Flinging Dyrnwyn aside, Taran dropped to his knees beside Gwydion, who held the limp body of the Queen. The blood had drained from Achren’s lips and her glazed eyes sought Gwydion’s face.
“Have I not kept my oath, Gwydion?” she murmured, smiling vaguely. “Is the Lord of Annuvin slain? It is good. My death comes easily upon me.” Achren’s lips parted as though she would speak again, but her head fell back and her body sagged in Gwydion’s arms.
A horrified gasp came from Eilonwy. Taran looked up as the girl pointed to the cloven serpent. Its body writhed, its shape blurred. In its place appeared the black-cloaked figure of a man whose severed head had rolled face downward on the earth. Yet in a moment this shape too lost its form and the corpse sank like a shadow into the earth; and where it had lain was seared and fallow, the ground wasted, fissured as though by drought. Arawn Death-Lord had vanished.
“The sword!” cried Fflewddur. “Look at the sword!”
Quickly, Taran caught up the blade, but even as he grasped the hilt the flame of Dyrnwyn flickered, as though stirred by a wind. The white brilliance dimmed like a dying fire. Faster then the glow faded, no longer white but filled with swirling colors which danced and trembled. In another moment, Taran’s hand held no more than a scarred and battered weapon whose blade glinted dully, not from the flame that once had burned within it but only from the mirrored rays of the setting sun.
Eilonwy, hurrying to his side, called out, “The writing on the scabbard is fading, too. At least I think it is, unless it’s just the dim light. Here, let me see better.”
She drew the bauble from her cloak and brought it closer to the black scabbard. Suddenly, in the golden rays, the marred inscription glittered.
“My bauble brightens the lettering! There’s more than what used to be there!” cried the surprised girl. “Even the part that was scratched out—I can see most of it now!”
The companions hastily gathered and, while Eilonwy held the bauble, Taliesin took the scabbard and scanned it closely.
“The writing is clear, but fading quickly,” he said. “Indeed, Princess, your golden light shows what was hidden. ‘Draw Dyrnwyn, only thou of noble worth, to rule with justice, to strike down evil. Who wields it in good cause shall slay even the Lord of Death.’”
In another moment the inscription had vanished. Taliesin turned the black scabbard back and forth in his hands. “Perhaps now I understand what was only hinted in the lore, that once a mighty king came upon great power and strove to use it for his own advantage. I believe Dyrnwyn was that weapon, turned from its destiny, long lost and found again.”
“Dyrnwyn’s task is ended,” Gwydion said. “Let us leave this evil place.”
In death the face of Achren, no longer bitterly haughty, was at last tranquil. Shrouding the woman in her tattered black cloak, the companions bore the body to rest in the Great Hall, for she who had once ruled Prydain had died not without honor.
At the pinnacle of the Death-Lord’s tower, the dark banner suddenly burst into flames and fell away in blazing shreds. The walls of the Great Hall trembled, and the stronghold shuddered deep within itself.
The companions and the warriors rode from the Iron Portals, behind them the walls shattered and the mighty towers crumbled. A sheet of flame reached skyward from the ruins where Annuvin had stood.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Gift
They were home again. Gwydion had led the companions westward to the coast where the golden ships waited. From there, with Kaw proudly perched on the highest mast, the great vessels with their gleaming sails bore them to Avren harbor. Word of Arawn’s destruction had spread swiftly; and even as the companions disembarked, many cantrev lords and their battle hosts gathered to follow the Sons of Don, to do homage to King Gwydion, and to cry greetings to the Commot folk and Taran Wanderer. Gurgi unfurled what remained of the banner of the White Pig and raised it triumphantly.
Yet Gwydion had been strangely silent. And Taran, as the little farm came into sight, felt more heartache than joy. The winter had broken; thawing earth had begun to stir, and the first, hardly visible traces of green touched the hills like a faint mist. But Taran’s eyes went to Coll’s empty garden, and he grieved afresh for the stout grower of turnips, far distant in his lonely resting place.
Dallben hobbled out to greet them. The enchanter’s face had grown even more deeply lined, his brow seemed fragile, the wrinkled skin almost transparent. Seeing him, Taran sensed that Dallben already knew Coll would not return. Eilonwy ran to his outstretched arms. Taran, leaping from the back of Melynlas, strode after her. Kaw flapped his wings and gabbled at the top of his voice. Fflewddur, Doli, and Gurgi, who looked more than ever patchy and scraggly, hastened to add their greetings, attempting to tell Dallben, all at the same time, what had befallen them.
Hen Wen was squealing, grunting, and wheezing, and very nearly climbing over the bars of the pen. As Taran jumped into the enclosure to fling his arms about the delighted pig, he suddenly heard shrill squeakings and his jaw dropped in surprise.
Eilonwy, who had hurried to the enclosure, gave a joyful cry. “Piglets!”
Six small pigs, five white as Hen Wen and one black, stood squealing on their hind legs beside their mother. Hen Wen chuckled and grunted proudly.
“We have had visitors,” said Dallben. “One of them a very handsome boar. During the winter, when there was much stirring among the forest creatures, he came seeking food and shelter, and found Caer Dallben more to his liking than the woods. He is roaming about somewhere now, for he is still a little wild and unused to so many new arrivals.”
“Great Belin!” cried Fflewddur. “Seven oracular pigs! Taran, my friend, your tasks will be harder than they were in the Hills of Bran-Galedd.”
Dallben shook his head. “Sturdy and healthy they are, and as fine a litter as I have seen, but their powers are no greater than those of any other pig—which should be quite enough to satisfy them. Hen Wen’s own gift began to fade when the letter sticks shattered and now is gone past recall. It is for the best; such power is a heavy burden, for men as well as pigs, and I daresay she is much happier now.”
For two days, the companions rested, grateful and content to be together in the peacefulness of the little farm. The sky had never seemed clearer, filled with happier promise of spring or greater joy. King Smoit had arrived with his guard of honor, and through a night’s feasting the cottage rang with merriment.
Next day Dallben summoned the companions to his chamber, where Gwydion and Taliesin already waited. He peered deeply and kindly at all gathered there, and when he spoke his voice was gentle.
“These have been days of welcome,” he said, “but also days of farewell.”
A questioning murmur rose from the companions. Taran, with alarm, looked searchingly at Dallben. Fflewddur, however, clapped a hand to his sword and exclaimed, “I knew it would be so! What task remains to be done? Have the gwythaints returned? Is a band of Huntsmen still abroad? Have no fears! A Fflam stands ready!”
Gwydion smiled sadly at the excited bard. “Not so, gallant friend. Like the Huntsmen, the gwythaints have been destroyed. Yet it is true: one task remains. The Sons of Don, their kinsmen and kinswomen, must board the golden ships and set sail for the Summer Country, the land from which we came.”
Taran turned to Gwydion as though he had not grasped the High King’s words. “How then,” he quickly asked, not daring to believe he had heard aright, “the Sons of Don leave Prydain? Must you sail now? To what purpose? How soon shall you return? Shall you not first rejoice in your victory?”
“Our victory is itself the reason for our voyage,” Gwydion answered. “This is a destiny long ago laid upon us: When the Lord of Annuvin shall be overcome, then must the Sons of Don depart forever from Prydain.”
“No!” Eilonwy protested. “Not now, of all times!”
“We cannot turn from this ancient destiny,” Gwydion replied. “King Fflewddur Fflam, too, must join us, for he is kin to
the House of Don.”
The bard’s face filled with distress. “A Fflam is grateful,” he began, “and under ordinary circumstances I should look forward to a sea voyage. But I’m quite content to stay in my own realm. Indeed, dreary though it is, I’ve found myself rather missing it.”
Taliesin spoke then. “It is not for you to choose, Son of Godo. But know that the Summer Country is a fair land, fairer even than Prydain, and one where all heart’s desires are granted. Llyan shall be with you. A new harp you shall have. I myself shall teach you the playing of it, and you shall learn all the lore of the bards. Your heart has always been the heart of a true bard, Fflewddur Fflam. Until now, it was unready. Have you not given up that which you loved most for the sake of your companions? The harp that awaits you shall be all the more precious, and its strings shall never break.
“Know this, too,” Taliesin added. “All men born must die, save those who dwell in the Summer Country. It is a land without strife or suffering, where even death itself is unknown.”
“There is yet another destiny laid upon us,” Dallben said. “As the Sons of Don must return to their own land, so must there come an end to my own powers. I have long pondered the message Hen Wen’s last letter stick might have given us. It is clear to me now why the ash rods shattered. They could not withstand such a prophecy, which could only have been this: Not only shall the flame of Dyrnwyn be quenched and its power vanish, but all enchantments shall pass away, and men unaided guide their own destiny.
“I, too, voyage to the Summer Country,” Dallben continued. “I do so with sorrow but with even greater joy. I am an old man and weary, and for me there shall be rest and a laying down of burdens which have grown all too heavy upon my shoulders.
“Doli, alas, must return to the realm of the Fair Folk, and so must Kaw,” the enchanter went on. “The way posts are being abandoned. King Eiddileg will soon command the barring of all passages into his kingdom, just as Medwyn has already closed his valley forever to the race of men, allowing only the animals to find their way to him.”
Doli bowed his head. “Humph!” he snorted. “It’s about time to stop dealing with mortals. Only leads to trouble. Yes, I’ll be glad enough to go back. I’ve had my fill of good-old-Doli this and good-old-Doli that, and good-old-Doli would you mind turning invisible just once more!” The dwarf strove to look as furious as he could, but there were tears in his bright red eyes.
“Even the Princess Eilonwy Daughter of Angharad must voyage to the Summer Country,” Dallben said. “So it must be,” he went on, as Eilonwy gasped in disbelief. “At Caer Colur, the Princess gave up only the usage of her magical powers. They are still within her, as they have been handed down to all daughters of the House of Llyr. Therefore must she depart. However,” he went on quickly, before Eilonwy could interrupt, “there are others who have well-served the Sons of Don: faithful Gurgi; Hen Wen, too, in her own fashion; and Taran of Caer Dallben. It is their reward that they may journey with us.”
“Yes, yes!” shouted Gurgi. “All go to land of no sighings and no dyings!” He bounded joyously and waved his arms in the air, shedding a good portion of what hair remained to him. “Yes, oh yes! All together forever! And Gurgi, too, will find what he seeks. Wisdom for his poor tender head!”
Taran’s heart leaped as he cried out Eilonwy’s name and hastened to the side of the Princess to take her in his arms. “We shall not part again. In the Summer Country we shall be wed—” He stopped short. “If—if that is your wish. If you will wed an Assistant Pig-Keeper.”
“Well, indeed,” replied Eilonwy, “I wondered if you’d ever get round to asking. Of course I will, and if you’d given half a thought to the question you’d have already known my answer.”
Taran’s head still spun from the enchanter’s tidings, and he turned to Dallben. “Can this be true? That Eilonwy and I may voyage together?”
Dallben said nothing for a moment, then he nodded. “It is true. No greater gift lies in my power to grant.”
Glew snorted. “That’s all very well, bestowing never-ending life right and left. Even on a pig! But no one’s given a thought to me. Selfishness! Lack of consideration! It’s plain that if that Fair Folk mine hadn’t come tumbling down—robbing me of my fortune, I might add—we’d have taken a different path, we’d never have gone to Mount Dragon, Drynwyn would never have been found, the Cauldron-Born never slain …” For all his indignation, however, the former giant’s brow puckered wretchedly and his lips trembled. “Go, by all means! Let me stay this ridiculous size! I assure you, when I was a giant …”
“Yes, yes!” Gurgi shouted. “Whining giant, too, has served, even as he says. It is not fair to leave him lone and lost in smallness! And in treasure-house of evil Death-Lord, when all rich treasures fall in flames, a life was saved from hot and hurtful blazings!”
“Yes, even Glew has served, though all unwitting,” Dallben replied. “His reward shall be no less than yours. In the Summer Country he may grow, if he so desires, to the stature of a man. But do you tell me,” Dallben said, looking sternly at Gurgi, “that he saved your life?”
Gurgi hesitated a moment. Before he could answer, Glew quickly spoke. “Of course he didn’t,” said the former giant. “A life was saved. Mine. If he hadn’t pulled me out of the treasure-house I’d be no more than a cinder in Annuvin.”
“At least you’ve told the truth, giant!” cried Fflewddur. “Good for you! Great Belin, I think you’ve already grown a little taller!”
Gwydion stepped forward and gently put his hand on Taran’s shoulder. “Our time is soon upon us,” he said quietly. “In the morning, we shall depart. Make ready, Assistant Pig-Keeper.”
That night Taran drowsed fitfully. The joy that so lightened his heart had strangely flown, fluttering out of reach like a bird of brilliant plumage he could not lure back to his hand. Even thoughts of Eilonwy, of happiness awaiting them in the Summer Country, could not regain it.
At last he rose from his pallet and stood, uneasy, by the chamber window. The campfires of the Sons of Don had burned to ashes. The full moon turned the sleeping fields to a sea of silver. From far beyond the hills a voice began to lift in song, faint but clear; another joined it, then still others. Taran caught his breath. Only once, long ago in the Fair Folk realm, had he heard such singing. Now, more beautiful than he remembered, the song swelled, in a long flood of melody shimmering brighter than the moonbeams. Suddenly it ended. Taran cried out in sorrow, knowing he would never hear its like again. And, perhaps in his own imaginings there echoed from every corner of the land the sound of heavy portals closing.
“What, sleepless, my chicken?” said a voice behind him.
He turned quickly. Light filling the chamber dazzled him, but as his vision cleared he saw three tall and slender figures; two garbed in robes of shifting colors, of white, gold, and flaming crimson; and one hooded in a cloak of glittering black. Gems sparkled in the tresses of the first, at the throat of the second hung a necklace of shining white beads. Taran saw their faces were calm, beautiful to heartbreak, and though the dark hood shadowed the features of the last, Taran knew she could be no less fair.
“Sleepless and speechless, too,” said the middle figure. “Tomorrow, poor dear, instead of dancing with joy he’ll be yawning.”
“Your voices—I know them well,” Taran stammered, barely able to speak above a whisper. “But your faces—yes, once have I seen them, a time long past, in the Marshes of Morva. Yet you cannot be the same. Orddu? Orwen, and—Orgoch?”
“Of course we are, my gosling,” Orddu replied, “though it’s true whenever you met us before we were hardly at our best.”
“But good enough for the purpose,” Orgoch muttered from the depths of her hood.
Orwen giggled girlishly and toyed with her beads. “You mustn’t think we look like ugly old hags all the time,” she said. “Only when the circumstances seem to require it.”
“Why have you come?” Taran began, still baffled at the famili
ar tones of the enchantresses coming from such fair shapes. “Do you, too, journey to the Summer Country?”
Orddu shook her head. “We are journeying, but not with you. Salt air makes Orgoch queasy, though it’s very likely the only thing that does. We travel to—well—anywhere. You might even say everywhere.”
“You shall see no more of us, nor we of you,” added Orwen, almost regretfully. “We shall miss you. As much, that is, as we can miss anyone. Orgoch especially would have loved to—well, best not to dwell on that.”
Orgoch gave a most ungentle snort. Orddu, meanwhile, had unfolded a length of brightly woven tapestry and held it out to Taran.
“We came to bring you this, my duckling,” she said. “Take it and pay no heed to Orgoch’s grumbling. She’ll have to swallow her disappointment—for lack of anything better.”
“I have seen this on your loom,” Taran said, more than a little distrustful. “Why do you offer it to me? I do not ask for it, nor can I pay for it.”
“It is yours by right, my robin,” answered Orddu. “It does come from our loom, if you insist on strictest detail, but it was really you who wove it.”
Puzzled, Taran looked more closely at the fabric and saw it crowded with images of men and women, of warriors and battles, of birds and animals. “These,” he murmured in wonder, “these are of my own life.”
“Of course,” Orddu replied. “The pattern is of your choosing and always was.”
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