The High King

Glew, hearing his name spoken, pricked up his ears. He had not left his place in the chimney corner; nor had his alarm at the happenings in the cottage made him loosen his hold on the cook-pot. "When I was a giant," he began.

"I see the little weasel is with you," said Fflewddur to King Rhun, recognizing Glew immediately despite the former giant's present stature. "When he was a giant," the bard muttered, giving Glew a look of ill-concealed vexation, "he was a paltry one. He'd have done anything to be free of that cavern― even to popping us into that foul stew he'd cooked up. A Fflam is forgiving! But I think he went a little too far."

"When I was a giant," Glew continued, either ignoring or not hearing the bard's remarks, "no one would have humiliated me by taking me by the ears and hustling me aboard a smelly boat. I had no wish to come here. After what's happened today, I have less wish to stay." Glew pursed his lips. "Dallben shall see that I'm taken back to Mona without delay."

"I'm sure he will," Taran replied. "But Dallben has graver concerns now, and so do we all."

Mumbling something about shabby treatment and lack of consideration, Glew scraped a finger along the bottom of the pot and sucked his teeth with indignant satisfaction. The companions said no more, but settled down to wait out the night.

The fire burned to ashes. A night wind rose outside the cottage. Taran rested his head on his arms. At this homecoming he had longed to stand before Eilonwy, forgetting rank and birth, as any man before any woman, and ask her to wed. But now the disaster that had overtaken Gwydion made Taran's own wishes unimportant. Though he still did not know Eilonwy's heart, nor what her answer to him might be, he could not bring himself to learn it until all hearts were at peace again. He closed his eyes. The wind screamed as if it would rip to tatters the quiet meadows and orchards of Caer Dallben.

A hand on his shoulder aroused him. It was Eilonwy.

"Gwydion has wakened," she said. "He would speak with us."

IN DALLBEN'S CHAMBER the Prince of Don half-raised himself from the couch. His features were pale under their weathering, and tightly drawn, though more in anger than pain. His mouth was set, bitter, his green eyes burned with dark flashes, and his glance was that of a proud wolf scornful of his hurt, and scornful all the more of those who had given him his wounds. Achren was a silent shadow in the corner. The old enchanter stood anxiously beside the book-strewn table near the wooden bench where Taran, throughout boyhood, had sat for lessons. The Book of Three, the huge, leather-bound tome of secret lore forbidden to all but Dallben himself, lay closed atop a pile of other ancient volumes.

Taran, with Eilonwy, Fflewddur, and King Rhun behind him, strode to Gwydion and clasped the warrior's hand. The Prince of Don smiled grimly.

"No merry meeting, and no long one, Assistant Pig-Keeper," Gwydion said. "Dallben has told me of the Death-Lord's ruse. Dyrnwyn must be regained at all cost, and without delay. He spoke, too, of your wanderings," Gwydion added. "I would hear more of them from yourself, but that must wait another time. I ride to Annuvin before the day is out."

Taran looked at the Prince of Don in surprise and concern. "Your wounds are still fresh. You cannot make such a journey."

"Neither can I stay here," Gwydion answered. "Since Dyrnwyn first came into my hands, I have learned more of its nature. Only a little more," he added, "but enough to know its loss is fatal.

"Dyrnwyn's lineage lies beyond memory of living man," Gwydion continued, "and much of its history has been forgotten or destroyed. For long, the blade was thought no more than legend, and matter for a harper's song. Taliesin Chief Bard is wisest in the lore of Prydain, but even he could tell me only that Govannion the Lame, a master craftsman, forged and tempered Dyrnwyn at the behest of King Rhydderch Hael, as a weapon of greatest power and protection for the land. To safeguard it, a spell was cast upon the blade and a warning graven on the scabbard."

"I remember the Old Writing," Eilonwy said. "Indeed, I shall never forget it, for I had an impossible time keeping Taran from meddling with things he didn't understand. 'Draw Dyrnwyn only thou of royal blood…' "

"Closer to its true meaning is 'noble worth,' " said Gwydion. "The enchantment forbade the sword to all but those who would use it wisely and well. The flame of Dyrnwyn would destroy any other who sought to draw it. But the writing on the scabbard has been marred. The full message, which might have told more of the sword's purpose, is unknown.