Magg spun around. Fflewddur had broken away from the press of warriors and was racing at top speed toward the Chief Steward. The bard’s spiky yellow hair streamed behind him and his face shone with furious triumph.
“The spider is mine!” cried Fflewddur, his blade whistling about his head. Magg, at the sight of the frenzied bard, yelled in terror and tried to flee. The bard was upon him in a moment, striking right and left with the flat of his sword in such a wild onslaught that most of his blows missed their mark. Magg, with the strength of desperation, sprang at the bard’s throat and grappled with him.
Before Taran could come to Fflewddur’s aid, a warrior with an axe beset him and, despite his stout defense, Taran found himself driven back toward a corner of the Hall. Amid the confusion of the fray, he saw Gwydion and Rhun struggling against other warriors. The Prince of Mona laid about him furiously with his broken sword, and it was to one of Rhun’s sharp blows that Taran’s assailant fell.
Fflewddur and Magg were still locked in combat. As Taran raced to the side of the bard, the dark, shaggy form of Gurgi overtook him. With a yelp of rage, Gurgi leaped into the air and clung to Magg’s shoulders. The Chief Steward still wore his silver chain of office; Gurgi snatched it and let himself swing free. Magg gasped and tumbled backward, choking and hissing while Gurgi dangled for an instant, then sprang clear of the falling Steward. In a flash the bard was upon the prostrate Magg. Heedless of the buffeting from Magg’s flailing legs, Gurgi laid hold of him by the heels and hung on with all his strength, while Fflewddur, sitting on Magg’s head, seemed indeed to be carrying out his threat of squashing the treacherous Chief Steward.
Gwydion, with Dyrnwyn unsheathed and blazing, had cut down two warriors who now sprawled motionless on the flagstones. Terrified at the sight of the flaming weapon, the remaining guards fled. With long strides Gwydion hastened to the companions.
“Eilonwy is bewitched!” Taran cried. “I have lost her.”
Gwydion’s eyes went to the end of the Hall where scarlet draperies had been flung back from an alcove. Eilonwy stood there and beside her, Achren.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Spells of Caer Colur
Taran’s heart froze, and within him echoed the nightmare memory of another day when he had stood in terror before Achren. As if he were still the same frightened lad he had been, he trembled once again at the sight of the black-robed Queen. Her hair, unbound, fell in glittering silver tresses to her shoulders; the beauty of her features had not changed, though her face was deathly pale. At Spiral Castle, long ago, she had been decked in jewels; now, neither rings nor bracelets adorned her slender hands and white arms. But her eyes, hard as jewels themselves, drew Taran’s gaze and held it.
Gwydion had sprung forward. With a cry Taran followed him, sword upraised. Eilonwy shrank back and clung to Achren.
“Put down your weapons,” Achren commanded. “The girl’s life is bound to mine. Would you take my life? Then she must share my death.”
Seeing the black sword, Achren had stiffened, but made no move to flee. Instead, her lips curled in the shadow of a smile. Gwydion halted and looked searchingly at her. Slowly, his face dark with anger, he returned Dyrnwyn to its sheath.
“Obey her,” he murmured to Taran. “I fear Achren speaks the truth. Even in death she may be deadly.”
“You show wisdom, Lord Gwydion,” Achren said softly. “You have not forgotten me, nor have I forgotten you. I see, too, the Assistant Pig-Keeper and the foolish bard who should have been food for carrion crows long before this. The others, perhaps, know me not as well as you do, but soon they shall.”
“Unloose the Princess Eilonwy from your spell,” said Gwydion. “Return her to us and you shall depart unhindered.”
“Lord Gwydion is generous,” Achren replied with a mocking smile. “You offer me safety when your own peril is greatest. You were rash even to set foot on Caer Colur. And now the more hopeless your plight, the bolder your words.” Her glance lingered on him. “Pity that one such as you scorned to be my consort and rule with me when the chance was given.
“Unloose the girl?” Achren went on. “No, Lord Gwydion. She will serve me as I planned. My spells are not the only ones to bind her. You know her ancestry and the blood of enchantresses that flows in her veins. Caer Colur itself has long awaited its Princess. It calls to her, and so it ever shall, while one stone stands upon the other. This is her birthright; I do no more than help her claim it.”
“You force her to claim it!” Taran burst out. “Eilonwy did not come willingly to Caer Colur. She does not stay willingly.” His desperation drowned his caution and he could not keep himself from starting toward Eilonwy, who watched him curiously. Gwydion’s hand on his shoulder drew him back.
“Is she indeed unwilling?” Achren raised her arm and gestured to the alcove where stood an ancient chest tall as Eilonwy herself. “I have shown her what this contains,” Achren said. “All the implements of magic treasured up for her. Power such as she has never known lies within her grasp. Do you ask her to cast it away? Let her give you her own answer.”
At Achren’s words Eilonwy raised her head. Her lips parted, but she did not speak. Hesitating, she toyed with the silver chain around her neck.
“Hear me, Princess,” Achren said quickly in a low voice. “They would deprive you of your heritage, of the enchantments that are yours by blood-right.”
“I am a Princess of Llyr,” Eilonwy said coldly. “I want what is mine. Who are these who would take it from me? I see the one who frightened me in my chamber. A keeper of pigs, so he claimed. The rest I do not know.”
Gurgi’s heartrending wail filled the Great Hall. “Yes, yes, you know us! Oh, yes! Do not speak hurtful words to sad companions. You cannot forget! This is Gurgi! Humble, faithful Gurgi! He waits to serve wise Princess as he always did!”
Taran turned his face away. The grief of the wretched creature pained him even more than his own. Achren, watching Eilonwy carefully, nodded with satisfaction.
“And their fate?” Achren said to her. “What shall be the fate of those who seek to despoil the inheritance of a Princess?”
Eilonwy frowned. Her eyes strayed over the companions. As though perplexed and reluctant, she turned to Achren. “They—they shall be punished.”
“She speaks with your voice,” Taran shouted in anger. “With your words! In her heart she does not wish us ill.”
“Think you so?” replied Achren, taking Eilonwy’s arm and pointing to Magg, prostrate on the flagstones and firmly in the grasp of the bard. “Princess, one of your loyal servants is still captive of these intruders. Cause him to be released.”
Fflewddur, sitting astride Magg’s shoulders, took a tighter grip on the scruff of the Chief Steward’s neck. Magg spat and cursed while the bard shook him furiously. “Your trained spider is my prisoner!” Fflewddur cried. “He and I have business together, long unsettled. Do you want him back unsquashed? Then let the Princess Eilonwy come with us.”
“I have no need to bargain,” Achren answered. She made a curt gesture to Eilonwy. The girl’s face, Taran saw, had taken on a harsh and severe expression; she lifted her arm, hand outstretched and fingers pointing.
“Which shall it be?” mused Achren. “The ill-favored creature who dared call himself your servant?”
Gurgi raised his head, puzzled and fearful, while Achren whispered words in a strange language to Eilonwy. The girl’s fingers moved slightly. Gurgi’s eyes widened in surprise and disbelief For an instant he stood unmoving and open-mouthed, staring at the Princess. Her hand, pointing straight at the baffled Gurgi, suddenly tensed. With a sharp cry of pain, Gurgi stiffened and clutched his head.
Achren’s eyes glittered with pleasure. Again she whispered urgently to Eilonwy. Gurgi shrieked. He spun frantically, his arms flailing as though to ward off unseen tormentors. Screaming, he flung himself to the ground, doubled up, and rolled back and forth. Taran and Gwydion raced to his side; but the tortured creature, like
a wounded animal, struck at them and thrashed blindly in agony.
Fflewddur leaped to his feet. “No more!” he shouted. “Harm Gurgi no longer! You shall have Magg. Take him!”
At Achren’s command, Eilonwy dropped her hand to her side. Gurgi lay gasping on the stones. His body shook with sobbing. He raised his shaggy, disheveled head, and Taran saw his face streaming with tears that came not only from the suffering he had just undergone. Painfully, the exhausted creature drew himself up to crouch on hands and knees.
Gurgi crept forward a little way. His weeping eyes turned to Eilonwy. “Wise Princess,” he murmured, “it is no wish of hers to fill poor tender head with harmful hurtings. Gurgi knows this. He forgives her.”
Magg, meantime finding himself free of the bard’s grasp, lost no time in scrambling to his feet and scuttling to the side of Achren. His encounter with Fflewddur had left the Chief Steward much the worse for wear. His handsome garments showed rips and rents, his lank hair fell damply over his forehead, his chain of office was bent and battered. Nevertheless, once near Achren, Magg folded his arms and haughtily threw back his head; rage and hatred filled his eyes, and Taran was certain that had Achren given him the power Magg’s glance alone would have sufficed to send Fflewddur rolling in torments sharper than Gurgi’s.
“You shall pay dearly for this, harper,” Magg spat. “I rejoice that I did not have you thrashed and driven away when first I laid eyes on you; for now it allows me to hang you in your own harp strings, from the highest tower of Rhuddlum’s castle. And so shall I do, once I am Lord of Dinas Rhydnant.”
“Lord of Dinas Rhydnant!” Fflewddur exclaimed. “A Steward’s chain is too much honor for you.”
“Tremble, harper!” sneered Magg. “Dinas Rhydnant is mine. It has been promised me. And all the realm. King Magg! Magg the Magnificent!”
“King Magg the Maggot!” the bard flung back at him. “Does Achren promise you a kingdom? A scullery would be more than you deserve!”
“Achren’s promises are false,” cried Taran. “Learn this to your grief, Magg!”
The black-robed Queen smiled. “Achren knows how to reward those who serve her, as she knows how to punish those who defy her. Magg’s kingdom shall stand among the mightiest in the land. And Caer Colur shall rise more glorious than ever. Its Great Hall shall be the seat of power over all Prydain. The Lord of Annuvin himself shall kneel in homage to me.” Achren’s voice fell nearly to a whisper; a cold fire burned over her pale features. Her eyes were no longer on the companions, but far beyond them. “Arawn of Annuvin shall cower and beg for mercy. But his throne shall be toppled. It was I, Achren, who showed him the secret ways to power. He betrayed me and now he shall suffer my vengeance. It was I who ruled Prydain before him and none dared question my dominion. Thus shall it be once more. Thus shall it be evermore.”
“The lore tells of your ancient rule,” Gwydion said sharply, “and how you sought to keep hearts and minds in thrall to you. You tormented those who would not worship you; and for those who bowed to you, life was little better than a slow death. I know, too, of the blood sacrifices you demanded and your joy at the cries of your victims. No, Achren, it shall not come again. Think you this girl shall lead you to it?”
“She will obey me,” Achren replied, “as surely as if I held her beating heart in my hand.”
Gwydion’s eyes flashed. “Your words are vain, Achren. They cannot deceive me. Do you seek to rule through the Princess Eilonwy? The enchantments she commands still sleep. You have not the means to waken them.”
Achren’s face turned livid and she drew back as though she had been struck. “You speak beyond your knowledge.”
“Oh, no, he doesn’t!” burst out Rhun, who had been listening in amazement. The Prince of Mona triumphantly faced Achren. “The book! The golden light! We’ve got them and we shall never give them up!”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Golden Pelydryn
“Prince 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 Pelydryn—its 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.”
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