The Prince of Don led the companions from the marshy fields to a narrow shoulder of beach. From there, they passed along the edge of the sea to a sheltered cove, where a small boat bobbed at the end of a mooring line. Gwydion beckoned the companions to step aboard, took the oars, and with swift noiseless strokes guided the little craft seaward.
As the glittering black water rolled beneath him, Taran crouched in the bow of the boat and strained his eyes for a sign of Caer Colur. Prince Rhun and the companions huddled at the stern, while Gwydion bent his powerful shoulders to the oars. The stars had begun to fade and banks of sea mist drifted in chill clouds.
“Our task must be finished quickly and before daylight,” said Gwydion. “Most of Achren’s warriors have been set to guard the landward entry. We shall land on the far side of the castle, hard by the outer wall. In darkness we may escape their eyes.”
“Glew told us Caer Colur had broken from the mainland,” said Taran, “but I had not imagined it to be this far at sea.”
Gwydion frowned. “Glew? Kaw said nothing to me of Glew.”
“It was then that Kaw left us,” Taran explained. “Small wonder he could not find us again, for we were deep underground.” He told Gwydion of finding Eilonwy’s bauble, the treachery of Glew, and the strange book. Gwydion, who had been listening intently, shipped the oars and let the boat drift.
“Alas that you did not speak of this sooner. I would have found better means of safeguarding it,” he said, as Taran handed him the golden sphere which began to glow brightly. Gwydion spread his cloak and shielded the light. Quickly he took the book from Taran’s hands, opened it, and brought the bauble closer to the empty pages. The ancient writing sprang into sight. Gwydion’s face was tense and pale.
“To read this is beyond my power,” Gwydion said, “but I recognize it for what it is: the greatest treasure of the House of Llyr.”
“A treasure of Llyr?” Taran whispered. “What is its nature? Does it belong to Eilonwy?”
Gwydion nodded. “She is the last Princess of Llyr, and it is hers by blood-right. But there is more you must understand. For generations the daughters of the House of Llyr were among the most skillful enchantresses in Prydain, using their powers with wisdom and kindliness. In their fastness at Caer Colur were stored all their treasures, magical devices and charmed implements whose nature even I do not know.
“The chronicles of the House of Llyr give only veiled hints as to how these mysteries were guarded. The lore tells of an enchantment known only as the Golden Pelydryn, handed down from mother to daughter, and of a book holding all the secrets of those magical devices and many potent spells.
“But Caer Colur was abandoned and fell into ruins after Angharad Daughter of Regat fled the castle to marry against her mother’s wishes. The book of spells, which she carried away with her, was believed lost. Of the Golden Pelydryn, nothing was known.” Gwydion looked down at the bauble. “The Golden Pelydryn was not lost. What better way to hide it than to put it as a shining toy in the hands of a child?
“Eilonwy believed she had been sent to live with Achren and study to be an enchantress,” Gwydion went on. “It is not true. Achren stole Eilonwy and brought her as a child to Spiral Castle.”
“Did Achren fail to recognize the Golden Pelydryn?” Taran asked. “If she knew its nature, why did she leave it in Eilonwy’s possession?”
“Achren dared not do otherwise,” answered Gwydion. “Yes, she knew Eilonwy’s heritage. She recognized the Pelydryn, but also knew it would lose its power if taken forcibly from its rightful owner. Then, too, the book of spells had vanished. Achren could attempt nothing until it was found again.”
“And without even realizing it,” Taran said, “Glew was the one who gained the book of spells. Poor foolish creature who thought himself cheated!”
“So he was,” replied Gwydion. “He could not have seen the hidden writing without the light of the Golden Pelydryn. Even then, it would have availed him nothing. The spells obey only a daughter of the House of Llyr. Eilonwy alone has the inborn skill to read them—though not before she herself has reached the threshold of womanhood. She stands there now, and the spells of Caer Colur are within her grasp. For that reason has Achren sought her so desperately.”
“Eilonwy is safe, then,” Taran cried. “If she alone can awaken the spells, Achren dares not harm her. Nor does Achren dare harm us, since the Pelydryn and the book of enchantments are in our hands.”
“It may be,” Gwydion answered grimly, “that Eilonwy is in greater danger than before.”
Carefully Gwydion placed the book and golden sphere in his jacket and redoubled his efforts at the oars. Taran, clinging to the side of the boat, saw a high, dark mound loom ahead. Gwydion swung the craft farther seaward and now rowed steadily in a wide half-circle. The sea swell lifted the little vessel and drove it with ever-growing speed. The crash of waves rang in Taran’s ears. Gwydion bent his strength to one oar, then the other, and Gurgi whimpered plaintively as the boat was flung forward into a narrow, foam-filled channel.
The pinnacles of Caer Colur rose black against a dark sky. Mist rolled around the columns of stone which once had been, Taran guessed, proud and lofty towers, but were now crumbled and jutting ruins thrusting upward like the shards of broken swords. As they came closer, he saw the heavy, iron-bound portals, reminders of a day when Caer Colur had been a fortress rooted on the mainland. The gates faced the sea, but, since the castle had sunk lower, they stood half-submerged in the restless water. Waves churned and beat against them, as though to take the ruins by storm and wreak their last destruction.
Near the massive portals wind and water had gouged a cavelike hollow, and here Gwydion moored the boat and gestured for the companions to disembark. As they clambered to the rocks Taran heard a tormented groaning and creaking from the gates, as though they had gained their own voice and cried out against the onslaught of the waves. Gwydion climbed upward. Finding a handhold among the sharp stones, Rhun painfully toiled after him, with Taran and Gurgi following to catch the Prince of Mona should he fall. Fflewddur struggled along silently.
Kaw had already flown to the walls, and Taran envied the crow his wings as he saw the sheer facing of stone and the broken parapets brooding high above. Gwydion led them along the base of the wall toward the heavy lintels of the gates. The bastion was cleft as though by a sword stroke, and loose rubble had fallen into the breach. The Prince of Don signaled them to halt.
“Remain here,” he ordered in a low voice. “I shall go first and learn where Achren’s guards are posted.” Noiselessly he vanished into the cleft. The companions crouched among the rocks not daring to speak.
Taran rested his head on his arms. His thoughts turned again and again to Eilonwy and to the words of Gwydion; he could barely bring himself to believe the slender, laughing girl could command powers perhaps as strong as those of Achren. Soon, soon, he told himself, Eilonwy would be free. But as his impatience grew, so did his fear, and he looked up anxiously, straining eyes and ears for a sign of Gwydion.
He was tempted then to follow the Prince of Don, but in another moment Gwydion appeared from the shadows. “Achren pays for a poor vigil,” Gwydion said with a hard smile. “One sentinel watches landward, another leans drowsing on his sword. The others sleep.”
The companions pressed through the cleft. The task now was to discover Eilonwy’s prison, and Taran’s heart sank. Within the walls the ruins of Caer Colur stretched like a great skeleton. Its tumble of once regal halls and towers lay before the companions, and Taran glanced with dismay at Gwydion. The tall warrior motioned for the companions to draw their swords and indicated where each of them was to search.
Fflewddur was about to move toward the outlying buildings when Taran nearly cried aloud. Kaw fluttered from one of the towers and swooped down to perch on Taran’s upraised arm. The crow beat his wings, flew aloft once more, and circled the pinnacle.
“He’s found her!” Taran whispered. “Our search is o
ver!”
“It has only now begun,” warned Gwydion. “One of us shall climb up and see if it is possible to free her. The others shall take positions farther along the wall to guard against surprise by Achren’s warriors.”
“I shall,” Taran began, then hesitated and turned to Prince Rhun. He bowed his head. “She will be your betrothed. It was your wish that you …”
“That I should prove my valor to the Princess? Yes,” Rhun said slowly. “But it is my wish no longer. I’m quite content proving it to myself. And I rather guess you might really be the one Eilonwy would prefer to see first.”
Taran glanced at Gwydion, who nodded and directed the others to move to the landward side of the castle. As Rhun went to join Gurgi and Fflewddur, Gwydion knelt and drew the book and golden sphere from his jacket.
“If aught should go amiss, these must not fall into Achren’s hands,” he said, setting the objects carefully beneath the loose stones. Deftly he replaced the rubble and smoothed the earth around it. “This must serve to guard them until we return.”
Kaw had flown back to Taran. Gwydion rose and from his belt took a coil of slender rope, made a loop on the end, and held it out to Kaw, murmuring softly to the crow. The bird snatched the line with his beak and flapped silently to the jagged pinnacle, hovered above a jutting stone, then dropped the loop securely over it.
Gwydion turned to Taran. “I know what is in your heart,” he said gently. “Climb up, Assistant Pig-Keeper. I leave this task to you.”
Taran raced to the bottom of the tower. The rope pulled taut under his weight and the mist swirled about him, as he sought a foothold in the rough wall. He tightened his grip on the cord and drew himself upward. A sharp gust of sea wind buffeted him. For an instant he swung free of the tower. Below, the waves dashed against the rocks. He dared not look down, but desperately strove to halt the dizzying motion. His foot struck stone again. Bending all his strength to the rope, he climbed higher.
A casement opened just above him and Taran hoisted himself to the ledge. Within the small chamber a rush light burned fitfully. His heart leaped. Eilonwy was there.
The Princess lay motionless on a low couch. She still wore the robe Teleria had given her, though now it was torn and mudspattered. The red-gold hair tumbled about her shoulders and her face was pale and drawn.
Taran hurriedly swung himself over the ledge, dropped to the flagstones, and hastened to Eilonwy’s side. He touched her shoulder. The girl stirred, turned her face away, and murmured in her sleep.
“Quickly!” Taran whispered. “Gwydion waits for us.”
Eilonwy roused, passed a hand over her forehead, and opened her eyes. At the sight of Taran she gave a cry of surprise.
“Gurgi is here, too,” Taran said. “Fflewddur, Prince Rhun—all of us. You are safe. Hurry!”
“That’s very interesting,” said Eilonwy sleepily. “But who are they? And for the matter of that,” she added, “who are you?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A Meeting of Strangers
“I am Eilonwy Daughter of Angharad Daughter of Regat,” continued Eilonwy, putting her hand to the silver crescent at her throat. “But who are you?” she repeated. “I haven’t the least idea in the world what you’re talking about.”
“Wake up,” Taran cried, shaking her. “You’re dreaming.”
“Why, yes, as a matter of fact I was,” Eilonwy answered, with a vague and sleepy smile. “But how did you guess? I don’t believe dreaming actually shows when you’re doing it.” She paused, frowning. “Or does it? Sometime I shall have to find out. The only way, I suppose, is to look at myself when I’m asleep. And how I might go about that, I can’t imagine.” Her voice faltered and trailed away; she seemed suddenly to forget Taran was even there and sank back to the couch. “Difficult—difficult,” she murmured. “Like trying to turn yourself inside out. Or would it be outside in?”
“Eilonwy, look at me!” Taran tried to raise her, but Eilonwy, with a little cry of annoyance, drew away. “You must listen,” Taran insisted.
“That’s what I’ve been doing,” she replied. “So far you’ve made no sense whatever. I was much more comfortable asleep. I’d rather dream than be shouted at. But what was I dreaming? A pleasant dream—with a pig in it—and someone who—no, it’s gone now, faster than a butterfly. You’ve spoiled it.”
Taran had forced the girl to sit upright once more. Now he stared at her with dread. Despite her travel-stained garments and disheveled hair, she appeared unharmed. But her eyes were strangely depthless. It was not sleep that filled her, and his hands trembled as he realized Eilonwy had been drugged or—his heart chilled at the thought of it—bewitched.
“Listen carefully,” he pleaded. “There is no time …”
“I don’t believe people should be allowed to come stamping into other people’s dreams without asking first,” Eilonwy said, with some vexation. “There’s something impolite about it. Like walking into a spiderweb when the spider’s still using it.”
Taran ran to the casement. He could see nothing of the companions below, nor any sign of Kaw. The moon was down and the sky would soon lighten. Quickly he turned back to Eilonwy.
“Make haste, I beg you!” he cried. “Climb down with me. The rope is strong enough for both of us.”
“A rope?” exclaimed Eilonwy. “Me? Go sliding down with you? I’ve only known you these few moments, but it seems to me you make the silliest suggestions. No, thank you.” She stifled a yawn. “You might try sliding down the rope yourself,” she added with a certain sharpness, “and let me go back to sleep. I hope I can remember where I left off. That’s the worst of having your dream broken into. You can never find it again.”
Taran, sick with alarm, knelt beside her. “What holds you?” he whispered. “Fight against it. Can you not remember me? Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper …”
“How interesting,” remarked Eilonwy. “Sometime you must tell me more about yourself. But not now.”
“Think,” Taran urged. “Remember Caer Dallben—Coll—Hen Wen …”
Through the casement the sea wind carried trails of mist like tangled vines. Taran spoke the names again and the names of the companions.
Eilonwy’s glance was so distant that she herself seemed far from the chamber. “Caer Dallben,” she murmured. “How curious—I think that might have been part of my dream, too. There was an orchard; the trees were in blossom. I was climbing up, as high as I could go …”
“Yes, so it was,” Taran pressed eagerly. “I, too, remember the day. You said you’d climb to the very top of the apple tree. I warned you not to, but you did anyway.”
“I wanted to learn the trees,” Eilonwy went on. “You must learn them anew every year,” she said, “for they are always different. And in the dream I’d gone to the last branch.”
“It was no dream,” Taran urged, “but the life you know; your own life, not a shadow that vanishes in the sun. Indeed, you went to the highest branch. It snapped, as I feared it would.”
“How should anyone know someone else’s dream?” said Eilonwy, as though speaking to herself. “Yes, it broke and I was falling. There was someone below who caught me. Could it have been an Assistant Pig-Keeper? I wonder what became of him?”
“He is here now,” Taran said quietly. “He has long sought you and in ways even he himself did not know. Now that he has found you, can you not find your path back to him?”
Eilonwy rose to her feet. Her eyes flickered and for the first time a light shone in them. Taran held out his hands to her. She hesitated, then took a step forward.
But even as she moved to him, her glance turned shallow and the light died. “It is a dream, no more than that,” she whispered, and turned away.
“Achren has done this to you!” Taran cried. “She will harm you no longer.” He seized the girl’s arm and drew her toward the casement.
At the sound of Achren’s name, Eilonwy stiffened and tore herself from him. She spun to face him. “You dare
touch a Princess of the House of Llyr?”
Her voice was sharp; her eyes had lost their warmth; and Taran saw the brief moment of recollection had fled. He knew that Eilonwy, at all costs, must be taken from this dread place. His terror and dismay grew with the thought that perhaps even now she was beyond hope. He struggled to catch her by the waist and put her over his shoulder.
Eilonwy struck him full in the face with such force that he staggered back. Yet it was not the blow that pained him but her scornful glance. On her lips now was a smile of mockery and malice. He was a stranger to her and he feared his heart would break.
Once more he tried to seize her. Eilonwy, with a cry of rage, twisted away and broke free.
“Achren!” she called. “Achren! Help me!”
She ran to the portal of the chamber and into the corridor. Taran snatched up the rush light and raced after the fleeing Princess. Her sandals clattered down the shadowed hallway, and he glimpsed an edge of her robe vanishing around a corner. She had not ceased to call Achren’s name. In another moment the castle would be roused and the companions discovered. Taran cursed himself for a blunderer. He had no choice now but to overtake the bewitched girl before every hope of escape faded. Already he heard a shout from the wall and the clash of blades.
The rush light scorched his hand and he cast it aside. In the darkness he sped to the end of the corridor and flung himself down a flight of steps. The Great Hall of Caer Colur stretched before him, the crimson haze of daybreak filling its ruined casements. Eilonwy fled across the wide stretch of worn and crumbling flagstones and vanished again. A hand gripped his jacket and spun him around. A torch flared in his eyes.
“The Pig-Keeper!” hissed Magg.
The Chief Steward plucked a dagger from a fold of his garments and thrust at Taran, who flung up an arm to ward off the blow. The dagger glanced aside. Magg cursed and swept the torch like a sword. Taran fell back, seeking to draw his own weapon. The shouts of the awakened guards filled the Great Hall. In another instant he caught sight of Gwydion, the companions at his heels.