Lloyd Alexander - The High King

Taran dropped to his knees. Coll's hand was on his shoulder, but he drew himself away and stared up at the old warrior. "Did I shout for victory today?" he whispered hoarsely. "Small comfort to folk who once befriended me. Have I served them well? The blood of Merin is on my hands."

Later, Llassar spoke apart with Coll. "The Wanderer has not stirred from the potter's hut," the shepherd murmured. "It is harsh enough for each man to bear his own wound. But he who leads bears the wounds of all who follow him."

Coll nodded. "Leave him where he chooses to be. In the morning he will be well," he added, "though likely never healed."

BY MIDWINTER, the last of the war bands had been gathered and the Commot warriors dispatched to Caer Dathyl. In addition to a troop of horsemen, Llassar, Hevydd, and Llonio still remained with Taran, who now led the companions northwestward through the Llawgadarn Mountains. The force was strong enough to safeguard their progress without slowing their journey.

Twice, marauders attacked them, and twice Taran's followers beat them off, inflicting heavy losses. The raiders, having learned a bitter lesson from the war leader who rode under the ensign of the White Pig, slunk away and dared harass the columns no further. The companions passed swiftly and unhindered through the foothills of the Eagle Mountains. Gurgi still proudly carried the banner which snapped and fluttered in the sharp winds lashing from the distant heights. In his cloak Taran bore one talisman: a shard of broken, fire-blackened pottery from Commot Merin.

At the approaches to Caer Dathyl outriders brought word of still another host: Taran galloped ahead. In a vanguard of spearmen rode Fflewddur Fflam.

"Great Belin!" shouted the bard, urging Llyan to Taran's side, "Gwydion shall rejoice! The northern lords arm in all their strength. When a Fflam commands― yes, well, I did rally them in the name of Gwydion, otherwise they might not have been so willing. But no matter, they're on the way. I've heard King Pryderi, too, has raised his armies. Then you'll see a battle host! I daresay half the western cantrevs are under his command.

"Oh, yes," Fflewddur added, as Taran caught sight of Glew perched atop a swaybacked, heavy-hoofed, gray horse, "the little fellow is still with us."

The former giant, busily gnawing a bone, gave Taran only a scant sign of recognition.

"I didn't know what to do with him," said Fflewddur in a low voice. "I hadn't the heart to send him packing, not in the midst of all the armies gathering. So, here he is. He's not stopped whining and complaining; his feet hurt one day, his head the next, and little by little all the rest of him. Then, in between meals, he goes on with his endless tales of when he was a giant.

"The worst of it is," Fflewddur went on in some dismay, "he's given my ears such a drubbing that he's made me almost feel sorry for him. He's a small-hearted weasel, always was and always will be.

But as you stop and think on it― he has been considerably mistreated and put upon. Now, when Clew was a giant…" The bard interrupted himself and clapped a hand to his forehead. "Enough! Any more of his chatter, and I'll end by believing it! Come, join us," he cried, unslinging his harp from the tangle of bows, quivers of arrows, bucklers and leather strapping he bore on his back. "All friends are met again. I'll play you a tune to celebrate and keep us warm at the same time!"

Cheered by the bard's music, the companions journeyed on together. Soon the high fortress of Caer Dathyl rose golden in the winter sunlight. Its mighty bastions sprang up like eagles impatient for the sky. Beyond the walls and circling the fortress stood the camps and flag-decked pavilions of lords come in allegiance to the Royal House of Don. Yet it was not the sight of the banners or the wind-tossed emblems of the Golden Sunburst that made Taran's heart leap, but rather the knowledge that the companions and Commot warriors had come safe to the end of one journey, to warmth and rest for a little time at least. Safe― Taran halted in his own thoughts, and the memories returned: of Rhun King of Mona who slept silent before the gates of Caer Cadarn; of Annlaw Clay-Shaper. And his fingers clenched around the fragment of pottery.

CAER DATHYL WASan armed camp, where sparks like blazing snowflakes whirled from the armorers' forges. Its widespreading courtyards rang with the iron-shod hooves of war horses and the sharp notes of signal horns. Although the companions were now safe within its walls, the Princess Eilonwy declined to exchange her warrior's rough garb for more befitting attire. The most she agreed to do― and that reluctantly― was to wash her hair. A few ladies of the court remained, the rest having been sent to the protection of the eastern strongholds, but Eilonwy flatly refused to join them in their spinning and weaving chambers.

"Caer Dathyl may be the most glorious castle in Prydain," she declared, "but court ladies are court ladies wherever you find them, and I've had more than my share with Queen Teleria's hen flock. Listening to their giggling and gossiping― why, it's worse than having your ears tickled with feathers. For the sake of being a Princess, I've been half-drowned with soapy water and that's quite enough. My hair still feels clammy as seaweed. As for skirts, I'm comfortable just as I am. I've lost all my robes, anyway, and I certainly shan't bother to be measured for others. The clothes I'm wearing will do very nicely."

"No one has considered asking me whether my clothing is suitable," Glew testily remarked, although the former giant's garments, as far as Taran could judge, were in better repair than those of the companions. "But shabby treatment is something I've grown used to. In my cavern, when I was a giant, things were much different. Generosity! Alas, gone forever. Now, I recall when the bats and I…"

Taran had neither strength to dispute Eilonwy's words nor time to listen to Glew's. Gwydion, hearing of the companion's arrival, had summoned Taran to the Hall of Thrones. While Coll, Fflewddur, and Gurgi secured gear and provisions for the warriors who had journeyed with them, Taran followed a guard to the Hall. Finding Gwydion in council with Math Son of Mathonwy, Taran hesitated to draw closer; but Math beckoned to him, and Taran dropped to one knee before the whitebearded ruler.

The High King touched Taran's shoulder with a hand withered but firm, and bade him rise. Not since the battle between the Sons of Don and the armies of the Horned King had Taran been in the presence of Math Son of Mathonwy, and he saw the years had borne heavily upon the monarch of the Royal House. The face of Math was even more careworn and more deeply furrowed than Dallben's; upon his brow the Gold Crown of Don seemed a cruel burden. Yet his eyes were keen and filled with stern pride. More than this, Taran sensed a sorrow so profound that his own heart grieved and he bowed his head.

"Face me, Assistant Pig-Keeper," Math commanded in a quiet voice. "Fear not to see what I myself know. The hand of death reaches toward mine and I am not loath to clasp it. I have long heard the horn of Gwyn the Hunter, that summons even a king to his barrow home.

"With a glad heart would I answer it," said Math, "for a crown is a pitiless master, harsher than the staff of a pig-keeper; while a staff bears up, a crown weighs down, beyond the strength of any man to wear it lightly. What grieves me is not my death; but at the end of my life to see blood spilled in the land where I sought only peace.

"You know the history of our Royal House; how, long ago the Sons of Don voyaged in their golden ships to Prydain, and how men sought their protection against Arawn Death-Lord, who, had robbed Prydain of its treasures and turned a rich, fair land into a fallow field. Since then the Sons of Don have stood as a shield against the ravages of Annuvin. But if the shield now be riven, then all shatters with it."