The High King

"Yes," Gwystyl sighed. "Take it. It's something I've been saving; you never know when the need for one might arise. But it's yours now."

"No thank you," muttered the bard. "I shouldn't want to deprive you."

Their hasty search next revealed water flasks both empty and full, a walking staff in jointed sections allowing it to be folded up, a cushion with an extra bag of feathers, two lengths of rope, some fishing lines and large hooks, two tents, a number of iron wedges and a crooked iron bar, a wide piece of soft leather which, as Gwystyl reluctantly explained, could be set about a willow frame to serve as a small boat; several large bunches of dried vegetables and herbs, and numerous bags of lichens in all colors.

"For my condition," Gwystyl mumbled, indicating the latter. "The dampness and clamminess around Annuvin is dreadful. These don't help at all, but they're better than nothing. However, you're welcome…"

The bard shook his head in despair. "Useless rubbish. We might borrow the ropes and fish hooks. But, for whatever good they may do us…"

"Gwystyl," Eilonwy cried angrily, "all your tents and boats and walking staves won't answer! Oh, I could squeeze you anyway, for I'm out of patience with you. Begone! Yes, goodbye indeed!"

Gwystyl, heaving huge sighs of relief, rapidly began packing his bundle. As he hoisted it to his shoulder, from his cloak fell a small sack which he tried desperately to recover.

"I say, what's this?" asked Rhun, who had already gathered up the bag and was about to hand it to the agitated creature.

"Eggs," mumbled Gwystyl.

"Lucky they weren't smashed when you took your tumble," said Rhun cheerfully. "Perhaps we'd better have a look," he added, untying the string around the mouth of the bag.

"Eggs!" said Fflewddur, brightening somewhat. "I shouldn't mind eating one or two of them. I've had no food since midday― those warriors kept me harping, but they took no pains to feed me. Come, old fellow, I'm starved enough to crack one now arld swallow it raw!"

"No, no!" squealed Gwystyl, snatching for the bag. "Don't do it! They're not eggs. Not eggs, at all!"

"I say, they surely look like it," remarked Rhun, peering into the sack. "If they aren't, then what are they?"

Gwystyl choked, then went into a fit of violent, coughing and sighing before he answered. "Smoke," he gasped.

Chapter 6 A Clutch of Eggs

"AMAZING!" CRIED KING RHUN. "Smoke made of egg! Or is it egg made of smoke?"

"The smoke is inside," Gwystyl muttered, drawing his shabby cloak about him. "Good-bye. Crack the shell and the smoke comes out― in considerable quantity. Keep them. A gift. If you should ever see Lord Gwydion, warn him to shun Annuvin at all cost. For myself, I'm glad to leave the place behind me and hope never to return. Good-bye."

"Gwystyl," Eilonwy said sharply, gripping the melancholy creature's arm, "something tells me there's more to that cloak of yours than meets the eye. What else have you hidden away? The truth, now. Or I promise you such squeezing…"

"Nothing!" Gwystyl choked. Despite the chill wind, he had begun perspiring heavily. His cobwebby hair hung limp and his brow dripped as if he had been caught in a downpour. "Nothing, that is, but a few little personal things of my own. Odds and ends. If they interest you, by all means…"

Gwystyl raised his arms and spread his cloak on either side, a gesture which made him resemble a long-nosed and dismal bat. He sighed and groaned miserably while the companions stared in surprise.

"Odd indeed!" said Fflewddur. "And, Great Belin, there's no end of them!"

Neatly attached within the folds of the cloak hung a dozen cloth sacks, mesh bags, and carefully wrapped packets. Most of them seemed to contain clutches of eggs of the sort Fflewddur had narrowly avoided eating. Gwystyl pulled off one of the mesh bags and handed it to Eilonwy.

"I say," exclaimed Rhun. "First eggs, now mushrooms!"

As far as the Princess could see, the mesh bag held nothing more than a few large, brown-speckled toadstools; but Gwystyl waved his arms desperately, and moaned.

"Beware, beware! Break them and they'll singe your hair off! They make a handsome puff of flame, if you should ever need such a thing. Take them all. I'm well pleased to be rid of them."

"It is what we need!" Eilonwy cried. "Gwystyl, forgive me for threatening to squeeze you." She turned to the bard who was examining the sacks with an air of uneasiness. "Yes! These will help us. Now, if we can find a way into the castle…"

"My dear Princess," replied Fflewddur, "a Fflam is dauntless, but I hardly think it practical, overcoming a stronghold with little more than eggs and mushrooms in our hands, even eggs and mushrooms of this particular sort. And yet…" He hesitated, then snapped his fingers. "Great Belin, we might pull it off at that! Wait! I'm beginning to see the possibilities."