Her snout twitched, she raised her head slightly and gave a faint “Hwoinch!”
“Hen, listen to me,” Taran pleaded, “I have no power to command you. But we need your help, all of us who love you.”
Taran spoke on; as he did, the oracular pig ceased her trembling. Though she did not attempt to rise, Hen Wen grunted fondly, wheezed, and made affectionate muttering sounds in her throat. She blinked her eyes and her wide face seemed nearly to grin.
“Tell us, Hen,” Taran urged. “Please. Tell us what you can.”
Hen Wen moved uneasily. Slowly she climbed to her feet. The white pig snorted and glanced at the letter sticks. Step by step, on her short legs, she moved closer to them.
The enchanter nodded to Taran. “Well done,” he murmured. “This day, the power of an Assistant Pig-Keeper is greater than my own.”
As Taran stared, not daring to speak, Hen Wen paused at the first rod. Still hesitant, she pointed with her snout at one of the carved symbols, then at another. Dallben, watching intently, quickly wrote on a scrap of parchment the signs the oracular pig had indicated. Hen Wen continued a few moments, then suddenly left off and backed anxiously from the stick.
Dallben’s face was grave. “Can this be so?” he murmured, his voice filled with alarm. “No … no. We must learn more than that.” He glanced at Taran.
“Please, Hen,” Taran whispered, coming to the side of the pig, who had begun to shudder again. “Help us.”
Despite his words, Taran feared Hen Wen would turn away. She shook her head, squinted her eyes, and grunted piteously. Nevertheless, at his pleading, she cautiously trotted to the second rod. There, in desperate haste, as if to make an end of it quickly, she pointed to other symbols.
The enchanter’s hand trembled as he wrote. “Now the third one,” he said urgently.
Hen Wen, stiff-legged, reared back and sank to her haunches. All of Taran’s soothing words would not budge her for several moments. At last, however, she rose and more fearfully than ever trotted to the final ash-wood rod.
Even as Hen Wen approached and before she could point to the first letter, the ash-wood rods shook and swayed like living things. They twisted as though to uproot themselves, and with a sound that ripped the air like a thunder clap, they split, shattered, and fell to earth in splinters.
Hen Wen, squealing in terror, flung herself backward and fled to a corner of the enclosure. As Taran hurried to her, Dallben bent, picked up the fragments of wood, and studied them hopelessly.
“They are destroyed beyond repair, and useless now,” Dallben said in a heavy voice. “The cause is dark to me, and Hen Wen’s prophecy remains unfinished. Even so, I doubt its end could bode less ill than its beginning. She must have sensed this herself.”
The enchanter turned and walked slowly from the enclosure. Eilonwy had joined Taran, who strove to calm the terrified pig. Hen Wen still gasped and shook, and pressed her head between her forelegs.
“No wonder she didn’t want to prophesy,” Eilonwy cried. “And yet,” she added to Taran, “Hen would have told nothing at all if it hadn’t been for you.”
Dallben, with the parchment in his hand, had gone to the side of Gwydion. Coll, Fflewddur, and King Rhun gathered anxiously around them. Sure that Hen Wen was unharmed and wanted only to be left in peace, Taran and Eilonwy hurried to the companions. “Help! Oh, help!”
Yelling, waving his arms frantically, Gurgi raced across the turf. He dashed into their midst and pointed toward the stables.
“Gurgi could do nothing!” he cried. “He tried, oh yes, but there were only smackings and whackings for his poor tender head! Gone!” Gurgi shouted. “With fast and speedful gallopings! Wicked Queen is gone!”
CHAPTER THREE
The Prophecy
The companions hastened to the stable. As Gurgi had told them, one of King Rhun’s horses was missing. Of Achren, there was no trace.
“Let me saddle Melynlas,” Taran urged Gwydion. “I shall try to overtake her.”
“She’s going straight to Annuvin,” burst out Fflewddur. “I never trusted that woman. Great Belin, who knows what treachery she plans! She’s off to feather her own nest, you can be sure of it.”
“Achren goes more likely to her death,” answered Gwydion, his face grim as he looked toward the hills and the leafless trees. “There is no safety for her beyond Caer Dallben. I would protect her, but dare not delay my quest to seek her now.” He turned to Dallben. “I must know Hen Wen’s prophecy. It is my only guide.”
The enchanter nodded and led the companions to the cottage. The aged man still held the parchment and the splintered letter sticks. Now he cast them on the table and gazed at them for a long moment before he spoke.
“Hen Wen has told us what she can. All, I fear, that we shall ever learn from her. I have again studied the symbols she pointed out, hoping against hope I had misread them.” His expression was withdrawn, his eyes lowered, and he spoke with difficulty, as if each word wrenched his heart. “I asked how Dyrnwyn might be recovered. Hear the answer given us:
Ask, sooner, mute stone and voiceless rock to speak.
“Such is Hen Wen’s message as I have read it from the first letter stick,” Dallben said. “Whether it is a refusal to speak, a prophecy in itself, or a warning to ask no further, I cannot be sure. But the symbols of the second letter stick spell out the fate of Dyrnwyn itself.”
Dallben continued, and the enchanter’s words filled Taran with cold anguish that struck deep as a sword thrust:
Quenched will be Dyrnwyn’s flame;
Vanished, its power.
Night turn to noon
And rivers burn with frozen fire
Ere Dyrnwyn be regained.
The ancient man bowed his head then and was silent for a time. “The third stick,” he said at last, “was destroyed before Hen Wen could complete her message. She might have told us more; but, judging from the first two, we would have cause for no more hope than we have now.”
“The prophecies mock us,” Taran said. “Hen told us truly. We could as well have asked stones for help.”
“And got as much sense from them!” cried Eilonwy. “Hen could have come straight out and said we’ll never get Dyrnwyn back. Night can’t be noon, and that’s the end of it.”
“In all my travels,” added Fflewddur, “I’ve never noticed even a small creek burning, not to mention a river. The prophecy is doubly impossible.”
“And yet,” said King Rhun, with innocent eagerness, “it would be an amazing thing to see. I wish it could happen!”
“I fear you shall not see it come to pass, King of Mona,” Dallben said heavily.
Gwydion, who had been sitting thoughtfully at the table and turning the splintered rods back and forth in his hands, rose and spoke to the companions. “Hen Wen’s prophecy is disheartening,” he said, “and far from what I had hoped. But when prophecies give no help, men must find it of themselves.” His hands clenched and snapped the fragment of ash wood. “As long as life and breath are mine, I will seek Dyrnwyn. The prophecy does not change my plans, but makes them only more urgent.”
“Then let us go with you,” Taran said, rising to face Gwydion. “Take our strength until your own returns.”
“Exactly so!” Fflewddur jumped to his feet. “I’ll pay no heed whether rivers burn or not. Ask stones to speak? I’ll ask Arawn himself. He’ll keep no secrets from a Fflam!”
Gwydion shook his head. “In this task, the more men the greater risk. It is done best alone. If any life be staked against Arawn Death-Lord, it must be mine.”
Taran bowed, for Gwydion’s tone forbade dispute. “If such is your will,” he said. “But what if Kaw were to fly ahead to Annuvin? Send him first. He will go swiftly and bring back whatever knowledge he can gain.”
Gwydion looked shrewdly at Taran and nodded approval. “You have found some wisdom in your wanderings, Assistant Pig-Keeper. Your plan is sound. Kaw may serve me better than all your swords. But I shall not awa
it him here. To do so would cost me too much time. Let him spy out Annuvin as far as he is able, then find me at King Smoit’s castle in Cantrev Cadiffor. Smoit’s realm lies on my path to Annuvin, and thus my journey will be half accomplished when Kaw rejoins me.”
“At least we can ride with you as far as King Smoit’s castle,” Taran said, “and guard you until you are well on your way. Between here and Cantrev Cadiffor, Arawn’s Huntsmen may be abroad, still seeking your death.”
“The foul villains!” cried the bard. “Treacherous murderers! They’ll have a taste of my sword this time. Let them attack us. I hope they do!” A harp string snapped with a loud crack that set the instrument a-jangling. “Ah, yes—well—that’s only a manner of speaking,” Fflewddur said sheepishly. “I hope we don’t come upon them at all. They could be troublesome and delay our journey.”
“No one has considered the inconvenience to me,” said Glew. The former giant had come out of the scullery and looked peevishly around him.
“Weasel!” muttered Fflewddur. “Dyrnwyn is gone, we don’t know if our lives are at stake, and he frets about inconvenience. He’s a little man indeed, and always was.”
“Since no one has mentioned it,” said Eilonwy, “it seems I’m not being asked to come along. Very well, I shan’t insist.”
“You, too, have gained wisdom, Princess,” said Dallben. “Your days on Mona were not ill-spent.”
“Of course,” Eilonwy went on, “after you leave, the thought may strike me that it’s a pleasant day for a short ride to go picking wildflowers, which might be hard to find, especially since it’s almost winter. Not that I’d be following you, you understand. But I might, by accident, lose my way, and mistakenly happen to catch up with you. By then, it would be too late for me to come home, through no fault of my own.”
Gwydion’s haggard face broke into a smile. “So be it, Princess. What I cannot prevent, I accept. Ride with me, all those who choose, but no farther than Smoit’s stronghold at Caer Cadarn.”
“Ah, Princess,” Coll sighed, shaking his head. “I will not gainsay Lord Gwydion, whatever. But it is hardly the conduct of a young lady to force her own way thus.”
“Certainly not,” Eilonwy agreed. “That’s the first thing Queen Teleria taught me: A lady doesn’t insist on having her own way. Then, next thing you know, it all works out somehow, without one’s even trying. I thought I’d never learn, though it’s really quite easy once you get the knack.”
Without further delay, Taran lifted Kaw from his fireside perch and carried him to the dooryard. This time the crow did not clack his beak or gabble impudently. Instead of his customary scoldings, hoarse quackings, and mischievous foolery, Kaw hunched on Taran’s wrist and cocked a beady, attentive eye, listening closely while Taran carefully explained the task.
Taran raised his arm and Kaw flapped his glossy wings in farewell.
“Annuvin!” Kaw croaked. “Dyrnwyn!”
The crow flew aloft. Within moments Kaw was high over Caer Dallben. The wind bore him like a leaf, and he hung poised above the watching companions. Then, with a roguish flirt of his wings, Kaw sped northwestward. Taran strained his eyes to follow his flight until the crow vanished into the looming clouds. In sadness and disquiet, Taran at last turned away. Kaw, he was sure, would be alert to the perils of the journey: the arrows of the Huntsmen; the cruel talons and slashing beaks of the gwythaints, Arawn’s fierce winged messengers. More than once had gwythaints attacked the companions, and even the fledglings could be dangerous.
Taran recalled, from his boyhood, the young gwythaint whose life he had saved, and he well remembered the bird’s sharp claws. Despite Kaw’s gallant heart and sharp wits, Taran feared for the safety of the crow; and feared, still more, for Gwydion’s quest. And to him came the foreboding that an even heavier fate might ride on Kaw’s outspread wings.
It had been agreed that when the travelers neared Great Avren, King Rhun would escort the disgruntled Glew to the ship anchored in the river, there to await his return, for Rhun was determined to ride with Gwydion to Caer Cadarn. Glew liked neither cooling his heels on the swaying vessel nor sleeping on the hard pebbles of the shore; but the protests of the former giant could not move the King of Mona to change his plan.
While Gwydion held a last, hurried council with Dallben, the companions began leading the horses from the stable. The wise Melyngar, Gwydion’s white, golden-maned steed, waited calmly for her master. Melynlas, Taran’s stallion, snorted and impatiently pawed the ground.
Eilonwy was already mounted on her favorite, the bay mare Lluagor. In a fold of her cloak the Princess carried her most treasured possession: the golden sphere that glowed brightly when she cupped it in her hands.
“I’m leaving that uncomfortable crown behind,” Eilonwy declared. “There’s no use for it at all, except to hold down your hair, and that’s hardly worth the blisters. But I’d sooner walk on my hands than go without my bauble. Besides, if we need a light, we shall have one. That’s much more practical than a hoop on top of your head.” In a saddlebag, she had packed the embroidery made for Taran, intending to finish it along the way. “Perhaps,” Eilonwy added, “I might fix the color of Hen Wen’s eyes while I’m at it.”
Fflewddur’s mount was the huge, tawny cat, Llyan, herself tall as a horse. Seeing the bard, she purred loudly, and Fflewddur could barely keep the powerful animal from knocking him down with her nuzzling.
“Gently, old girl,” cried the bard, as Llyan thrust her great head between his neck and shoulder. “I know you want a tune on my harp. I shall play one later, I promise you.”
Glew had recognized Llyan immediately. “That’s not fair,” he sniffed. “By all rights she belongs to me.”
“Yes,” replied Fflewddur, “if you count feeding her those vile potions you once brewed to make her grow bigger. If you care to ride her, you’re welcome to try. Though I warn you—Llyan has a memory longer than her tail.”
Llyan, indeed, had begun lashing her tail at the sight of Glew. She towered over the pudgy little man, her yellow eyes blazed, her whiskers twitched, her tufted ears went flat against her head; and from her throat came a sound quite unlike her greeting to the bard.
Fflewddur quickly strummed a melody on his harp. Llyan turned her eyes from Glew and her mouth curved in an enormous smile and she blinked fondly at the bard.
However, Glew’s pale face had gone paler and he edged away from the cat. “When I was a giant,” Glew muttered, “things were considerably better managed.”
King Rhun saddled his dapple gray steed. Since Coll, who had also decided to accompany Gwydion, would ride the sorrel mare Llamrei, foal of Melynlas and Lluagor, Glew had no choice but to climb up behind Gurgi on his shaggy pony—a companionship unwelcome to all three. Taran, meanwhile, helped Coll rummage in the stables, forge, and tool sheds for weapons.
“Few enough of them there are,” said Coll. “These spears have served me well as beanpoles,” the stout warrior added. “I had hoped never to use them for another purpose. Alas, the only blade I can give Gwydion is rusted from propping up one of the apple trees. As for helmets, there are none save my leather cap; and the sparrows have a nest in it. I shall not disturb them. But my own old pate is tough as leather,” Coll said, winking. “It can last me to Caer Cadarn and back.
“And you, my lad,” Coll went on cheerfully, though he had not failed to notice Taran’s troubled frown, “I remember a day when an Assistant Pig-Keeper would have been all flash and fire to ride with Lord Gwydion. Now you look as glum as a frostbitten turnip.”
Taran smiled. “I myself would ride to Annuvin, if Gwydion allowed me. What you say is true, old friend. For the boy I was, this would have been a bold adventure, full of glory. This much have I learned: A man’s life weighs more than glory, and a price paid in blood is a heavy reckoning.
“My heart is not easy,” Taran added. “Long ago, you made your way to Annuvin, to rescue Hen Wen after she had been stolen from you. Tell me: What chance has G
wydion alone in Arawn’s realm?”
“No man has better,” said Coll, shouldering the spears. And he was gone from the shed before Taran realized the old warrior had not really answered him at all.
Caer Dallben lay far behind them and the day was darkening when the companions made camp deep in the shadows of the forest.
Eilonwy happily flung herself to the ground. “It’s been long since I’ve slept on comfortable roots and rocks!” she cried. “What a pleasant change from goosefeathers!”
Gwydion allowed a fire to be built; and while Coll saw to the mounts, Gurgi opened his wallet of food to share out provisions. For the most part the companions were silent, chilled, and stiff after the long day’s journey. King Rhun, however, had lost none of his good spirits. As the travelers huddled closer to the pale flames, Rhun picked up a twig and scratched busily in the earth, covering the ground before him with a spiderweb of lines.
“About that seawall,” said Rhun. “I think I see how it went wrong. Yes, exactly so. Now, here’s the way to do it.”
From across the fire Taran saw Rhun’s eyes brightly eager and on his face the familiar boyish grin. But Rhun, Taran sensed, was no longer the feckless princeling he had known on the Isle of Mona. As Rhun was absorbed in the tasks he had planned, so Taran had been caught up in his own labors at forge, loom, and potter’s wheel. And if Rhun had found manhood in ruling a kingdom, Taran had found the same in toiling among the staunch folk of the Free Commots. He watched Rhun with new affection. The King of Mona spoke on and Taran’s interest was drawn to the scratchings on the ground. He studied them as Rhun continued. Taran smiled. One thing had not changed, he realized; as usual, the King of Mona’s intentions went somewhat beyond the King of Mona’s skill.
“I fear your wall may tumble if you build it thus,” Taran said with a kindly laugh. “See this part here.” He pointed. “The heavier stones must be sunk deeper. And here …”
“Amazing!” exclaimed Rhun, snapping his fingers. “Quite right! You shall come to Mona and help me finish it!” He began scratching new lines so vigorously he nearly pitched himself headlong into the fire.
The High King (Chronicles of Prydain (Henry Holt and Company)) Page 3