The Book of Three
Page 7
“I accused you falsely,” Taran said. “My shame is as deep as my sorrow.
Eilonwy, without lowering her chin, gave him a sidelong glance. “I should think it would be.”
“I shall seek him alone,” said Taran. “You are right in refusing to help. It is no concern of yours.” He turned and started out of the clearing.
“Well, you don’t have to agree with me so quickly,” Eilonwy cried. She slid off the boulder and hastened after him.
Fflewddur Fflam was still waiting when they returned. In the light of Eilonwy’s sphere, Taran had a better view of this unexpected arrival. The bard was tall and lanky, with a long, pointed nose. His great shock of bright yellow hair burst out in all directions, like a ragged sun. His jacket and leggings were patched at knees and elbows, and sewn with large, clumsy stitches—the work, Taran was certain, of the bard himself. A harp with a beautiful, sweeping curve was slung from his shoulder, but otherwise he looked nothing at all like the bards Taran had learned about from The Book of Three.
“So it seems that I’ve been rescued by mistake,” Fflewddur said, after Taran explained what had happened. “I should have know it would turn out to be something like that. I kept asking myself, crawling along those beastly tunnels, who could possibly be interested whether I was languishing in a dungeon or not?”
“I am going back to the castle,” Taran said. “There may be hope that Gwydion still lives.”
“By all means,” cried the bard, his eyes lighting up. “A Fflam to the rescue! Storm the castle! Carry it by assault! Batter down the gates!”
“There’s not much of it left to storm,” said Eilonwy.
“Oh?” said Fflewddur, with disappointment. “Very well, we shall do the best we can.”
At the summit of the hill, the mighty blocks of stone lay as if crushed by a giant fist. Only the square arch of the gate remained upright, gaunt as a bone. In the moonlight, the ruins seemed already ancient. Shreds of mist hung over the shattered tower. Achren had learned of his escape, Taran guessed, for at the moment of the castle’s destruction, she had sent out a company of guards. Amid the rubble, their bodies sprawled motionless as the stones.
With growing despair, Taran climbed over the ruins. The foundations of the castle had collapsed. The walls had fallen inward. The bard and Eilonwy helped Taran try to shift one or two of the broken rocks, but the work was beyond their strength.
At last, the exhausted Taran shook his head. “We can do no more,” he murmured. “This shall stand as Gwydion’s burial mound.” He stood a moment, looking silently over the desolation, then turned away.
Fflewddur suggested taking weapons from the bodies of the guards. He equipped himself with a dagger, sword, and spear; in addition to the blade she had taken from the barrow, Eilonwy carried a slim dagger at her waist. Taran collected as many bows and quivers of arrows as he could carry. The group was now lightly but effectively armed.
With heavy hearts, the little band made their way down the slope. Melyngar followed docilely, her head bowed, as if she understood that she would not see her master again.
“I must leave this evil place,” Taran cried. “I am impatient to be gone from here. Spiral Castle has brought me only grief; I have no wish to see it again.”
“What has it brought the rest of us?” Eilonwy asked. “You make it sound as though we were just sitting around having a splendid time while you moan and take on.”
Taran stopped abruptly. “I—I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Furthermore,” said Eilonwy, “you’re mistaken if you think I’m going to go marching through the woods in the middle of the night.”
“And I,” put in Fflewddur, “I don’t mind telling you I’m so tired I could sleep on Achren’s doorstep.”
“We all need rest,” Taran said. “But I don’t trust Achren, alive or dead, and we still know nothing of the Cauldron-Born. If they escaped, they may be looking for us right now. No matter how tired we are, it would be foolhardy to stay this close.”
Eilonwy and Fflewddur agreed to continue on for a little distance. After a time, they found a spot well protected by trees, and flung themselves wearily to the turf. Taran unsaddled Melyngar, thankful the girl had thought to bring along Gwydion’s gear. He found a cloak in a saddlebag and handed it to Eilonwy. The bard wrapped himself in his own tattered garment and set his harp carefully on a gnarled root.
Taran stood the first watch. Thoughts of the livid warriors still haunted him, and he saw their faces in every shadow. As the night wore on, the passage of a forest creature or the restless sighing of wind in the leaves made him start. The bushes rustled. This time it was not the wind. He heard a faint scratching, and his hand flew to his sword.
A figure bounded into the moonlight and rolled up to Taran.
“Crunchings and munchings?” whimpered a voice.
“Who is your peculiar friend?” asked the bard, sitting up and looking curiously at this new arrival.
“For an Assistant Pig-Keeper,” remarked Eilonwy, “you do keep strange company. Where did you find it? And what is it? I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”
“He is no friend of mine,” cried Taran. “He is a miserable, sneaking wretch who deserted us as soon as we were attacked.”
“No, no!” Gurgi protested, whimpering and bobbing his matted head. “Poor humble Gurgi is always faithful to mighty lords—what joy to serve them, even with shakings and breakings.”
“Tell the truth,” said Taran. “You ran off when we needed you most.”
“Slashings and gashings are for noble lords, not for poor, weak Gurgi. Oh, fearsome whistlings of blades! Gurgi ran to look for help, mighty lord.”
“You didn’t succeed in finding any,” Taran said angrily.
“Oh, sadness!” Gurgi moaned. “There was no help for brave warriors. Gurgi went far, far, with great squeakings and shriekings.”
“I’m sure you did,” Taran said.
“What else can unhappy Gurgi do? He is sorry to see great warriors in distress, oh, tears of misery! But in battle, what would there be for poor Gurgi except hurtful guttings and cuttings of his throat?”
“It wasn’t very brave,” said Eilonwy, “but it wasn’t altogether stupid, either. I don’t see what advantage there was for him to be chopped up, especially if he wasn’t any help to you in the first place.”
“Oh, wisdom of a noble lady!” Gurgi cried, throwing himself at Eilonwy’s feet. “If Gurgi had not gone seeking help, he would not be here to serve you now. But he is here! Yes, yes, faithful Gurgi returns to beatings and bruisings from the terrifying warrior!”
“Just keep out of my sight,” Taran said, “or you really will have something to complain about.”
Gurgi snuffled. “Gurgi hastens to obey, mighty lord. He will say no more, not even whisperings of what he saw. No, he will not disturb the sleepings of powerful heroes. See how he leaves, with tearful farewells.”
“Come back here immediately,” Taran called.
Gurgi brightened. “Crunchings?”
“Listen to me,” Taran said, “there’s hardly enough to go round, but I’ll give you a fair share of what we have. After that, you’ll have to find your own munchings.”
Gurgi nodded. “Many more hosts march in the valley with sharp spears—oh, many more. Gurgi watches so quietly and cleverly, he does not ask them for help. No, they would only give harmful hurtings.”
“What’s this, what’s this?” cried Fflewddur. “A great host? I should love to see them. I always enjoy processions and that sort of thing.”
“The enemies of the House of Don are gathering,” Taran hurriedly told the bard. “Gwydion and I saw them before we were captured. Now, if Gurgi speaks the truth, they have gathered reinforcements.”
The bard sprang to his feet. “A Fflam never shrinks from danger! The mightier the foe, the greater the glory! We shall seek them out, set upon them! The bards shall sing our praises forever!”
Fflewddur sat down again, disappointed.
“You can talk about the bards singing your praises all you want,” said Eilonwy. “I’m in no mood to do battle. I’m going to sleep.” With that, she curled up on the ground and pulled the cloak over her head.
Still unconvinced, Fflewddur settled himself against a tree root for his turn at guard. Gurgi curled up at Eilonwy’s feet. Exhausted though he was, Taran lay awake. In his mind, he saw again the Horned King and heard the screams from the flaming cages.
He sat up quickly. Grieving for his companion, he had forgotten what had brought him here. His own quest had been for Hen Wen; Gwydion’s, to warn the Sons of Don. Taran’s head spun. With his companion surely dead, should he now try to make his way to Caer Dathyl? What, then, would become of Hen Wen? Everything had ceased to be simple. He yearned for the peacefulness of Caer Dallben, yearned even to weed the vegetable gardens and make horseshoes. He turned restlessly, finding no answer. At last, his weariness overcame him and he slept, plunged in nightmares.
CHAPTER TEN
The Sword Dyrnwyn
It was full daylight when Taran opened his eyes. Gurgi was already sniffing hungrily at the saddlebags. Taran rose quickly and shared out as much of the remaining provisions as he dared, keeping a small amount in reserve, since he had no idea how difficult it would be to find food during the coming journey. In the course of the restless night, he had reached his decision, though at present he refrained from speaking of it, still unsure he had chosen wisely. For the moment he concentrated on a meager breakfast.
Gurgi, sitting cross-legged, devoured his food with so many outcries of pleasure and loud smackings of his lips that he seemed to be eating twice as much as he really did. Fflewddur bolted his scant portion as though he had not enjoyed a meal for at least five days. Eilonwy was more interested in the sword she had taken from the barrow. It lay across her knees and, with a perplexed frown, the tip of her tongue between her lips, the girl was studying the weapon curiously.
As Taran grew near, Eilonwy snatched the sword away. “Well,” said Taran, with a laugh, “you needn’t act as if I were going to steal it from you.” Although jewels studded the hilt and pommel, the scabbard was battered, discolored, nearly black with age. For all that, it had an air of ancient lineage, and Taran was eager to hold it. “Come,” he said, “let me see the blade.”
“I dare not,” cried Eilonwy, to Taran’s great surprise. He saw that her face was solemn and almost fearful.
“There is a symbol of power on the scabbard,” Eilonwy continued. “I’ve seen this mark before, on some of Achren’s things. It always means something forbidden. Of course, all Achren’s things are like that, but some are more forbidden than others.
“There’s another inscription, too,” said Eilonwy, frowning again. “But it’s in the Old Writing.” She stamped her foot. “Oh, I do wish Achren had finished teaching it to me. I can almost make it out, but not quite, and there’s nothing more irritating. It’s like not finishing what you started out to say.”
Fflewddur came up just then and he, too, peered at the strange weapon. “Comes from a barrow, eh?” The bard shook his spiky, yellow head and whistled. “I suggest getting rid of it immediately. Never had much confidence in things you find in barrows. It’s a bad business having anything to do with them. You can’t be sure where else they’ve been and who all’s had them.”
“If it’s an enchanted weapon,” Taran began, more interested than ever in getting his hands on the sword, “shouldn’t we keep it …”
“Oh, do be quiet,” Eilonwy cried. “I can’t hear myself think. I don’t see what you’re both talking about, getting rid of it or not getting rid of it. After all, it’s mine, isn’t it? I found it and carried it out, and almost got stuck in a dirty old tunnel because of it.”
“Bards are supposed to understand these things,” Taran said.
“Naturally,” Fflewddur answered, smiling confidently and putting his long nose closer to the scabbard. “These inscriptions are all pretty much the same. I see this one’s on the scabbard rather than the blade. It says, oh, something like ‘Beware My Wrath’—the usual sentiments.”
At that moment there was a loud twang. Fflewddur blinked. One of his harp strings had snapped. “Excuse me,” he said, and went to see about his instrument.
“It doesn’t say anything at all like that,” Eilonwy declared. “I can read some of it now. Here, it starts near the hilt and goes winding around like ivy. I was looking at it the wrong way. It says Dyrnwyn, first. I don’t know whether that’s the name of the sword or the name of the king. Oh, yes, that’s the name of the sword; here it is again:
DRAW DYRNWYN, ONLY THOU OF ROYAL BLOOD,
TO RULE, TO STRIKE THE …
“Something or other,” Eilonwy went on. “It’s very faint; I can’t see it. The letters are worn too smooth. No, that’s odd. They aren’t worn; they’ve been scratched out. They must have been cut deeply, because there’s still a trace. But I can’t read the rest. This word looks as if it might be death …” She shuddered. “That’s not very cheerful.”
“Let me unsheathe it,” Taran urged again. “There might be more on the blade.”
“Certainly not,” said Eilonwy. “I told you it had a symbol of power and I’m bound by it—that’s elementary.”
“Achren cannot bind you any longer.”
“It isn’t Achren,” Eilonwy answered. “I only said she had things with the same mark. This is a stronger enchantment than any she could make, I’m quite sure. I wouldn’t dare to draw it, and I don’t intend letting you, either. Besides, it says only royal blood and doesn’t mention a word about Assistant Pig-Keepers.”
“How can you tell I haven’t royal blood?” Taran asked, bristling. “I wasn’t born an Assistant Pig-Keeper. For all you know, my father might have been a king. It happens all the time in The Book of Three.”
“I never heard of The Book of Three,” said Eilonwy. “But in the first place, I don’t think it’s good enough to be a king’s son or even a king himself. Royal blood is just a way of translating; in the Old Writing, it didn’t mean only having royal relatives—anybody can have those. It meant—oh, I don’t know what you’d call it. Something very special. And it seems to me that if you have it, you don’t need to wonder whether you have it.”
“So, of course,” said Taran, nettled by the girl’s remarks, “you’ve made up your mind that I’m not—whatever it is.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Eilonwy said quickly. “For an Assistant Pig-Keeper, I think you’re quite remarkable. I even think you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met in my life. It’s just that I’m forbidden to let you have the sword and that’s that.”
“What will you do with it, then?”
“Keep it, naturally. I’m not going to drop it down a well, am I?” Taran snorted. “You’ll make a fine sight—a little girl carrying a sword.”
“I am not a little girl,” said Eilonwy, tossing her hair in exasperation. “Among my people in the olden days, the Sword-Maidens did battle beside the men.”
“It’s not the olden days now,” Taran said. “Instead of a sword, you should be carrying a doll.”
Eilonwy, with a squeal of vexation, raised a hand to slap at Taran, when Fflewddur Fflam returned.
“Here now,” said the bard, “no squabbling; there’s not a bit of use to it.” With a large key he tightened the wooden peg holding the newly repaired harp string.
Eilonwy turned her irritation on Fflewddur. “That inscription was a very important one. It didn’t say anything about bewaring anyone’s wrath. You didn’t read it right at all. You�
��re a fine bard, if you can’t make out the writing on an enchanted sword.”
“Well, you see, the truth of the matter,” said Fflewddur, clearing his throat and speaking with much hesitation, “is this way. I’m not officially a bard.”
“I didn’t know there were unofficial bards,” Eilonwy remarked.
“Oh, yes indeed,” said Fflewddur. “At least in my case. I’m also a king.”
“A king?” Taran said. “Sire …” He dropped to one knee.
“None of that, none of that,” said Fflewddur. “I don’t bother with it any more.”
“Where is your kingdom?” Eilonwy asked.
“Several days’ journey east of Caer Dathyl,” said Fflewddur. “It is a vast realm …”
At this, Taran heard another jangling.
“Drat the thing,” said the bard. “There go two more strings. As I was saying. Yes, well, it is actually a rather small kingdom in the north, very dull and dreary. So I gave it up. I’d always loved barding and wandering—and that’s what I decided to do.”
“I thought bards had to study a great deal,” Eilonwy said. “A person can’t just go and decide …”
“Yes, that was one of the problems,” said the former king. “I studied; I did quite well in the examinations …” A small string at the upper end of the harp broke with a high-pitched tinkle and curled up like an ivy tendril. “I did quite poorly,” he went on, “and the Council of Bards wouldn’t admit me. Really, they want you to know so much these days. Volumes and volumes of poetry, and chants and music and calculating the seasons, and history; and all kinds of alphabets you spell out on your fingers, and secret signs—a man couldn’t hope to cram it all into his skull.
“The Council were very nice to me,” continued Fflewddur. “Taliesin, the Chief Bard himself, presented me with this harp. He said it was exactly what I needed. I sometimes wonder if he was really doing me a favor. It’s a very nice harp, but I have such trouble with the strings. I’d throw it away and get another, but it has a beautiful tone; I should never find one as good. If only the beastly strings …”