The High King

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.

"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."

"We will gain victory," Gwydion said. "The Lord of Annuvin stakes all upon this venture, but his strength is also his weakness, for it may be that if we withstand him his power will shatter forever.

"Good tidings, as well as bad, have reached us," Gwydion went on. "For the latter, King Smoit and his armies are embattled in the Valley of Ystrad. He can not, for all his boldness, force his way farther northward before the end of winter. He serves us well, nonetheless, since his warriors engage the traitors among the southern lords and keep them from joining Arawn's other battle hosts. The more distant kings in the northern realms come but slowly, for winter, to them, is a sterner enemy than Arawn.

"More heartening is word that the armies of the West Domains are but a few days march from our stronghold. Scouts have already sighted them. It is a host greater than any ever raised in Prydain, and Lord Pryderi himself commands them. He has done all I prayed from him, and more. My only unease is that Arawn's liegemen may give battle and turn him aside before he reaches Caer Dathyl. But, if so, we will have warning and our forces will march to relieve him.

"Not least among our good tidings," Gwydion added, a smile lightening his drawn and haggard features, "is the coming of Taran of Caer Dallben and the warriors led from the Commots. I have counted heavily upon him and shall ask still more."

Gwydion spoke then of the ordering of Taran's horsemen and unmounted troops. The High King listened closely and nodded his agreement.

"Go now to your task," said Math to Taran. "For the day is come when an Assistant Pig-Keeper must help bear the burden of a king."

During the days that followed, the companions served wherever need arose and as Gwydion commanded them. Even Glew shared, to some extent, in the toil― at the forceful insistence of Fflewddur Fflam and not through his own choice. Under the watchful eye of Hevydd the Smith, the former giant was set to pumping bellows at the forges, where he complained unstintingly of the blisters on his pudgy hands.

MORE THAN A STRONGHOLD of war, Caer Dathyl was a place of memory and a place of beauty. Within its bastions, in the farther reaches of one of its many courtyards, grew a living glade of tall hemlocks, and among them rose mounds of honor to ancient kings and heroes. Halls of carved and ornamented timbers held panoplies of weapons of long and noble lineage, and banners whose emblems were famed in the songs of the bards. In other buildings were stored treasures of craftsmanship sent from every cantrev and Commot in Prydain; there, Taran saw, with a twinge of heart, a beautifully fashioned wine jar from the hands of Annlaw Clay-Shaper.

The companions, when spared from their tasks, found much of wonder and delight. Coll had never before journeyed to Caer Dathyl, and he could not help staring at the archways and towers that seemed to soar higher than the snow-capped mountains beyond the walls.

"Handsome enough it all is," Coll admitted, "and skillfully worked. But the towers make me think my appletrees should have been better pruned. And left to itself, my garden will yield as much as the stones of this courtyard."

A man called out to them and beckoned from the doorway of one of the smallest and plainest of the buildings. He was tall, his face deeply weathered; white hair fell straight to his shoulders. The coarse cloak of a warrior was flung loosely about him, but neither sword nor dagger hung at his unadorned leather belt. As the companions followed, Fflewddur ran instantly to the man and, heedless of the snow, dropped to one knee before him.

"Perhaps it is I who should bow to you, Fflewddur Fflam Son of Godo," said the man, smiling, "and ask your pardon." He turned to the companions and offered his hand. "I know you better than you know me," he said, and laughed good-heartedly at their surprise. "My name is Taliesin."

"The Chief Bard of Prydain," said Fflewddur, beaming proudly and delightedly, "made me a gift of my harp. I am in his debt."

"Of that I am not altogether sure," replied Taliesin, as the companions followed him through the doorway and into a spacious chamber lightly furnished with only a few sturdy seats and benches, and a long table of curiously grained wood that glowed in the light of a cheery hearthfire. Ancient volumes, stacks and rolls of parchment crowded the walls and rose high into the shadows of the raftered ceiling.

"Yes, my friend," the Chief Bard said to Fflewddur, "I have thought often of that gift. Indeed, it has been a little on my conscience." He gave the bard a glance that was shrewd but filled with kindness and good humor. Taran at first had seen Taliesin as a man of many years; now he could not guess the Chief Bard's age. Taliesin's features, though heavily lined, seemed filled with a strange mixing of ancient wisdom and youthfulness. He wore nothing to betoken his rank; and Taran realized there was no need for such adornment. Like Adaon, his son and Taran's companion of long ago, his eyes were gray, deep-set, seeming to look beyond what they saw, and there was, in the Chief Bard's face and voice, a sense of authority far greater than a war leader's and more commanding than a king's.

"I knew the nature of the harp when I gave it to you," the Chief Bard continued. "And, knowing your own nature, suspected that you would always have some small trouble with the strings."

"Trouble?" cried Fflewddur. "Why, not a bit of it! Never for a moment…" Two strings broke with such a twang that Gurgi started in alarm. Fflewddur's face turned bright red to the tip of his nose. "The fact of the matter is, as I stop and think on it, the old pot's forced me to tell the truth― ah, shall we say a little more than I normally would. But it does occur to me, telling the truth has harmed no one, least of all myself."

Taliesin smiled. "Then you have learned no small lesson. Nonetheless, my gift was in jest, yet not entirely in jest. Say, perhaps, the laughter of one heart to another. But you have borne it willingly. Now I offer you any of your choosing," he said.

Taliesin pointed to a shelf where stood a number of harps, some newer, some older, and a few even more gracefully curved than the instrument Fflewddur carried. With a joyful cry Fflewddur hastened to them, lovingly touching the strings of each, admiring the workmanship, turning from one to the next and back again."

He hesitated some while, looking dolefully at the newly broken strings of his own instrument, at the scratches and chips scarring the frame. "Ah― yes, well, you honor me," he murmured in some confusion, "but this old pot is quite good enough for me. There are times, I swear, when it seems to play of itself. None has a better tone; when the strings are fixed, that is. It sits well against my shoulder. Not to belittle these, but what I mean is that somehow we're used to each other. Yes, I'm most grateful. But I would not change it."

"So be it, then," replied Taliesin. "And you others," the Chief Bard added to the companions, "you have seen many of the treasures of Caer Dathyl. But have you seen its true pride and priceless treasure? It is here," he said quietly, gesturing around the chamber. "Stored in this Hall of Lore is much of Prydain's ancient learning. Though Arawn Death-Lord robbed men of their craft secrets, he could not gain the songs and sayings of our bards. Here they have been carefully gathered. Of your songs, my gallant friend," he said to Fflewddur, "there are not a few.

"Memory lives longer than what it remembers," Taliesin said. "And all men share the memories and wisdom of all others. Below this chamber lie even richer troves." He smiled. "Like poetry itself, the greater part is the more deeply hidden. There, too, is the Hall of Bards. Alas, Fflewddur Fflam," he said regretfully, "none but a true bard may enter it. Though one day, perhaps, you shall join our company."

"Oh, wisdom of noble bards!" cried Gurgi, his eyes popping in wonderment. "It makes humble Gurgi's poor tender head spin with whirlings and twirlings! Alas, alas, for he has no wisdom! But he would go without crunchings and munchings to gain it!"

Taliesin put a hand on the creature's shoulder. "Do you believe you have none?" he asked. "That is not true. Of wisdom there are as many patterns as a loom can weave. Yours is the wisdom of a good and kindly heart. Scarce it is, and its worth all the greater.

"Such is that of Coll Son of Collfrewr," said the Chief Bard, "and added thereto the wisdom of the earth, the gift of waking barren ground and causing the soil to flourish in a rich harvest."

"My garden does that labor, not I," said Coll, his bald crown turning pink from both pleasure and modesty. "And as I recall the state I left it in, I shall wait long for another harvest, whatever."

"I was to gain wisdom on the Isle of Mona," I put in Eilonwy. "That's why Dallben sent me there. All I learned was needlework, cooking, and curtsying."

"Learning is not the same as wisdom," Taliesin interrupted with a kindly laugh. "In your veins, Princess, flows the blood of the enchantresses of Llyr. Your wisdom may be the most secret of all, for you know without knowing; even as the heart itself knows how to beat."

"Alas for my own wisdom," said Taran. "I has with your son when he met his death. He gave me a brooch of great power, and while I wore it there was much I understood and much that was hidden grew dear to me. The brooch is no longer mine, if indeed it ever truly was. What I knew then I remember only as a dream lingering beyond my power to grasp it."

A shade of sorrow passed over Taliesin's face. "There are those," he said gently, "who must first learn loss, despair, and grief. Of all paths to wisdom, this is the cruelest and longest. Are you one who must follow such a way? This even I cannot know. If you are, take heart nonetheless. Those who reach the end do more than gain wisdom. As rough wool becomes cloth, and crude clay a vessel, so do they change and fashion wisdom for others, and what they give back is greater than what they won."

Taran was about to speak, but the notes of a signal horn rang from the Middle Tower and shouts rose from the guardians at the turrets. Watchers cried out the sighting of King Pryderi's battle host. Taliesin led the companions up a broad flight of stone steps where, from atop the Hall of Lore, they could see beyond the walls of the fortress. Taran could only glimpse the gleam of the westering sun on ranks of spears across the valley. Then, mounted figures broke away from the mass and galloped across the snow-flecked expanse. Against the rolling meadow, the leading rider of the band was sharply brilliant in trappings of crimson, black, and gold, and sunlight sparkled on his golden helmet. Taran could watch no longer, for guards were shouting the names of the companions, summoning them to the Great Hall.

Catching up the banner of the White Pig, Gurgi hastened after Taran. The companions quickly made their way to the Great Hall. A long table had been placed there and at its head sat Math and Gwydion. Taliesin took his seat at Gwydion's left hand; to the right of Math stood an empty throne draped in the colors of King Pryderi's Royal House. On either side sat the Lords of Don, cantrev nobles, and war leaders.

Circling the Hall stood the banner-bearers. Gurgi glanced about him in dismay; but, at a gesture from Gwydion, stationed himself among their ranks. The poor creature looked miserable and frightened out of his wits amid the stern warriors. But the companions turned encouraging eyes on him, and Coll gave him such a huge grin and a wink that Gurgi raised both his shaggy head and his makeshift banner more proudly than any in the Great Hall.

Taran himself felt no little awkwardness when Gwydion signaled for him and the others to take seats among the war leaders; though Eilonwy, still in her warrior's attire, smiled happily and seemed altogether at ease.

"Humph!" she remarked. "I think Hen Wen shows up quite handsomely and, for the matter of that, better than most. You were so disagreeable about whether her eyes were blue or brown. Well, I can tell you that's not half as strange as the colors they've embroidered on some of these banners…"

Eilonwy stopped speaking, for the portals were flung open and King Pryderi entered the Great Hall. All eyes were on him as he strode toward the council table. He was as tall as Gwydion himself, and his rich raiment glittered in the torchlight. He wore no helmet; what Taran had seen was his long hair that shone like gold about his brow. At his side hung a naked sword, for it was Pryderi's custom, as Fflewddur whispered to Taran, never to sheathe his blade until the battle was won. Behind him followed fal­coners with hooded hawks on their gauntleted wrists; his war leaders, with the crimson hawk emblem of the House of Pwyll broidered on their cloaks; and spearmen flanking his banner-bearer.

Gwydion, clothed like the Chief Bard in the unadorned garb of a warrior, stood to greet him, but Pryderi halted before reaching the council table and, arms folded, glanced around the Hall at the waiting cantrev kings.

"Well met, Lords," Pryderi cried. "I rejoice io see you gathered here. The threat of Annuvin makes you forget your own quarreling. Once more you seek protection from the House of Don, like fledglings who see the hawk circling."

Pryderi's voice rang with unhidden scorn. Taran started at the King's harsh speech. The High King himself looked sharply at Pryderi, though when he spoke his words were measured and grave.

"How, then, Lord Pryderi? It is I who sum­moned all who will stand with us, for the safety of all hangs in the balance."

Pryderi smiled bitterly. His handsome features were flushed, whether from the cold or from anger Taran could not tell; blood tinged Pryderi's high, jutting cheekbones as he threw back his golden head and unflinchingly met the High King's stern glance.

"Would any have lingered, seeing himself threatened?" replied Pryderi. "Men answer only to an iron fist or a sword at their throats. Those who bear you allegiance bear it as it serves their own ends. Among themselves, these cantrev rulers are never at peace, but each is eager to profit from the weakness of his neighbor. In their secret hearts, are they less evil than Arawn Death-Lord?"

Shocked and angry murmurs arose from the cantrev kings. Math silenced them with a quick gesture.

Then Gwydion spoke: "It is beyond any man's wisdom to judge the secret heart of another," he said, "for in it are good and evil mixed. But these are matters to ponder over the embers of a campfire, as you and I have often done; or at the end of feasting, when the torches burn low. Our deeds now must safeguard Prydain. Come, Pryderi Son of Pwyll. Your place awaits you and we have many plans to set."

"You summoned me, Prince of Don," Pryderi answered in a hard voice. "I am here. To join you? No. To demand your surrender."