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it just . . . will not . . . let me go.

    Cadwal stood where he had been standing still as stone ever since seeing Prince Ardagh collapse. His first impulse had been to run to the prince, see if he was hurt. But something inside hum had said, clear as words, no. It wasn't right to intrude on a man's private grieving, be he prince or commoner.
    Yet . . . there was more here than an exile mourning his lost land, much more, though Cadwal couldn't quite have put his thoughts into clear speech. He hadn't quite seen, the mercenary told himself, not in all this darkness, he hadn't quite heard, either. But surely before he'd fallen, Prince Ardagh had been chanting in his strange, beautiful native tongue, whatever it might be. And just for a moment Cadwal could have sworn there had been something more than . . .
    Than what? He felt a little shiver run up his spine, in that moment for all his years of war nothing more than a child of his homeland, of often-mystic Cymru. Had he really seen something other than the mundane walls of Fremainn? Something more? Had there been just for that bare heartbeat of time, a hint of something very splendid, indeed?
    Och, idiot! And are you going to start believing in Faerie at this late date? Are you going to add that to— to whatever it is that's driving you to wander about like a lost soul?
    That last question was far too easy to answer: Dreams drove him—
    No, Cadwal corrected himself, not dreams, only one dream. The dream. Gwen, so real he could almost touch her, Gwen pleading with him, Help me, save me, free me. It couldn't really be her, of course not. And yet, and yet . . . he had heard so many stories in his youth, tales of souls held from rest, souls held captive in little cages. . . .
    No. There are no such things as soul cages. No such things as ghosts, either. With all the battlefields I've seen, there should have been at least one someone reluctant to leave life behind. But no. You're dead, you're dead. Your soul goes on to heaven or hell. You do not hang about pestering the living like an unwanted guest.
    And why couldn't he believe it? And why couldn't he banish the dream? Feeling rather foolish about it, Cadwal had gotten himself some holy charms from Father Seadna, the High King's own priest, and worn one charm about his neck and spread the others all about his bed. Feeling even more foolish, he'd said a few rhymes dimly remembered from his Cymric childhood, things that the old women had taught him would chase away all uneasy spirits.
    And yet the dream refused to be banished. Every night: Save me, Cadwal, cariad, free me.
    " Iesu Crist, "he muttered, not quite in prayer, not quite not. Not much of a choice here, and neither very pleasant: either it really was poor Gwen's trapped soul— or he was going mad.

A Bit of Conversation

Chapter 4

    The new day was bright and cheery as though there'd never been a battle from which to recover. Praise God that he could recover, Aedh thought, flexing a still-stiff swordarm, wincing at the pull on bruised muscles. Eithne had wanted him to stay in bed this day while she rubbed her herbal mixtures into his sore skin.
    A pleasant thought, that, though I suspect we'd have spent more time rubbing those herbs off than on—ah well.
    He'd refused, of course. Let the word spread that the High King was incapacitated, even for a day, and they'd all be having him ready for his grave. True, Aedh admitted, he was no boy to fight so fiercely one day and be untouched by strain the next. But he could still more than hold his own. The moment he stopped being able to lead his men like this—och, that day hadn't yet come, nor, God willing, would it come soon.
    So, now. They'd come through the battle relatively unscathed: surprisingly few losses, while most of the wounded seemed, at least so far, likely to recover. Looks like a good time to make some nice, pious public statement about God being on our side. Which I suppose is true enough, he added