The High King

"Well, indeed," replied Eilonwy, "I wondered if you'd ever get round to asking. Of course I will, and if you'd given half a thought to the question you'd have already known my answer."

Taran's head still spun from the enchanter's tidings, and he turned to Dallben. "Can this be true? That Eilonwy and I may voyage together?"

Dallben said nothing for a moment, then he nodded. "It is true. No greater gift lies in my power to grant."

Glew snorted. "That's all very well, bestowing never-ending life right and left. Even on a pigl But no one's given a thought to me. Selfishness! Lack of consideration! It's plain that if that Fair Folk mine hadn't come tumbling down― robbing me of my fortune, I might add― we'd have taken a different path, we'd never have gone to Mount Dragon, Dyrnwyn would never have been found, the Cauldron-Born never slain…" For all his indignation, however, the former giant's brow puckered wretchedly and his lips trembled. "Go, by all means! Let me stay this ridiculous size! I assure you, when I was a giant…"

"Yes, yes!" Gurgi shouted. "Whining giant, too, has served, even as he says. It is not fair to leave him lone and lost in smallness! And in treasure house of evil Death-Lord, when all rich treasures fall in flames, a life was saved from hot and hurtful blazings!"

"Yes, even Glew has served, though all unwitting," Dallben replied. "His reward shall be no less than yours. In the Summer Country he may grow, if he so desires, to the stature of a man. But do you tell me," Dallben said, looking sternly at Gurgi, "that he saved your life?"

Gurgi hesitated a moment. Before he could answer, Glew quickly spoke. "Of course he didn't," said the former giant. "A life was saved. Mine. If he hadn't pulled me out of the treasure house I'd be no more than a cinder in Annuvin."

"At least you've told the truth, giant!" cried Fflewddur. "Good for you! Great Belin, I think you've already grown a little taller!"

Gwydion stepped forward and gently put his hand on Taran's shoulder. "Our time is soon upon us," he said quietly. "In the morning, we shall depart. Make ready, Assistant Pig-Keeper."

That night Taran drowsed fitfully. The joy that so lightened his heart had strangely flown, fluttering out of reach like a bird of brilliant plumage he could not lure back to his hand. Even thoughts of Eilonwy, of happiness awaiting them in the Summer Country could not regain it.

At last he rose from his pallet and stood, uneasy, by the chamber window. The campfires of the Sons of Don had burned to ashes. The full moon turned the sleeping fields to a sea of silver. From far beyond the hills a voice began to lift in song, faint but clear; another joined it, then still others. Taran caught his breath. Only once, long ago in the Fair Folk realm, had he heard such singing. Now, more beautiful than he remembered, the song swelled, in a long flood of melody shimmering brighter than the moonbeams. Suddenly it ended. Taran cried out in sorrow, knowing he would never hear its like again. And, perhaps in his own imaginings there echoed from every corner of the land the sound of heavy portals closing.

"What, sleepless, my chicken?" said a voice behind him.

He turned quickly. Light filling the chamber dazzled him, but as his vision cleared he saw three tall and slender figures; two garbed in robes of shifting colors, of white, gold, and flaming crimson; and one hooded in a cloak of glittering black. Gems sparkled in the tresses of the first, at the throat of the second hung a necklace of shining white beads. Taran saw their faces were calm, beautiful to heartbreak, and though the dark hood shadowed the features of the last, Taran knew she could be no less fair.

"Sleepless and speechless, too," said the middle figure. "Tomorrow, poor dear, instead of dancing with joy he'll be yawning."

"Your voices― I know them well," Taran stammered, barely able to speak above a whisper. "But your faces― yes, once have I seen them, a time long past, in the Marshes of Morva. Yet you cannot be the same. Orddu? Orwen, and― Orgoch?"

"Of course we are, my gosling," Orddu replied, "though it's true whenever you met us before we were hardly at our best."

"But good enough for the purpose," Orgoch muttered from the depths of her hood.

Orven giggled girlishly and toyed with her beads. "You mustn't think we look like ugly old hags all the time," she said. "Only when the circumstances seem to require it."

"Why have you come?" Taran began, still baffled at the familiar tones of the enchantresses com­ing from such fair shapes. "Do you, too, journey to the Summer Country?"

Orddu shook her head. "We are journeying, but not with you. Salt air makes Orgoch queasy, though it's very likely the only thing that does. We travel to― well― anywhere. You might even say everywhere."

"You shall see no more of us, nor we of you," added Orwen; almost regretfully. "We shall miss you. As much, that is, as we can miss anyone. Orgoch especially would have loved to― well, best not to dwell on that."