“So be it, then,” replied Taliesin. “And you others,” the Chief Bard added to the companions, “you have seen many of the treasures of Caer Dathyl. But have you seen its true pride and priceless treasure? It is here,” he said quietly, gesturing around the chamber. “Stored in this Hall of Lore is much of Prydain’s ancient learning. Though Arawn Death-Lord robbed men of their craft secrets, he could not gain the songs and sayings of our bards. Here they have been carefully gathered. Of your songs, my gallant friend,” he said to Fflewddur, “there are not a few.
“Memory lives longer than what it remembers,” Taliesin said. “And all men share the memories and wisdom of all others. Below this chamber lie even richer troves.” He smiled. “Like poetry itself, the greater part is the more deeply hidden. There, too, is the Hall of Bards. Alas, Fflewddur Fflam,” he said regretfully, “none but a true bard may enter it. Though one day, perhaps, you shall join our company.”
“Oh, wisdom of noble bards!” cried Gurgi, his eyes popping in wonderment. “It makes humble Gurgi’s poor tender head spin with whirlings and twirlings! Alas, alas, for he has no wisdom! But he would go without crunchings and munchings to gain it!”
Taliesin put a hand on the creature’s shoulder. “Do you believe you have none?” he said. “That is not true. Of wisdom there are as many patterns as a loom can weave. Yours is the wisdom of a good and kindly heart. Scarce it is, and its worth all the greater.
“Such is that of Coll Son of Collfrewr,” said the Chief Bard, “and added thereto the wisdom of the earth, the gift of waking barren ground and causing the soil to flourish in a rich harvest.”
“My garden does that labor, not I,” said Coll, his bald crown turning pink from both pleasure and modesty. “And as I recall the state I left it in, I shall wait long for another harvest, whatever.”
“I was to gain wisdom on the Isle of Mona,” put in Eilonwy. “That’s why Dallben sent me there. All I learned was needlework, cooking, and curtsying.”
“Learning is not the same as wisdom,” Taliesin interrupted with a kindly laugh. “In your veins, Princess, flows the blood of the enchantresses of Llyr. Your wisdom may be the most secret of all, for you know without knowing; even as the heart itself knows how to beat.”
“Alas for my own wisdom,” said Taran. “I was with your son when he met his death. He gave me a brooch of great power, and while I wore it there was much I understood and much that was hidden grew clear to me. The brooch is no longer mine, if indeed it ever truly was. What I knew then I remember only as a dream lingering beyond my power to grasp it.”
A shade of sorrow passed over Taliesin’s face. “There are those,” he said gently, “who must first learn loss, despair, and grief. Of all paths to wisdom, this is the cruelest and longest. Are you one who must follow such a way? This even I cannot know. If you are, take heart nonetheless. Those who reach the end do more than gain wisdom. As rough wool becomes cloth, and crude clay a vessel, so do they change and fashion wisdom for others, and what they give back is greater than what they won.”
Taran was about to speak, but the notes of a signal horn rang from the Middle Tower and shouts rose from the guardians at the turrets. Watchers cried out the sighting of King Pryderi’s battle host. Taliesin led the companions up a broad flight of stone steps where, from atop the Hall of Lore, they could see beyond the walls of the fortress. Taran could only glimpse the gleam of the westering sun on ranks of spears across the valley. Then, mounted figures broke away from the mass and galloped across the snow-flecked expanse. Against the rolling meadow, the leading rider of the band was sharply brilliant in trappings of crimson, black, and gold, and sunlight sparkled on his golden helmet. Taran could watch no longer, for guards were shouting the names of the companions, summoning them to the Great Hall.
Catching up the banner of the White Pig, Gurgi hastened after Taran. The companions quickly made their way to the Great Hall. A long table had been placed there and at its head sat Math and Gwydion. Taliesin took his seat at Gwydion’s left hand; to the right of Math stood an empty throne draped in the colors of King Pryderi’s Royal House. On either side sat the Lords of Don, cantrev nobles, and war-leaders.
Circling the Hall stood the banner-bearers. Gurgi glanced about him in dismay; but, at a gesture from Gwydion, stationed himself among their ranks. The poor creature looked miserable and frightened out of his wits amid the stern warriors. But the companions turned encouraging eyes on him, and Coll gave him such a huge grin and a wink that Gurgi raised both his shaggy head and his makeshift banner more proudly than any in the Great Hall.
Taran himself felt no little awkwardness when Gwydion signaled for him and the others to take seats among the war-leaders; though Eilonwy, still in her warrior’s attire, smiled happily and seemed altogether at ease.
“Humph!” she remarked. “I think Hen Wen shows up quite handsomely and, for the matter of that, better than most. You were so disagreeable about whether her eyes were blue or brown. Well, I can tell you that’s not half as strange as the colors they’ve embroidered on some of these banners …”
Eilonwy stopped speaking, for the portals were flung open and King Pryderi entered the Great Hall. All eyes were on him as he strode toward the council table. He was as tall as Gwydion himself, and his rich raiment glittered in the torchlight. He wore no helmet; what Taran had seen was his long hair that shone like gold about his brow. At his side hung a naked sword, for it was Pryderi’s custom, as Fflewddur whispered to Taran, never to sheathe his blade until the battle was won. Behind him followed falconers with hooded hawks on their gauntleted wrists; his war-leaders, with the crimson hawk emblem of the House of Pwyll broidered on their cloaks; and spearmen flanking his banner-bearer.
Gwydion, clothed like the Chief Bard in the unadorned garb of a warrior, stood to greet him, but Pryderi halted before reaching the council table and, arms folded, glanced around the Hall at the waiting cantrev kings.
“Well met, Lords,” Pryderi cried. “I rejoice to see you gathered here. The threat of Annuvin makes you forget your own quarreling. Once more you seek protection from the House of Don, like fledglings who see the hawk circling.”
Pryderi’s voice rang with unhidden scorn. Taran started at the King’s harsh speech. The High King himself looked sharply at Pryderi, though when he spoke his words were measured and grave.
“How, then, Lord Pryderi? It is I who summoned all who will stand with us, for the safety of all hangs in the balance.”
Pryderi smiled bitterly. His handsome features were flushed, whether from the cold or from anger Taran could not tell; blood tinged Pryderi’s high, jutting cheekbones as he threw back his golden head and unflinchingly met the High King’s stern glance.
“Would any have lingered, seeing himself threatened?” replied Pryderi. “Men answer only to an iron fist or a sword at their throats. Those who bear you allegiance bear it as it serves their own ends. Among themselves, these cantrev rulers are never at peace, but each is eager to profit from the weakness of his neighbor. In their secret hearts, are they less evil than Arawn Death-Lord?”
Shocked and angry murmurs arose from the cantrev kings. Math silenced them with a quick gesture.
Then Gwydion spoke: “It is beyond any man’s wisdom to judge the secret heart of another,” he said, “for in it are good and evil mixed. But these are matters to ponder over the embers of a campfire, as you and I have often done; or at the end of feasting, when the torches burn low. Our deeds now must safeguard Prydain. Come, Pryderi Son of Pwyll. Your place awaits you and we have many plans to set.”
“You summoned me, Prince of Don,” Pryderi answered in a hard voice. “I am here. To join you? No. To demand your surrender.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Fortress
For an instant, none could speak. The silver bells at the legs of Pryderi’s hawks tinkled faintly. Then Taran was on his feet, sword in hand. The cantrev lords shouted in rage and drew their weapons. Gwydion’s voice rang out, command
ing them to silence.
Pryderi did not move. His retainers had unsheathed their blades and formed a circle about him. The High King had risen from his throne.
“You sport with us, Son of Pwyll,” Math said severely, “but treachery is no fitting matter for a jest.”
Pryderi still stood with arms folded. His golden features had turned the color of iron. “Call it no jest,” he answered, “and call me no traitor. This I have pondered long and closely and with much anguish of heart. I see now that only thus can I serve Prydain.”
Gwydion’s face was pale and his eyes grave. “You speak in madness,” he replied. “Have Arawn’s false promises blinded you to reason? Would you tell me that a liege man of the Death-Lord serves any realm but Annuvin?”
“To me, Arawn can promise nothing I do not already have,” answered Pryderi. “But Arawn will do what the Sons of Don failed to do: make an end of endless wars among the cantrevs, and bring peace where there was none before.”
“The peace of death and the silence of mute slavery,” Gwydion replied.
Pryderi glanced around him. A harsh smile was on his lips. “Do these men deserve better, Lord Gwydion? Are all their lives together worth one of ours? Crude brawlers, these self-styled cantrev lords are unfit to command even their own households.
“I choose what is best for Prydain,” he continued. “I do not serve Arawn. Is the axe the woodcutter’s master? At the end, it is Arawn who will serve me.”
With horror, Taran listened to the words of Pryderi as he spoke to the High King.
“Lay down your arms. Abandon the weaklings who cling to you for protection. Surrender to me now. Caer Dathyl shall be spared, and yourself, and those I deem worthy to rule with me.”
Math raised his head. “Is there worse evil?” he said in a low voice, his eyes never leaving Pryderi’s. “Is there worse evil than that which goes in the mask of good?”
One of the cantrev lords sprang from the council table and, blade upraised, started toward Pryderi.
“Touch him not!” cried Math. “We welcomed him as a friend. He leaves as a foe, but he shall leave in safety. If any harm even a feather of his hawks, his life shall be forfeit.”
“Go from here, Pryderi Son of Pwyll,” Gwydion said, the coldness of his tone making his wrath the more terrible. “The anguish of my heart is no less than yours. Our comradeship is broken. Between us there can be only the lines of battle, and our only bond the edge of a sword.”
Pryderi did not answer, but turned on his heel and with his retainers strode from the Great Hall. Even as he mounted his steed, word spread among the warriors, and they stared silently in their ranks. Beyond the walls, the armies of Pryderi had lit torches and the valley flamed as far as Taran’s eyes could see. Pryderi rode through the gates, the crimson and gold of his raiment shimmering like the torches themselves, and galloped toward his waiting host. Taran and the Commot men watched, sick with despair; they knew, as did all in Caer Dathyl, this glittering King, like a hawk of death, had snatched their lives and now bore them away with him.
Gwydion had expected the army of King Pryderi to attack at first light, and the men in the fortress had labored through the night making ready to withstand a siege. When dawn came, however, and the pale sun rose higher, Pryderi’s battle host was seen to have advanced but little. From the wall Taran, Fflewddur, and Coll, with the other war leaders, watched beside Gwydion, who stood scanning the valley, and the heights that dipped in raw ridges to the flatlands. Snow had not fallen for some days; gullies and rocky fissures still held streaks and patches of white, caught among the crevices like tufts of wool, but the broad meadlowland was, for the most part, clear. The dead turf showed in dark brown splotches under a ragged mantle of frost.
Scouts had brought word that Pryderi’s warriors held the valley in strength and barred passage through the battle lines. Nevertheless, no skirmishers or flanking columns of riders had been seen abroad; and the scouts judged, from this and the stationing of the foot soldiers and horsemen, that the attack would come in a great forward thrust, as an iron fist against the gates of Caer Dathyl.
Gwydion nodded. “Pryderi means to strike in all his might, though it will cost him dearly. He can be spendthrift of his warriors’ lives, knowing we can ill afford to pay an equal price.”
He frowned and rubbed his chin with the back of a gauntleted hand. His green eyes narrowed as he peered across the valley, and his lined face was that of a wolf scenting his enemies. “Lord Pryderi is arrogant,” he murmured.
Gwydion turned sharply to the war leaders. “I will not await a siege. To do so would be sure defeat. Pryderi has numbers enough to flood us like a wave. We shall give battle beyond the fortress, and we ourselves strike against the wave before it reaches its crest. Math Son of Mathonwy shall command the inner defenses. Only at the last, if so it must be, shall we retreat into the fortress and make our stand there.”
Gwydion looked for a long moment at the halls and towers of the castle which had now caught the early rays of the sun. “The Sons of Don raised Caer Dathyl with their own hands, and built it not only as a shield against Arawn but as safeguard for the wisdom and beauty of Prydain. As I would do all in my power to shatter Pryderi, so would I do all to spare Caer Dathyl from destruction. It may be that we shall gain both these ends, or lose both. But we must battle not as sluggish oxen but as swift wolves and cunning foxes.”
The Prince of Don spoke quickly to the war leaders, clearly setting forth the tasks of each. Taran felt uneasy. As a boy, he had dreamed of taking a man’s place among men; and, as a boy, had deemed himself well fit to do so. Now, amid the grizzled, battle-wise warriors, his strength seemed feeble, his knowledge clouded. Coll, sensing Taran’s thoughts, winked encouragement at him. The stout old farmer, Taran knew, had paid close heed to Gwydion’s words. Yet Taran guessed that a corner of Coll’s heart was distant, busily and happily occupied with his turnip patch.
For much of the morning Pryderi’s host held its position while the defenders quickly formed their own battle lines. At some distance beyond the walls of Caer Dathyl, heavily armed fighting men stood ready to bear the brunt of Pryderi’s assault, and there Gwydion himself would command. Fflewddur and Llyan, with Taliesin and a company of warrior-bards, held a post across the valley. The Commot horsemen would be at the flank of Pryderi’s attack and it would be their task to slash into the onrushing wave, to disrupt and sap the strength from the enemy’s arms.
Taran and Coll at the head of one troop, and Llassar entrusted to lead another, galloped to their stations. Gurgi, silent and shivering in his huge jacket, drove the banner of the White Pig into the frozen ground to mark a rallying point. Taran felt the eyes of the foe watching every move, and an odd impatience, mixed with fear, drew him taut as a bowstring.
Gwydion, astride Melyngar, rode up for a last glance at the ordering of the Commot men, and Taran cried out to him, “Why does Pryderi wait? Does he mock us? Are we no more than ants to him, laboring at a hill, to be crushed at his pleasure?”
“Patience,” answered Gwydion in a tone that was both the reassurance of a friend and the command of a war-leader. “You are swords added to my hands,” Gwydion went on. “Do not let yourselves be shattered. Move quickly, stay not overlong in one fray, but start many.” He took Taran’s hand and Coll’s and Gurgi’s. “Farewell,” Gwydion said almost brusquely, then spun Melyngar about and rode swiftly to his warriors.
Taran watched him until he had disappeared, then turned toward the distant towers of Caer Dathyl. Eilonwy, along with Glew, had been commanded to remain in the fortress under the High King’s protection. Taran strained his eyes in the vain hope of glimpsing her on the walls. What she might feel for him he was no more sure than he had been at Caer Dallben; but, despite his resolve, he was on the verge of speaking his own heart fully. Then, suddenly, like a man swept away in a flood, he had been caught up in the rallying of warriors, without even a moment to say his farewell. Yearning pierced him, and regret for hi
s unspoken words was an iron hand gripping his throat.
He started and clenched the reins as Melynlas, snorting a white cloud, began to paw the ground. At a glance he saw Pryderi’s host had risen and was surging into the valley. The battle was upon him.
It came quickly, not as the slow-cresting wave Taran had expected. First was a swelling sea of shouting men. The Sons of Don were not awaiting Pryderi’s charge but were racing ahead to grapple with the attacking foe. He saw Gwydion on the rearing white shape of Melyngar. But Taran could not tell the instant of the first clash of arms; for in a moment, instead of two tides there was only one that spun and shifted in a great convulsion, a whirlpool of spears and swords.
Taran sounded his horn and, as an answering shout came from Llassar, clapped heels into the flanks of Melynlas. Coll and the Commot horsemen spurred their mounts after him. From a swift canter the powerful legs of Melynlas stretched to a gallop. The stallion’s muscles heaved beneath him and Taran, sword raised, plunged into the sea of men. His head spun and he gasped as if drowning. He realized he was terrified.
Around him swirled the faces of friends and foes. He glimpsed Llonio flailing right and left. The man’s makeshift helmet bobbed over his eyes, his long legs were drawn up high in the stirrups, and he looked like nothing so much as a scarecrow come to life; yet, where Llonio passed, attackers fell as wheat to a scythe. Hevydd’s burly frame rose like a wall in the midst of the combat. Of Llassar there was no sign, but Taran thought he could hear the young shepherd’s high-pitched battle cry. Then a curious roaring reached his ears and he knew Llyan, with Fflewddur, had entered the fray. In another moment, aware of nothing beyond the blade in his hand, Taran was locked in a blind madness with warriors who thrust at him and whose blows he strove to return.
Again and again Taran and the Commot horsemen slashed deep into the attackers’ flanks, then wheeled to gallop free of the iron whirlpool, only to plunge back again. In a flash of clarity Taran saw glittering gold and crimson. It was King Pryderi on a black charger. Taran struggled to engage him. For an instant their eyes met, but the Son of Pwyll made no attempt to answer the challenge of a ragged horseman. Instead, he looked away and continued to press ahead. Then he was gone. And it was Pryderi’s scornful glance that stung Taran more sharply than the blade which swung up from the mass of foemen to lash across his face.