The Golden Pelydryn
“P
rince Rhun! Be silent!” Taran's warning came too late.
Rhun himself realized his blunder and clapped a hand to his mouth; his round face filled with dismay and he glanced about him in confusion. Gwydion stood silently, his weathered features tight and pale; yet the glance he cast on the unhappy Prince of Mona was not of reproach but of sorrow. Prince Rhun's shoulders drooped; he bowed his head and turned wretchedly away.
Before Rhun's outburst, while Gwydion had been speaking, Taran had sensed a shadow of fear over Achren. It had passed now and her lips parted in a subtle smile.
“Do you think I wish to hide the truth from you, Lord Gwydion?” she said. “I knew the book of spells had vanished from Caer Colur and I have long sought it. The Golden Pelydryn was cast away or lost by the Princess herself. Indeed, to fulfill my plan only these objects are lacking. Accept my thanks, Lord Gwydion,” Achren went on. “You spare me the labor of a tedious search. Spare yourself much pain by putting them in my hands. Now!” she commanded harshly. “Give them to me.”
Gwydion's voice was firm and his words came slowly and carefully.
“It is as the Prince of Mona says. We have found the book of spells and the light that reveals them. But it is also as he says; you shall never have them.”
“Shall I not?” replied Achren. “It is as simple as reaching out.”
“They are not in our possession,” Gwydion answered, “but wellhidden and beyond your grasp.”
“That, too, is easily righted,” said Achren. “There are means that will cause tongues to be loosened and the deepest secret shouted aloud.” She glanced at Prince Rhun. “The Prince of Mona speaks even without my urging. He shall speak again.”
Rhun blinked and swallowed hard, but he faced Achren stoutly. “If you're thinking about torturing me,” he said, “you're welcome to try it. It would be interesting to see how much you could find out, since I myself haven't the first idea where the Pelydryn is.” He took a deep breath and shut his eyes tightly. “So there you are. Go ahead.”
“Give the harper to me, Lady Achren,” Magg said eagerly, while Fflewddur bristled and stared defiantly at him. “He shall sing better to my music than ever he sang with his harp.”
“Hold your tongue, Chief Steward,” Achren snapped. “They shall speak willingly enough before I have done with them.”
Gwydion's hand went to the hilt of the black sword. “Harm none of my companions,” he cried. “Do so and I vow to strike you down whatever the cost.”
“Thus do I vow!” Achren flung back. “Seek to defeat me and the girl shall die!” Her voice lowered. “And so we stand, Gwydion, life against life and death against death. Which shall you choose?”
“If they have taken my bauble,” said Eilonwy, drawing closer to
Achren, “they must return it. It is not fitting for it to remain in the hands of strangers.”
Taran could not hold back a cry of sorrow at Eilonwy's words. Achren, who had been studying the face of each companion, turned quickly to him.
“This does not please you, Assistant Pig-Keeper,” she murmured. “It pains you to be called stranger by her. It cuts more cruelly than a knife, does it not? Sharper even than the torments of the wretched creature at your feet. She will remain thus because I so command it. Yet I could give back her memory of you. Is a golden trinket too high a price? Or a book of spells that are meaningless to you?”
Achren drew closer to Taran, fixing him with her eyes. Her voice had dropped to a whisper; her words, seeming to reach him alone, twined around his heart. “What cares an Assistant Pig-Keeper whether I or another hold sway over Prydain? Lord Gwydion himself cannot gain for you what you hold dearest; indeed, he can bring about only her death. But I can give you her life. Yes, a gift only I can bestow.
“And more, much more,” Achren whispered. “With me, the Princess Eilonwy shall be a queen. But who shall be her king? Would you have me set her free to wed a witless Prince? Yes, Magg has told me she is to be given to the son of Rhuddlum.
“What then shall be the lot of an Assistant Pig-Keeper? To win a Princess only to lose her to another? Are these not your thoughts, Taran of Caer Dallben? Think of this, too, that Achren gives favor for favor.”
Achren's eyes pierced him like dagger points and Taran's head
whirled. Half-sobbing he tried in vain to stop his ears against the whispered words and buried his face in his hands.
“Speak now,” Achren's voice went on. “The Golden Pelydrynâits hiding place ⦔
“You shall have what you ask!”
For an instant Taran thought it was his own voice crying out beyond his will to silence. Then he gaped in disbelief.
The words had come from Gwydion.
The Prince of Don stood with his wolf-gray head flung back, his eyes blazing, and on his face a look of wrath such as Taran had never seen before. The warrior's voice rang harsh and cold through the Great Hall, terrible to hear, and Taran trembled at the sound of it. Achren started in a sudden movement.
“You shall have what you ask,” Gwydion cried again. “The Golden Pelydryn and the book of spells are buried at the broken wall near the gate, where I myself set them.”
Achren was silent a moment, then her eyes narrowed. “Do you lie to me, Gwydion?” she murmured through clenched teeth. “If it is not true, the Princess Eilonwy will not live beyond this instant.”
“They are within your reach,” Gwydion replied. “Shall you hold back from taking them?”
Achren made a curt gesture to Magg. “Fetch them,” she ordered. The Chief Steward hastened from the Hall and Achren turned once more to Gwydion. “Beware, Prince of Don,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Touch not your sword. Make no move toward us.”
Gwydion did not answer. Taran and the companions stood motionless and speechless.
Magg had returned to the Great Hall. His sallow face twitched
with excitement as he triumphantly bore aloft the Golden Pelydryn. Breathless, he ran to Achren's side. “So it is!” he cried. “They are ours.”
Achren snatched the objects from him. The golden sphere was dull as lead, its beauty gone. She held it avidly; her eyes glittered; and her smile showed the white tips of her sharp teeth. For a moment she stood as though reluctant to part with the treasures she had sought, then pressed them into Eilonwy's hands.
Magg was beside himself with impatience and eagerness. He gripped his silver chain with clawed fingers, while his cheeks trembled and greed lit his beady eyes. “My kingdom!” he cried, in a tight, high-pitched voice. “Mine! It shall soon be mine!”
Achren spun and faced him scornfully. “Silence! A kingdom, groveling fool? Be grateful if you are allowed to keep your life.”
Magg's jaw dropped and his face turned the color of moldy cheese at the import of Achren's words. Choking as much with terror as with rage, he cowered under Achren's threatening glance.
The book of spells lay open in Eilonwy's outstretched hand. She had taken the Golden Pelydryn and was looking at it curiously. In the depths of the golden sphere a tiny light like a whirling, blazing snowflake had begun to take shape. She frowned, and a strange expression came over her face. As Taran watched, horror-stricken, Eilonwy shuddered violently, her head flung from one side to the other as though in pain. For an instant her eyes opened wide and she appeared about to speak. Her voice was no more than a gasp. Yet in that fleeting moment it seemed to Taran she had regained some vague memory of herself. Was it his own name she had tried
hopelessly to cry out? The girl swayed as if torn between mighty forces that stormed within her.
“Read out the spells!” Achren ordered.
Little by little the light of the Golden Pelydryn grew brighter. Throughout the Great Hall rose a faint, confused whispering, as though the wind had gained tongue, urging, cajoling, commanding. The very stones of Caer Colur seemed to have taken voice.
“Quickly! Quickly!” cried Achren.
Eilonwy, Taran realized in a surge of hope, was struggling against all that held her. The anguished girl was beyond all threats of Achren, beyond all help from the companions.
Then, suddenly, her lonely combat ended. Taran cried out in despair as Eilonwy raised the glowing sphere and in a quick motion brought it close to the empty pages.
The Golden Pelydryn flared brighter than he had ever seen it and Taran flung up his hand to shield his eyes. Light flooded the Hall. Gurgi threw himself to the ground and covered his head with his shaggy arms. The companions drew back fearfully.
Suddenly Eilonwy cast the book to the flagstones. From the pages burst a crimson cloud that spread into a sheet of fire, leaping upward to the vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall. Even as the book of spells consumed itself in its own flames, the blaze did not dwindle but instead rose ever higher, roaring and crackling, no longer crimson but blindingly white. The shriveled pages swirled in a fiery whirlwind to dance within the shimmering heart of the flame, and as they did, the whispering voices of Caer Colur groaned in defeat. The scarlet curtains of the alcove blew outward, seized in the writhing column of fire.
Now the book had vanished utterly, but still the flames mounted unappeased.
Achren was shrieking, shrieking in rage and frenzy, her face distorted with hopeless fury. Still clutching the Golden Pelydryn, Eilonwy crumpled and fell.
The Flood
G
wydion leaped forward. “Your power is ended, Achren!” he cried. The livid Queen staggered for an instant, then turned and fled screaming from the Great Hall. Taran raced to Eilonwy's side and, heedless of the flames, struggled to raise the girl's limp body. Gwydion sped to overtake Achren. The bard followed them, his sword drawn. Magg had vanished. Gurgi and Prince Rhun hastened to aid Taran. Within moments Fflewddur returned. His face was ashen.
“The spider tries to drown us!” he shouted. “Magg has opened the gates to the sea!”
As the bard called out, Taran heard a thunder of surf. Caer Colur trembled. Shouldering the unconscious Eilonwy, he stumbled through a ruined casement. Kaw circled frantically above the towers. Fflewddur was urging the companions toward the portals, where they might hope to gain the boat. Taran followed him only to see, in despair, the great iron-bound gates nearly ripped from their hinges by the pounding water. Shattered, they had swung inward, and the foaming tide rushed upon the island like a ravening beast.
Beyond the walls, at the crest of a driving wave, rode Achren's vessel, mast askew and sails flapping. The surviving warriors clung to the sides of the tossing craft and fought to climb aboard. At the bow stood Magg, his face contorted with hate, shaking his fist at the crumbling fortress. The wreckage of Gwydion's boat spun in the flood, and Taran knew all means of escape were shattered with it.
The outer walls crumbled under the first impact of the sea. Blocks of stone shuddered and split away. The towers of Caer Colur swayed, and the ground reeled under Taran's feet.
Gwydion's voice rang above the tumult. “Save yourselves! Caer Colur is destroyed! Jump clear of the walls or they will crush you!”
Taran saw that the Prince of Don had clambered to the highest rocks of the embankment to which Achren had fled. There, Gwydion strove to lead her from the collapsing stones, but she struck at him and clawed his face. Her shrieks and curses pierced the rumble of onrushing waves. Gwydion faltered and fell as the embankment gave way.
The last barrier of ruined wall toppled. A hissing sheet of water blotted out the sky. Taran clasped Eilonwy to him. The flood swept them away and bore them under. Salt foam choked him and the merciless buffeting of the tide nearly tore the unconscious girl from his arms. He struggled upward while the island split and sank in a whirlpool that clutched him. Gripping Eilonwy, Taran fought clear of the whirlpool only to fall prey to breakers tossing him like wild stallions.
He spun to the trough of the waves while the sea pounded strength and breath from him. Still, he was able to hope, for it
seemed the white-crested breakers were bearing him and his frail burden closer to shore. Dizzied and half-blinded by the green-black waves, Taran caught a confused glimpse of beach and shallow surf. He struck out weakly with his free arm. But in this last effort his failing body betrayed him and he tumbled into darkness.
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Taran awoke under a gray sky. The roaring in his ears was not the surf. Two enormous yellow eyes peered into his own. The roaring grew louder. Hot breath was on his face. As Taran's sight cleared, he saw sharp teeth and a pair of tufted ears. He realized in confusion that he was lying flat on his back and Llyan was standing over him with one huge, padded paw on his chest. He cried out in alarm and struggled to free himself.
“Hullo, hullo!” Prince Rhun was now bending over him, a wide grin on his round face. Beside him was Fflewddur. The bard, like Rhun, was soaked and bedraggled, and strands of dripping seaweed hung from his yellow hair.
“Steady, now,” said Fflewddur. “Llyan means you no harm. She only wants to be friendly, though sometimes she has odd ways of showing it.” He patted the cat's great head and scratched under her mighty jaws. “Come, Llyan,” he coaxed, “there's a good girl. Don't stand on my friend; he's not up to it yet. Behave yourself and I'll play you a tune as soon as my harp strings dry.”
Fflewddur turned once more to Taran. “We have to thank Llyan for a great deal. Everything, in fact. She fished us all out of the surf after the sea had washed us up. If she hadn't, I'm afraid we should still be there.”
“It was really surprising,” put in Prince Rhun. “I thought for
certain I'd been drowned, and the curious thing was I couldn't notice any difference!”
“I did have a start when I came to my senses with Llyan sitting beside me,” said Fflewddur. “She had my harp between her paws, as though she couldn't wait for me to wake up and begin again. The creature is mad about my music! That's why she tracked us all the way here. And, Great Belin, I'm glad she did! But I think she's finally understood there's a time and place for everything. She's really been quite gentle,” he added, as Llyan began to rub her head against him with such vigor the bard could hardly keep his balance.
“Where are the others?” Taran interrupted anxiously.
“Kaw, I fear, is nowhere to be found. Gurgi's gone looking for driftwood to build a fire,” replied the bard. “Poor creature, he's still terrified of Llyan. But he'll get used to her. I've grown quite fond of her myself. It's not often one finds such a good listener, and I think I shall keep her. Or,” he added, while Llyan nuzzled her whiskers on his neck and gripped the bard with her powerful paws, “perhaps I should put it the other way around.”
“What of Eilonwy, of Gwydion?” Taran pressed.
The bard's glance fell. “Yes, well,” he murmured, “they're here. Gwydion has done all he can.”
With mounting anxiety Taran rose unsteadily to his feet. In the lee of a tumble of rock Gwydion knelt beside two forms. Taran stumbled across the beach. Gwydion looked up at him, his face filled with concern.
“Eilonwy lives,” he said, answering the question in Taran's eyes. “More than that I cannot say. This much I know: Achren no longer holds her.”
“AchrenâAchren is dead, then?” Taran asked. He stared at the black-shrouded figure.
“Achren, too, lives,” answered Gwydion, “though long she hung between life and death. But her power is broken now. This is the answer to the riddle, yet I did not know it until I stood before her in the Great Hall. At first, I was not certain. When I understood that she would truly let herself go down to death before giving up Eilonwy, I knew she had lost command of all but the least of her own enchantments. I read it in her eyes and in her voice. Her day had begun to wane from the moment she had broken with the Lord of Annuvin.
“The spells of Caer Colur were her last hope. Now they are gone and Caer Colur lies at the bottom of the sea,” Gwydion added. “We need fear Achren no longer.”
“I fear her still,” Taran said, “and I shall not forget Caer Colur. Achren spoke the truth to me,” he went on quietly. “I had not the strength to listen to her any longer. I feared I would tell the hiding place of the Pelydrynâand hoped you would slay me before I did. Yet,” Taran added, puzzled, “it was you yourself who spoke.”
“It was a risk that had to be taken,” Gwydion replied. “I had suspected something of the nature of the bauble; as it alone could reveal the spells, so it alone could destroy them. Only then could Eilonwy be free. At what cost to herself, I could not be sure. Alas, she has suffered deeply and grievously, perhaps too much.”
“Dare we waken her?” Taran whispered.
“Touch her not,” said Gwydion. “She must waken of herself. We can only wait and hope.”
Taran bowed his head. “I would have given my life to keep her
from harm, and I would give it now to spare her this.” He smiled bitterly. “Achren asked what shall be the lot of an Assistant Pig-Keeper? It is a question I have often asked myself. I see now the life of an Assistant Pig-Keeper is of little use or import. Even to offer it for someone else is of no avail.”
“Prince Rhun would gainsay you,” Gwydion answered. “Without you, he would have wandered lost and in mortal danger.”
“I swore an oath to King Rhuddlum,” Taran replied. “I did not break it.”
“And had you not sworn an oath,” Gwydion asked, “would you not have done the same?”
Taran was silent for a while, then he nodded. “Yes, I believe I would. It was more than my oath that bound me. He needed my help, as I needed his.” He turned to Gwydion. “I remember, too, when a Prince of Don aided a foolish Assistant Pig-Keeper. Is it not fitting now for the Pig-Keeper to aid a Prince?”
“Whether it be Prince or Pig-Keeper,” said Gwydion, “such is the way of a man. The destinies of men are woven one with the other, and you can turn aside from them no more than you can turn aside from your own.”
“And you, Lord Gwydion,” came Achren's voice, “you have put a cruel destiny upon me.”
The black-cloaked figure had risen. Achren clung to the rocks to bear herself up. Her face, half-hooded, was drawn and haggard and her lips were pale. “Death would have been a kindness. Why did you deny it to me?”
Taran shrank back as the once-haughty Queen raised her head. For an instant he saw her eyes flame again with pride and fury.
“You have destroyed me, Gwydion,” she cried. “Do you hope to see me grovel at your feet? Are my powers indeed stripped away?” Achren laughed harshly. “One last remains to me.”
It was then Taran saw she held a weathered branch of driftwood. She lifted it high and Taran gasped as in her hands it blurred and shimmered. Suddenly in its place was a dagger.
With a shout of triumph Achren plunged it toward her own breast. Gwydion sprang to her and seized her wrists. Achren fought against him as he tore the blade from her grasp. Once more the dagger became driftwood, which Gwydion snapped in two and cast away. Achren fell sobbing to the sand.
“Your enchantments have ever been the enchantments of death,” said Gwydion. He knelt and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Seek life, Achren.”
“No life remains to me but that of an outcast,” cried Achren, turning from him. “Leave me to myself.”
Gwydion nodded. “Find your own path, Achren,” he said softly. “Should it lead you to Caer Dallben, know this: Dallben will not turn you away.”
The sky had grown heavy with clouds; and, though it was little past midday, the high crags rising at the shore seemed purple with dusk. Gurgi had built a fire of driftwood and the companions sat silently near the sleeping Eilonwy. Farther down the beach, Achren, muffled in her cloak, crouched alone and unmoving.
For all that morning, Taran had not left Eilonwy's side. Fearful she might never wake and fearful, too, that she might waken as a stranger to him still, he did not rest from his weary vigil. Gwydion
himself could not foretell how long-lasting was the harm that had been done her.
“Do not lose heart,” Gwydion said. “It is good that she sleeps and more healing to her spirit than any potion I could give her.”
Eilonwy stirred restlessly. Taran started up. Gwydion put a hand on his arm and gently drew him back. Eilonwy's eyelids fluttered. Gwydion, his face grave, watched closely as her eyes opened and she slowly raised her head.