'Hafgan's harp,' Dafyd said, retrieving it and holding it out to me. 'He asked me to save it for your return.'

I took the beloved instrument and reverently uncovered it. The wood gleamed in the dim light and the strings hummed faintly. Hafgan's harp… a treasure. How many times had I seen him play it? How many times had I played it myself in learning? It was almost the first thing I remember about him – the long, robed frame sitting beside the fire, hunched over the harp, spinning music into a night suddenly alive with magic. Or, I see him standing upright in a king's hall, strumming boldly as he sings of the deeds and desires, faults and fame, hopes and harrowings of the heroes of our people.

'He knew I would come back?'

'Oh, he never doubted it. "Give this to Myrddin when he returns," he told me. "He will need a harp, and I always meant him to have this one."'

Thank you, Hafgan. If you could see where and when your harp has been used, you would be astonished.

We rode back to the villa then, arriving in time to eat our midday meal. My mother and Gwendolau were deep in conversation, oblivious to the activity around them. Dafyd and I ate with Maelwys and Baram, who were sitting with two of Maelwys' chiefs from the northern part of his lands. 'Sit down with us,' Maelwys invited. 'There is news from Gwynedd.'

One of the chieftains, a swarthy dark man named Tegwr, with short black hair and a heavy bronze tore around his neck, spoke up. 'I have kinsmen in the north who sent word that a king called Cunedda has been established in Diganhwy.'

Baram leaned closer, but said nothing.

'Has been established?' I asked. 'What does that mean?'

The Emperor Maximus has put him there,' Tegwr answered bluntly. 'To hold the land, they say. Gave it to him outright› him and his tribe, if they would live there and hold the land.'

'Very generous of our emperor,' replied Maelwys.

'Generous, aye, and crack-brained.' Tegwr shook his head violently, showing what he thought of the idea.

'The land is empty and that is not good. Someone has to hold it – to keep the Irish out, if for no other reason," I pointed out.

'Cunedda is Irish!' Tegwr exploded. The other chief spat and cursed under his breath. 'And he is there!'

'That cannot be,' said Baram. 'If it is, it cannot be good.'

There was something of familiarity in Baram's spare tone. 'You know him?' asked Maelwys.

'We know of him.'

'And what you know is not good?'

Baram nodded darkly, but said nothing.

'Speak man,' said Tegwr, 'this is no time to clamp jaws and bite tongue.'

'We hear he has three wives and a brood of sons.'

'Brood is right!' laughed Baram mirthlessly. 'Viper's brood, more like. Cunedda came to the north many years ago and seized land there. Since then there has been nothing but trouble. Yes, we know him and have no love for him, or his grasping sons.'

'Why would Maximus wish to establish him among us? Why not one of our own?' wondered Maelwys. 'Elphin ap Gwyddno, perhaps.' He gestured towards me. 'It was their land first.'

'My grandfather would thank you for the thought,' I replied, 'but he would not go back. There is too much pain in the place for my people; they would never be happy there again. Once, when I was quite small, Maximus asked Elphin to go back and received his answer then.'

'That is no reason to bring in a hound like Cunedda,' sneered Tegwr.

Take the Irish to keep the other Irish out,' mused Maelwys.

'You will have to watch him,' warned Baram. 'He is an old man now – some of his sons have sons. But he is cunning as an old boar, and as mean. His sons are little better; there are eight of them, and tight-fisted to a man, whether with sword or purse. But I will say this, they look out for their own. If holding the land is what they are to do, hold it they will.'

'Small comfort that is,' muttered Tegwr.

Baram shrugged. He had, after his fashion, spoken a whole month's worth and would say no more.

In my own estimation, no matter what Tegwr and those like him might think, Cunedda's coming was no bad thing in itself. The land had to be held and worked and protected. In the time since Elphin had been driven out, no one else had claimed Gwynedd – even those who had overrun it had no lasting interest in it; they cared only for the wealth it promised.

There could be, as Elphin realized, no return to the past. Better to have a known rascal like Cunedda – who could be relied upon to look out for his own interests, if nothing else – than an unknown rascal. Granting land to Cunedda could be a masterstroke of diplomacy and defence. Maximus might then more easily gut the garrison for his move to Gaul, having done what he could for the region by bringing in a strong clan to protect it. For his part, the old boar would be flattered and gratified to be so recognized by the Emperor; he might even mend his ruthless ways in an effort to win the respect of his neighbours.

Time would tell.

The others drifted into talk of other concerns, so I excused myself and took the harp to my room where I set about tuning it and trying my hand. So long had it been since I had last held a harp – in fact, the last time had been on the night I sang in Maelwys' hall.

A beautiful instrument, the harp is crafted by bardic artisans using tools and skills guarded, honed, and improved over a thousand years. The finest wood: heart of oak or walnut, carefully, gracefully cut, shaped, and smoothed by hand. Polished with a preserving lacquer and strung with brass or gut, a well-made harp sings of itself; in the wandering wind it hums. But let the hand of a bard touch those bright strings and it leaps into song.

There is a saying among bards that all songs ever to be made lie sleeping in the heart of the harp and only await the harper's touch to awaken them. I have felt this to be true, for often the songs themselves seem to teach the fingers to play.

After a time, the feel of my fingers on the strings began to come back to me. I tried playing one of the songs I liked best and managed to get through it with only a few hesitations.

For some reason, cradling the harp, Ganieda came to my mind. I had thought about her often since leaving Custennin's forest stronghold. Even though it had been in her father's mind to send Gwendolau with me, that did not lessen her concern for me. Did she, like her father, also guess I shared ancestry with the Fair Folk? Was that what attracted her to me, and I to her?

Oh, yes, I was attracted to her: smitten with that dark beauty, some might say, from the moment I saw her plunging recklessly through the wood in pursuit of that monstrous boar. First the sound of their chase and the sight of the beast thrashing through the stream, and then… Ganieda, suddenly appearing in the light, spear in hand, eyes bright, intense, fevered determination shaping her lovely features.

Ganieda of the Fair Folk – was it coincidence? Had chance alone brought us together? Or something beyond chance?

However it was, our lives could not go on as before. Soon or late, there would be a decision. In my heart of hearts I knew the answer already, and hoped I knew it aright.

The harp brought these things to my mind. Music, I suppose, was part of the beauty I associated, even then, with Ganieda. Already, though we scarcely knew each other, she was part of me and had a place in my thoughts and in my heart.

Did you know that, Ganieda? Did you feel it, too?