The High King

"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.

Chapter 10 The Coming of Pryderi

CAER DATHYL WAS an 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.