The Rider's power is rising, a shrieking storm and a silent oppressive weight in the air, and Will gathers his own strength instantly to match, words of the Old Speech in his mind and a strange brightness about him, like a swirling pillar of light only half-glimpsed. The Dark is rising with deep winter, but still they are paired and matched, and he can meet her strength; he can shield Owen Davies, and Bran and himself, and he is ready to, about to cry the word--

And Gwion is there.

Will holds himself taut, and does not look away from the White Rider. Not now.

The air, he thinks, is holding its breath.

A wash of wary gratitude, and of uneasiness. What are you planning, Gwion?