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Silver-Brow, the Lord of Gwinionydd, and his son, Cynedyr the Wild, led the band in Coed Coch, the forest to the southwest. And far to the southeast, in Coed Sarrug, lived the band led by Tyrnon Twrf Liant, Lord of Gwent, and Trystan’s sister, Atlantas, the Lady of Malienydd.
    Owein did not smile when he saw Isgowen Whledig, for that was not his way. But the stern lines around his mouth lightened somewhat when he showed her the treasures they had brought back. He held back only one thing from her—a golden bracelet, for he meant to give it to his sister. When Enid finally reached him through the press of people crowding around him, he clasped the treasure around her slender wrist.
    “Owein,” she exclaimed, delighted. “It’s lovely.”
    “Not enough for a Princess of Rheged, but better than nothing.” As always, he spoke with underlying bitterness. And, as always, he did not, could not, say what he really meant. But Enid understood.
    “A token, surely, of better things to come.” She smiled, but her smile had the tinge of sadness he had seen more and more often in the last few months.
    She was small and slight for her eighteen years. Her red-gold hair—so like their mother’s—was braided tightly to her scalp. She wore a plain tunic of dark green, and brown trousers tucked into brown leather boots. A quiver of arrows was still slung about her shoulders for, though she had not come on the raid today, she had been scouting the forest to the east in Teleri’s company, keeping an eye out for possible Coranian reinforcements coming from Llwynarth.
    But her smile faded, and the faint line between her brows deepened. Her blue eyes flickered as she took a deep breath, ready to plead again the cause she held most dear to her heart. “Owein,” she began.
    But Owein, knowing full well what was coming, did not choose to acknowledge it. “Call the others, will you?” he asked, as he walked past her toward the heart of the camp. “I must know what orders the Master Bard has for us next.”
    “Owein!” she cried, halting him with an urgent hand on his arm.
    He stopped. “Yes?” he asked, feigning puzzlement.
    Her eyes searched his face for some sign that he was ready to listen. But she did not find it. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “I’ll call the others.”
    O WEIN’S BLUE EYES traveled the circle of people gathered in the clearing. To his right, Trystan, his Captain, stood stolidly, stern and silent, as was his fashion these days. Once, years ago, Trystan’s green eyes had danced with laughter. Once, where his eyes would have sought out Esyllt, the Bard of Rheged, now they fastened on Owein with grim intent, to the exclusion of all else.
    Esyllt herself sat at one end of a log, on Trystan’s right. Her light brown hair was loose, flowing down to her slender waist. She wore a plain gown of blue over a shift of white. Around her neck she wore the Bard’s torque of a single sapphire set within a silver triangle. Her beautiful blue eyes were bright with the knowledge of her beauty. Her clear skin, fair and white even after two years of living in the forest, shone translucent, like mother of pearl.
    Across from Owein stood his Lieutenant, Teleri ur Brysethach. Her brown hair was cut short, and her gray-green eyes were intent. She was a tiny woman, barely reaching Owein’s shoulder. Though petite, she was one of the finest warriors in all of Rheged, and her archery was almost legendary. It had been Teleri who had survived that last battle at Llwynarth, and had brought him King Urien’s helm and torque, naming him true King of Rheged, heir to his murdered father.
    Next to Teleri stood Gwarae Golden-Hair, the Gwarda of Ystlwyf. A year ago Gwarae had escaped his captors and come to the forest to join Owein’s band. Gwarae’s green eyes blazed with eagerness, though with the thirst for action or the nearness of Teleri, Owein could not tell. Probably both.
    Enid sat quietly on another log, her quiver of arrows