“That’s not a very polite thing to say. Well, nevertheless … ,” Eilonwy’s voice dismissed the matter. “The main thing is to get you out.”
“There’s nothing we can do,” Taran said. “I’m caught here, and locked up better than Achren ever planned.”
“Don’t say that. I could tear up my robe and plait it into a cord—though I’ll tell you right away I wouldn’t enjoy crawling around tunnels without any clothes on. But I don’t think it would be long enough or strong enough. I suppose I could cut off my hair, if I had a pair of shears, and add it in—no, that still wouldn’t do. Won’t you please be quiet for a while and let me think? Wait, I’m going to drop my bauble down to you. Here, catch!”
The golden sphere came hurtling over the ledge. Taran caught it in mid-air.
“Now then,” Eilonwy called, “what’s down there? Is it just a pit of some kind?”
Taran raised the ball above his head. “Why, it’s not a hole at all!” he cried. “It’s a kind of chamber. There’s a tunnel here, too.” He took a few paces. “I can’t see where it ends. It’s big …”
Stones rattled behind him; an instant later, Eilonwy dropped to the ground. Taran stared at her in disbelief.
“You fool!” he shouted. “You addlepated … What have you done? Now both of us are trapped! And you talk about sense! You haven’t …”
Eilonwy smiled at him and waited until he ran out of breath. “Now,” she said, “if you’ve quite finished, let me explain something very simple to you. If there’s a tunnel, it has to go someplace. And wherever it goes, there’s a very good chance it will be better than where we are now.”
“I didn’t mean to call you names,” Taran said, “but,” he added sorrowfully, “there was no reason for you to put yourself in danger.”
“There you go again,” Eilonwy said. “I promised to help you escape and that’s what I’m doing. I understand about tunnels and I shouldn’t be surprised if this one followed the same direction as the one above. It doesn’t have half as many galleries coming off it. And besides, it’s a lot more comfortable.”
Eilonwy took the glowing sphere from Taran’s hand and stepped forward into the new passageway. Still doubtful, Taran followed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Barrow
As Eilonwy had said, the passageway was more comfortable, for they could walk side by side without crouching and scuttling like rabbits in a warren. Unlike those of the upper galleries, the walls were lined with huge, flat stones; the ceiling was formed of even larger stones, whose weight was supported by upright slabs set at intervals along the square corridor. The air, too, smelled slightly better; musty, as if it had lain unstirred for ages, but without the choking closeness of the tunnels.
None of this comforted Taran greatly. Eilonwy herself admitted she had never explored the passage; her blithe confidence did not convince him she had the slightest notion of where she was going. Nevertheless, the girl hurried along, her sandals tapping and echoing, the golden light of the bauble casting its rays through shadows that hung like cobwebs.
They passed a few side galleries which Eilonwy ignored. “We’ll go straight to the end of this one,” she announced. “There’s bound to be something there.”
Taran had begun wishing himself back in the chamber. “We shouldn’t have come this far,” he said, with a frown. “We should have stayed and found some way to climb out; now you don’t even know how long it will be before this passage stops. We might go on tramping for days.”
Something else troubled him. After all their progress, it seemed the passageway should now follow an upward direction.
“The tunnel’s supposed to bring us out above ground,” Taran said. “But we haven’t stopped going down. We aren’t coming out at all; we’re only going deeper and deeper.”
Eilonwy paid no attention to his remarks.
But she was soon obliged to. Within another few paces, the corridor stopped abruptly, sealed by a wall of boulders.
“This is what I feared,” cried Taran, dismayed. “We have gone to the end of your tunnel, that you know so much about, and this is what we find. Now we can only go back; we’ve lost all our time and we’re no better off than when we started.” He turned away while the girl stood looking curiously at the barrier.
“I can’t understand,” said Eilonwy, “why anyone would go to the trouble of building a tunnel and not have it go anyplace. It must have been a terrible amount of work for whoever it was to dig it all and set in the rocks. Why do you suppose … ?”
“I don’t know! And I wish you’d stop wondering about things that can’t make any difference to us. I’m going back,” Taran said. “I don’t know how I’m going to climb onto that shelf, but I can certainly do it a lot more easily than digging through a wall.”
“Well,” said Eilonwy, “it is very strange and all. I’m sure I don’t know where we are.”
“I knew we’d end up being lost. I could have told you that.”
“I didn’t say I was lost,” the girl protested. “I only said I didn’t know where I was. There’s a big difference. When you’re lost, you really don’t know where you are. When you just don’t happen to know where you are at the moment, that’s something else. I know I’m underneath Spiral Castle, and that’s quite good for a start.”
“You’re splitting hairs,” Taran said. “Lost is lost. You’re worse than Dallben.”
“Who is Dallben?”
“Dallben is my—oh, never mind!” His face grim, Taran began retracing his steps.
Eilonwy hurried to join him. “We could have a look into one of the side passageways,” she called.
Taran disregarded the suggestion. Nevertheless, approaching the next branching gallery, he slowed his steps and peered briefly into the gloom.
“Go ahead,” Eilonwy urged. “Let’s try this one. It seems as good as any.
“Hush!” Taran bent his head and listened intently. From a distance came a faint whispering and rustling. “There’s something …”
“Well, by all means let’s find out what,” said Eilonwy, prodding Taran in the back. “Go ahead, will you?”
Taran took a few cautious steps. The passage here was lower and seemed to slope still farther down. With Eilonwy beside him, he continued gingerly, setting each foot carefully, remembering the sudden, sickening fall that had brought him there in the first place. The whispering became a high keening, a wail of torment. It was as though voices had been spun out like threads, twisted taut, ready to snap. An icy current wove through the air, carrying along with it hollow sighs and a swell of dull mutterings. There were other sounds, too; raspings and shriekings, like sword points dragged over stones. Taran felt his hands tremble; he hesitated a moment and gestured for Eilonwy to stay behind him.
“Give me the light,” he whispered, “and wait for me here.”
“Do you think it’s ghosts?” Eilonwy asked. “I don’t have any beans to spit at them, and that’s about the only thing that will really do for a ghost. But you know I don’t think it’s ghosts at all. I’ve never heard one, though I suppose they could sound like that if they wanted to, but I don’t see why they should bother. No, I think it’s wind making all those noises.”
“Wind? How could there be … Wait,” Taran said. “You may be right, at that. There might be an opening.” Closing his ears to the horrifying sounds and preferring to think of them as draughts of air rather than spectral voices, Taran quickened his pace. Eilonwy, paying no attention to his order to wait, strode along with him.
They soon arrived at the end of the passage. Once more, fallen stones blocked their way, but this time there was a narrow, jagged gap. From it, the wailing grew louder, and Taran felt a cold ribbon of air on his face. He thrust the light into the opening, but even the golden rays could not pierce the curtain of shadows. Taran slid cautiously past the barrier; Eilonwy followed.
They entered a low-ceilinged chamber, and as they did, the light flickered under the weight of the dark
ness. At first, Taran could make out only indistinct shapes, touched with a feeble green glow. The voices screamed in trembling rage. Despite the chill wind, Taran’s forehead was clammy. He raised the light and took another step forward. The shapes grew clearer. Now he distinguished outlines of shields hanging from the walls and piles of swords and spears. His foot struck something. He bent to look and sprang back again, stifling a cry. It was the withered corpse of a man—a warrior fully armed. Another lay beside him, and another, in a circle of ancient dead guarding a high stone slab on which a shadowy figure lay at full length.
Eilonwy paid scant attention to the warriors, having found something more interesting to her. “I’m sure Achren hasn’t any idea all this is here,” she whispered, pointing to heaps of otter-skin robes and great earthen jars overflowing with jewels. Weapons glistened amid stacks of helmets; woven baskets held brooches, collar-pieces, and chains.
“She’d have hauled it out long ago; she loves jewelry, you know, though it doesn’t become her one bit.”
“Surely it is the barrow of the king who built this castle,” Taran said in a hushed voice. He stepped past the warriors and drew near the figure on the slab. Rich raiment clothed the body; polished stones glowed in his broad belt. The clawed hands still grasped the jeweled hilt of a sword, as if ready to unsheathe it. Taran recoiled in fear and horror. The skull seemed to grimace in defiance, daring a stranger to despoil the royal treasures.
As Taran turned, a gust of wind caught at his face. “I think there is a passage,” he called, “there, in the far wall.” He ran in the direction of the ghostly cries.
Close to the ground, a tunnel opened; he could smell fresh air, and his lungs drank deeply. “Hurry,” he urged.
Taran snatched a sword from a warrior’s bony hand and scrambled into the tunnel.
The tunnel was the narrowest they had encountered. Flat on his belly, Taran squeezed and fought his way over the loose stones. Behind him, he heard Eilonwy gasping and struggling. Then a new sound began, a distant booming and throbbing. The earth shuddered as the pounding increased. Suddenly the passageway convulsed, the hidden roots of trees sprang up, the ground split beneath Taran, heaving and crumbling. In another instant, he was flung out at the bottom of a rocky slope.
A great crash resounded deep within the hill. Spiral Castle, high above him, was bathed in blue fire. A sudden gale nearly battered Taran to the ground. A tree of lightning crackled in the sky. Behind him, Eilonwy called for help.
She was half in, half out of the narrow passage. As Taran wrestled with the fallen stones, the walls of Spiral Castle shook like gray rags. The towers lurched madly. Taran clawed away clumps of earth and roots.
“I’m all tangled up with the sword,” Eilonwy panted. “The scabbard’s caught on something.”
Taran heaved at the last rock. “What sword?” he said through gritted teeth. He seized Eilonwy under the arms and pulled her free.
“Oof!” she gasped. “I feel as if I had all my bones taken apart and put together wrong. The sword? You said you needed weapons, didn’t you? And you took one, so I thought I might as well, too.”
In a violent explosion that seemed ripped from the very center of the earth, Spiral Castle crumbled in on itself. The mighty stones of its walls split like twigs, their jagged ends thrusting at the sky. Then a deep silence fell. The wind was still; the air oppressive.
“Thank you for saving my life,” said Eilonwy. “For an Assistant Pig-Keeper, I must say you are quite courageous. It’s wonderful when people surprise you that way.
“I wonder what happened to Achren,” she went on. “She’ll really be furious,” she added with a delighted laugh, “and probably blame everything on me, for she’s always punishing me for things I haven’t even thought of yet.”
“If Achren is under those stones, she’ll never punish anyone again,” Taran said. “But I don’t think we’d better stay to find out.” He buckled on his sword.
The blade Eilonwy had taken from the barrow was too long for the girl to wear comfortably at her waist, so she had slung it from her shoulder.
Taran looked at the weapon with surprise. “Why—that’s the sword the king was holding.”
“Naturally,” said Eilonwy. “It should be the best one, shouldn’t it?” She picked up the glowing sphere. “We’re at the far side of the castle, what used to be the castle. Your friend is down there, among those trees—assuming he waited for you. I’d be surprised if he did, with all this going on …”
They ran toward the grove. Ahead, Taran saw the shadowy forms of a cloaked figure and a white horse. “There they are!” he cried.
“Gwydion!” he called. “Gwydion!”
The moon swung from behind the clouds. The figure turned. Taran stopped short in the sudden brightness and his jaw dropped. He had never seen this man before.
CHAPTER NINE
Fflewddur Fflam
Taran’s sword leaped out. The man in the cloak hurriedly dropped Melyngar’s bridle and darted behind a tree. Taran swung the blade. Pieces of bark sprayed the air. While the stranger ducked back and forth, Taran slashed and thrust, hacking wildly at bushes and branches.
“You’re not Gwydion!” he shouted.
“Never claimed I was,” the stranger shouted back. “If you think I’m Gwydion, you’re dreadfully mistaken.”
“Come out of there,” Taran ordered, thrusting again.
“Certainly not while you’re swinging that enormous—here now, watch that! Great Belin, I was safer in Achren’s dungeon!”
“Come out now or you won’t be able to,” Taran shouted. He redoubled his attack, ripping furiously through the underbrush.
“Truce! Truce!” called the stranger. “You can’t smite an unarmed man!”
Eilonwy, who had been a few paces behind Taran, ran up and seized his arm. “Stop it!” she cried. “That’s no way to treat your friend, after I went to all the bother of rescuing him.”
Taran shook off Eilonwy. “What treachery is this!” he shouted. “You left my companion to die! You’ve been with Achren all along. I should have known it. You’re no better than she is!” With a cry of anguish, he raised his sword.
Eilonwy ran sobbing into the woods. Taran dropped the blade and stood with bowed head.
The stranger ventured from behind the tree. “Truce?” he inquired again. “Believe me, if I’d known it was going to cause all this trouble I wouldn’t have listened to that redheaded girl.”
Taran did not raise his head.
The stranger took a few more cautious steps. “Humblest apologies for disappointing you,” he said. “I’m awfully flattered you mistook me for Prince Gwydion. There’s hardly any resemblance, except possibly a certain air of …”
“I do not know who you are,” Taran said bitterly. “I do know that a brave man has bought your life for you.”
“I am Flewddur Fflam Son of Godo,” the stranger said, bowing deeply, “a bard of the harp at your service.”
“I have no need of bards,” Taran said. “A harp will not bring my companion to life.”
“Lord Gwydion is dead?” Fflewddur Fflam asked. “Those are sorrowful tidings. He is a kinsman and I owe allegiance to the House of Don. But why do you blame his death on me? If Gwydion has bought my life, at least tell me how, and I shall mourn with you.”
“Go your way,” said Taran. “It is no fault of yours. I trusted Gwydion’s life to a traitor and liar. My own life should be forfeit.”
“Those are hard words to apply to a winsome lass,” said the bard. “Especially one who isn’t here to defend herself.”
“I want no explanation from her,” he said. “There is nothing she can tell me. She can lose herself in the forest, for all I care.”
“If she’s as much of a traitor and a liar as you say,” Fflewddur remarked, “then you’re letting her off easily. You may not want her explanation, but I’m quite sure Gwydion would. Allow me to suggest you go and find her before she strays too far.”
> Taran nodded. “Yes,” he said coldly, “Gwydion shall have justice.”
He turned on his heel and walked toward the trees. Eilonwy had gone no great distance; he could see the glow of the sphere a few paces ahead, where the girl sat on a boulder in a clearing. She looked small and thin; her head was pressed into her hands, and her shoulders shook.
“Now you’ve made me cry!” she burst out, as Taran approached. “I hate crying; it makes my nose feel like a melted icicle. You’ve hurt my feelings, you stupid Assistant Pig-Keeper, and all for something that’s your own fault to begin with.”
Taran was so taken aback that he began to stammer.
“Yes,” cried Eilonwy, “it’s every bit your fault! You were so closemouthed about the man you wanted me to rescue, and you kept talking about your friend in the other cell. Very well, I rescued whoever it was in the other cell.”
“You didn’t tell me there was anyone else in the dungeon.”
“There wasn’t,” Eilonwy insisted. “Fflewddur Fflam or whatever he calls himself was the only one.”
“Then where is my companion?” Taran demanded. “Where is Gwydion?”
“I don’t know,” Eilonwy said. “He wasn’t in Achren’s dungeon, that’s sure. What’s more, he never was.”
Taran realized the girl was speaking the truth. As his memory returned, he recalled that Gwydion had been with him only briefly; he had not seen the guards put him in a cell; Taran had only guessed at that.
“What could she have done with him?”
“I haven’t any idea in the world,” Eilonwy said and sniffed. “She could have brought him to her chambers, or locked him in the tower—there’s a dozen places she could have hidden him. All you needed to say was, ‘Go and rescue a man named Gwydion,’ and I would have found him. But no, you had to be so clever about it and keep everything to yourself …”
Taran’s heart sank. “I must go back to the castle and find him. Will you show me where Achren might have imprisoned him?”
“There’s nothing left of the castle,” said Eilonwy. “Besides, I’m not sure I’m going to help you any more at all, after the way you’ve behaved; and calling me those horrid names, that’s like putting caterpillars in somebody’s hair.” She tossed her head, put her chin in the air, and refused to look at him.