The High King: Chapters 1–3

Taran leaped astride Melynlas, spun the gray stallion about, and galloped from the grove, with Kaw perched on his shoulder and Gurgi and the pony pounding at his heels.

In the midst of it all, Taran could hardly glimpse Eilonwy, though he heard the voice of the Princess very clearly above the din.

They’ve made me sleep in beds with goose-feather pillows enough to stifle you; I’m sure the geese needed them more than I did—the feathers, that is, not the pillows.

“We’ve brought someone else along, too,” Rhun continued, gesturing toward the fireside where Taran for the first time noticed a pudgy little man sitting with a cookpot between his knees.

“One should have no trouble remembering a giant,” he said testily.

“Ah, Princess,” Dallben said, with a furrowed smile, “a crown is more discomfort than adornment. If you have learned that, you have already learned much.”

The bard’s face was ashen, his ragged yellow hair clung to his forehead.

The bard’s face was ashen, his ragged yellow hair clung to his forehead.

Coll was already hurrying from the scullery with water in a basin.

“And lost what Gwydion would have given his life to keep!” cried the bard. “The Huntsmen failed to slay him, but a greater evil has befallen him. They’ve stripped him of his sword—blade and scabbard!”

“You have reason to fear, Pig-Keeper,” replied Achren. “Now you glimpse one of Arawn’s subtlest powers. But it is a power used only when none other will serve him. Never will he leave his stronghold, save in the press of mortal danger; or, as today, when what he sought to gain far outweighed the risk.”

“Arawn has many secrets, but this one is most deeply guarded. Once he assumes a shape, his strength and skill are no greater than that of the guise he wears. Then can he be slain, like any mortal thing.”

“Long before the Sons of Don came to dwell in Prydain, long before the lords of the cantrevs swore allegiance to Math, High King, and Gwydion, his war-leader, it was I who commanded obedience to my rule, I who wore the Iron Crown of Annuvin. Arawn was my consort, who served me and did my bidding,” Achren said.

The enchanter’s careworn face was drawn, and the lines had deepened in his withered cheeks.

“I have little need of sleep and can best keep a vigil,” Achren said.

“Arawn worked a bitter ruse on you. Gwydion himself was deceived.”

“When he was a giant,” the bard muttered, giving Glew a look of ill-concealed vexation, “he was a paltry one. He’d have done anything to be free of that cavern—even to popping us into that foul stew he’d cooked up. A Fflam is forgiving! But I think he went a little too far.”

“When he was a giant,” the bard muttered, giving Glew a look of ill-concealed vexation, “he was a paltry one. He’d have done anything to be free of that cavern—even to popping us into that foul stew he’d cooked up. A Fflam is forgiving! But I think he went a little too far.”

Mumbling something about shabby treatment and lack of consideration, Glew scraped a finger along the bottom of the pot and sucked his teeth with indignant satisfaction.

The Book of Three, the huge, leather-bound tome of secret lore forbidden to all but Dallben himself, lay closed atop a pile of other ancient volumes.

Taliesin Chief Bard is wisest in the lore of Prydain, but even he could tell me only that Govannion the Lame, a master craftsman, forged and tempered Dyrnwyn at the behest of King Rhydderch Hael, as a weapon of greatest power and protection for the land.

“Let me seek Dyrnwyn in your stead. I know the ways of Annuvin; no stranger am I to its secret hoards, and where and how they are guarded. If the sword is hidden, I will find it...."

“You will not trust me,” Achren said hoarsely. Her bloodless lips turned in a smile of contempt.

Usually, at the sight of Taran, the oracular pig would squeal joyously and trot to the railing to have her chin scratched.

Even Rhun sensed something amiss; the King of Mona’s cheerful face was darkly clouded.

Dallben, watching intently, quickly wrote on a scrap of parchment the signs the oracular pig had indicated.

Hen Wen, stiff-legged, reared back and sank to her haunches.

“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.”

Gwydion’s haggard face broke into a smile.

This time the crow did not clack his beak or gabble impudently.

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.

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.

More than once had gwythaints attacked the companions, and even the fledglings could be dangerous.

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.

“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.”

Fflewddur’s mount was the huge, tawny cat, Llyan, herself tall as a horse.

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.

But Rhun, Taran sensed, was no longer the feckless princeling he had known on the Isle of Mona.

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.