.

Modron thought to herself, this is a very good start. Suddenly, a young man sweat on his brow and work jerkin, and sword at his hip appeared around the corner accompanied by an older warrior-companion. Their friendly conversation of warrior talk stopped when they realized additional company had arrived at the gates following the new arrivals last night.

Modron’s eyes flashed from green to gray as she tried to take in what will be her mission for the foreseeable future- the unraveling of the mystery of this young brenin.

---

Genethig= little girl, maiden
Caer= city, castle, wall
Rhyfelwyr= warrior
Brenin= king, sovereign