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As Dallben predicted, soon after the Sons and Daughters of Don sailed from Prydain, King Eiddileg commanded the barring of all passages into his kingdom. It was time – long past time – that the Fair Folk stopped dealing with mortals, he declared.
Aloud – and loudly – Doli agreed. In his heart, however, he wasn't quite sure. Unlike most of his kindred, he'd dealt directly with mortals, mostly of his own free will. He'd fought alongside them, bled alongside them, shared their sorrows and triumphs. The new High King of Prydain had saved his life as many as times as Doli had saved his. Well, almost as many times. For all intents and purposes, Doli supposed that they were even, which was something precious few dwarves could say about their interactions with mortals.
Even, yes. All debts paid. And that should have stopped him from wondering just how his former companions were doing, now that Prydain had been purged of enchantments and they were on their own.
But he did wonder.
He wondered just how Taran was getting along in his new role, and Eilonwy as well. Wondered if Taran had managed to blunt that good axe he'd given him as a farewell gift, if the two of them had managed to raise Caer Dathyl from the rubble to which Pryderi and the Cauldron Born had reduced it. He wondered about the men from the Free Commots, who'd fought so bravely against the warriors of Arawn Death-Lord. He even wondered about that white pig and her six piglets. He didn't – wouldn't – say that he missed any of them. Just that he wondered.
King Eiddileg closed the wayposts, but he kept his spies, of course. While he trusted his enchantments to hide the entrances to his kingdom until the end of the world, he liked to know what was going on above his head. Or so Gwystyl confided to Doli, with much wheezing and sighing. "He's curious, so we – that is to say I - must suffer. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I suppose, in a way, I should be grateful. My king trusts me. Yes, that's the way of it, I'm afraid. If I weren't so good at my job, so tolerant, so willing to serve. Despite my poor health. Really, Doli, I'm not well. I've all these aches and pains, and the damp does get to me. It sort of sticks in my throat. But don't let that trouble you. It doesn't trouble the king, and besides, I'm quite used to it by now…"
From Gwystyl's moaning and groaning, Doli did learn one interesting thing, which King Eiddileg had neglected to mention, at least in his hearing: the Fair Folk, it seemed, could leave their realm and travel among mortals, providing they did so discreetly.
Doli ruminated on that bit of information for a good long while. In the smithy where he worked, fashioning blades for his fellow warriors and ornaments for his king's coffers. In the long, winding corridors where he walked, thumbs jammed into his belt loops, brow furrowed in thought. Along the banks of underground rivers, where pale, blind fish flicked by like ghosts in the dark water.
He wondered and he wondered and he never quite made a conscious decision, but there came a day when his wondering and his wandering brought him to the lip of a cavern. On the other side, mere inches from the shadows where he hesitated, mellow sunlight filtered through a canopy of golden leaves, turning the forest floor a rich brown he'd not seen in years, and the moss and lichens that clung to the trees to emerald. The bracken shivered with the movements of small animals as they gathered nuts and berries for the winter months that lay ahead. The scents of autumn came to Doli: apple-mint, thyme, and goldenrod. Wood-smoke too, which meant that he couldn't be far from human dwellings.
An old, familiar chill washed over him at the thought of being among mortals again. He did not dare let them see him, so he became invisible, and sighed as, almost immediately, his ears began to ring. Before long, it was as if he had a whole nest of hornets in his head, and he almost turned back, but something prevented him, some spark of curiosity.
"And after all," he said to himself as he stepped out into the deepening light of late afternoon, "I've come this far. Might as well have a look about and see what's what. I fought for this land too."
And so he walked. And yes, there were human dwellings nearby, a small cluster of thatched houses at the edge of the woods, and as he passed them he heard chatter and laughter intermingled with the sounds of labor. His feet carried him nearer, seemingly of their own accord, and soon he was able to discern words. The people talked of the harvest, and of their own recent triumphs and misfortunes. They said nothing of the High King and Queen, but Doli hadn't really expected them to. He lingered for a little while, not really sure why. The aroma of roasting meat and vegetables reminded him that he'd left his home without provisions or any tools besides the small axe he always carried.
As the sun went down and the families gathered around their hearth fires, Doli shrugged and continued on his way – though "way" was perhaps the wrong word, as he had no particular destination in mind, no objective save to see how Prydain had changed in the years since the Children of Don had left it. As he left the little houses behind, the sound of harp music followed him over the gentle hills. The person playing was not especially good, but Doli was glad of it. Somehow, it made the night seem less dark – though he had never been troubled by darkness before – and the world around him less vast. It made him think of another harp, of another harper, and he smiled despite himself as he walked.
****
His way, he discovered in time, took him from one end of Prydain to the other. From the Marshes of Morva, which he did not enter, to the breathless heights of the Eagle Mountains. He never saw his former companions, but he saw some of the things they had done, and he was pleased … to a degree. He saw the new seawall at Dinas Rhydnant. The thing was well constructed, for all the work had been done by human hands. Studying it in the moonlight, Doli saw a couple of places that were likely to prove troublesome as the years, the winds, and the waves wore away at them. Slowly, invisible, and under cover of darkness, he did what he could.
He was not, he told himself, dealing with mortals. Nor was he doing favors for them. It was professional pride, nothing more.
He said as much to Gwystyl when the wretched fellow came upon him one spring night in the Red Fallows, where the earth was already starting to richen with life.
"Try telling that to King Eiddileg," Gwystyl said. After a long sigh, he added, "You're going to get into trouble."
Doli grunted. "Not as if I've never been in trouble before." He cast his companion a sidelong glance. "And unless you've a mind to be squeezed within an inch of your miserable—"
Gwystyl's pale eyes went round with offended innocence. "Oh, I haven't breathed a word! Believe me, Doli, your secret is safe with me. Though, to be perfectly honest, I worry so that it's affecting my health. I'm not getting enough sleep, I know that, and…"
For once, Doli didn't mind the hornets in his ears so much. If he concentrated on them, he almost couldn't hear Gwystyl as he went on in his tragic drone.
****
Doli wandered for a long time. Now and then he heard tales of a young king and queen, who'd materialized – some actually used that word, usually after a round or two of mead, with dancing firelight and awe flickering in their eyes – just when the people of Prydain thought their protectors had abandoned them. They'd come up from the sea—
—No, some insisted, that's only the queen. She came from the sea, all right. Got eyes like the sea, anyway, or so I hear. The king was raised on a farm, same as me. But on the day the Sons of Don left, Lord Gwydion revealed himself to be the lad's father—
—How now? The High King looks nothing like Lord Gwydion!—
—And how would you know, having never clapped eyes on either of them? You've never been farther than Cantrev Mawr. I should know, for I've seen your ugly face every day of my life, and I've never been farther either.—
Whenever they fell to arguing, Doli laughed. Sometimes they heard him, but they mistook the sound for the crackling of the fire or the wind rattling the dry branches. The stories amused him, for he knew the truth, though he kept it to himself. Even the bards didn't have it exactly right. Oh, they told the stories better than the men and women of the commots and cantrevs, but they tended to embellish, to add flourishes that could only have come from their own imaginations. Doli had to laugh at them as well because the truth was better than any of them dreamed it.