The Book of Three

Chapter 10
The Sword Dyrnwyn

IT WAS FULL DAYLIGHT when Taran opened his eyes. Gurgi was already sniffing hungrily at the saddlebag. Taran rose quickly and shared out as much of the remaining provisions as he dared, keeping a small amount in reserve, since he had no idea how difficult it would be to find food during the coming journey. In the course of the restless night, he had reached his decision, though at present he refrained from speaking of it, still unsure he had chosen wisely. For the moment he concentrated on a meager breakfast.
Gurgi, sitting crosslegged, devoured his food with so many outcries of pleasure and loud smackings of his lips that he seemed to be eating twice as much as he really did. Fflewddur bolted his scant portion as though he had not enjoyed a meal for at least five days. Eilonwy was more interested in the sword she had taken from the barrow. It lay across her knees and, with a perplexed frown, the tip of her tongue between her lips, the girl was studying the weapon curiously.
As Taran drew near, Eilonwy snatched the sword away. “Well,” said Taran, with a laugh, “you needn’t act as if I were going to steal it from you.” Although jewels studded the hilt and pommel, the scabbard was battered, discolored, nearly black with age. For all that, it had an air of ancient lineage, and Taran was eager to hold it. “Come,” he said, “let me see the blade.”
“I dare not,” cried Eilonwy, to Taran’s great surprise. He saw that her face was solemn and almost fearful.
“There is a symbol of power on the scabbard,” Eilonwy continued. “I’ve seen this mark before, on some of Achren’s things. It always means something forbidden. Of course, all Achren’s things are like that, but some are more forbidden than others.
“There’s another inscription, too,” said Eilonwy, frowning again. “But it’s in the Old Writing.” She stamped her foot. “Oh, I do wish Achren had finished teaching it to me. I can almost make it out, but not quite, and there’s nothing more irritating. It’s like not finishing what you started out to say.”
Fflewddur came up just then and he, too, peered at the strange weapon. “Comes from a barrow, eh?” The bard shook his spiky, yellow head and whistled. “I suggest getting rid of it immediately. Never had much confidence in things you find in barrows. It’s a bad business having anything to do with them. You can’t be sure where else they’ve been and who all’s had them.”
“If it’s an enchanted weapon,” Taran began, more interested than ever in getting his hands on the sword, “shouldn’t we keep it…”
“Oh, do be quiet,” Eilonwy cried. “I can’t hear myself think. I don’t see what you’re both talking about, getting rid of it or not getting rid of it. After all, it’s mine, isn’t it? I found it and carried it out, and almost got stuck in a dirty old tunnel because of it.”
“Bards are supposed to understand these things,” Taran said.
“Naturally,” Fflewddur answered, smiling confidently and putting his long nose closer to the scabbard. “These inscriptions are all pretty much the same. I see this one’s on the scabbard rather than the blade. It says, oh, something like ‘Beware My Wrath’—the usual sentiments.”
At that moment there was a loud twang. Fflewddur blinked. One of his harp strings had snapped. “Excuse me,” he said, and went to see about his instrument.
“It doesn’t say anything at all like that,” Eilonwy declared. “I can read some of it now. Here, it starts near the hilt and goes winding around like ivy. I was looking at it the wrong way. It says Dyrnwyn, first. I don’t know whether that’s the name of the sword or the name of the king. Oh, yes, that’s the name of the sword; here it is again:

DRAW DYRNWYN, ONLY THOU OF ROYAL BLOOD,
TO RULE, TO STRIKE THE…

“Something or other,” Eilonwy went on. “It’s very faint; I can’t see it. The letters are worn too smooth. No, that’s odd. They aren’t worn; they’ve been scratched out. They must have been cut deeply, because there’s still a trace. But I can’t read the rest. This word looks as if it might be death…” She shuddered. “That’s not very cheerful.”
“Let me unsheath it,” Taran urged again. “There might be more on the blade.”
“Certainly not,” said Eilonwy. “I told you it had a symbol of power and I’m bound by it—that’s elementary.”
“Achren cannot bind you any longer.”
“It isn’t Achren,” Eilonwy answered. “I only said she had things with the same mark. This is a stronger enchantment than any she could make, I’m quite sure. I wouldn’t dare to draw it, and I don’t intend letting you, either. Besides, it says only royal blood and doesn’t mention a word about Assistant Pig-Keepers.”
“How can you tell I haven’t royal blood?” Taran asked, bristling. “I wasn’t born an Assistant Pig-Keeper. For all you know, my father might have been a king. It happens all the time in The Book of Three.”
“I never heard of The Book of Three,” said Eilonwy. “But in the first place, I don’t think it’s good enough to be a king’s son or even a king himself. Royal blood is just a way of translating; in the Old Writing, it didn’t mean only having royal relatives—anybody can have those. It meant—oh, I don’t know what you’d’ call it. Something very special. And it seems to me that if you have it, you don’t need to wonder whether you have it.”
“So, of course,” said Taran, nettled by the girl’s remarks, “you’ve made up your mind that I’m not—whatever it is.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Eilonwy said quickly. “For an Assistant Pig-Keeper, I think you’re quite remarkable. I even think you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met in my life. It’s just that I’m forbidden to let you have the sword and that’s that.”
“What will you do with it, then?”
“Keep it, naturally. I’m not going to drop it down a well, am I?”
Taran snorted. “You’ll make a fine sight—a little girl carrying a sword.”
“I am not a little girl,” said Eilonwy, tossing her hair in exasperation. “Among my people in the olden days, the Sword-Maidens did battle beside the men.”
“It’s not the olden days now,” Taran said. “Instead of a sword, you should be carrying a doll.”
Eilonwy, with a squeal of vexation, raised a hand to slap at Taran, when Fflewddur Fflam returned.
“Here now,” said the bard, “no squabbling; there’s not a bit of use to it.” With a large key he tightened the wooden peg holding the newly repaired harp string.
Eilonwy turned her irritation on Fflewddur. “That inscription was a very important one. It didn’t say anything about bewaring anyone’s wrath. You didn’t read it right at all. You’re a fine bard, if you can’t make out the writing on an enchanted sword.”
“Well, you see, the truth of the matter,” said Fflewddur, clearing his throat and speaking with much hesitation, “is this way. I’m not officially a bard.”
“I didn’t know there were unofficial bards,” Eilonwy remarked.
“Oh, yes indeed,” said Fflewddur. “At least in my case. I’m also a king.”
“A king?” Taran said. “Sire…” He dropped to one knee.
“None of that, none of that,” said Fflewddur. “I don’t bother with it any more.”
“Where is your kingdom?” Eilonwy asked.
“Several days journey east of Caer Dathyl,” said Fflewddur. “It is a vast realm…”
At this, Taran heard another jangling.
“Drat the thing,” said the bard. “There go two more strings. As I was saying. Yes, well, it is actually a rather small kingdom in the north, very dull and dreary. So I gave it up. I’d always loved barding and wandering—and that’s what I decided to do.”
“I thought bards had to study a great deal,” Eilonwy said. “A person can’t just go and decide…”
“Yes, that was one of the problems,” said the former king. “I studied; I did quite well in the examinations…” A small string at the upper end of the harp broke with a high-pitched tinkle and curled up like an ivy tendril. “I did quite poorly,” he went on, “and the Council of Bards wouldn’t admit me. Really, they want you to know so much these days. Volumes and volumes of poetry, and chants and music and calculating the seasons, and history; and all kinds of alphabets you spell out on your fingers, and secret signs—a man couldn’t hope to cram it all into his skull.
“The Council were very nice to me,” continued Fflewddur. “Taliesin, the Chief Bard himself, presented me with this harp. He said it was exactly what I needed. I sometimes wonder if he was really doing me a favor. It’s a very nice harp, but I have such trouble with the strings. I’d throw it away and get another, but it has a beautiful tone; I should never find one as good. If only the beastly strings…”
“They do seem to break frequently,” Eilonwy began.
“Yes, that’s so,” Fflewddur admitted, a little sheepishly. “I’ve noticed it usually happens when—well, I’m an emotional sort of fellow, and I do get carried away. I might, ah, readjust the facts slightly; purely for dramatic effect, you understand.”
“If you’d stop readjusting the facts quite as much,” Eilonwy said, “perhaps you wouldn’t have that trouble with the harp.”
“Yes, I suppose,” said the bard with a sigh. “I try, but it’s hard, very hard. As a king, you get into the habit. Sometimes I think I pass more time fixing strings than playing. But, there it is. You can’t have everything.”
“Where were you journeying when Achren captured you?” Taran asked.
“No place in particular,” said Fflewddur. “That’s one advantage. You don’t have to hurry to get somewhere. You keep moving, and next thing you know, there you are. Unfortunately, in this case, it was Achren’s dungeon. She didn’t care for my playing. That woman has no ear for music,” he added, shuddering.
“Sire,” Taran said, “I ask a boon.”
“Please,” said the former king, “Fflewddur will do very well. A boon? Delighted! I haven’t done any boon-granting since I gave up my throne.”
Fflewddur Fflam and Eilonwy seated themselves on the turf, while Taran recounted his search for Hen Wen and what Gwydion had told him of the Horned King and the rising of the cantrevs. Gurgi, having finished his meal, sidled over and squatted on a hillock to listen.
“There is no doubt in my mind,” Taran went on, “the Sons of Don must have news of the uprising before the Horned King strikes. If he triumphs, Arawn will have Prydain by the throat. I have seen with my own eyes what that means.” He felt ill at ease, speaking as if he himself were a war leader in a council hall, but soon the words began to come easier. Perhaps, he thought, because he was speaking for Gwydion.
“I see your plan,” Fflewddur interrupted. “You shall keep on looking for your pig, and you want me to warn the warriors of Don. Splendid! I shall start off immediately. And if the hosts of the Horned King overtake me…” The bard slashed and thrust at the air. “They shall know the valor of a Fflam!”
Taran shook his head. “No, I shall journey to Caer Dathyl myself. I do not question your valor,” he said to the bard, “but the danger is too great. I ask no one else to face it in my stead.”
“When do you intend to seek your pig?” asked Fflewddur.
“My own quest,” said Taran, looking at the bard, “must be given up. If it is possible, after the first task is done, I mean to return to it. Until then, I serve only Gwydion. It was I who cost him his life, and it is justice for me to do what I believe he would have done.”
“As I grasp the situation,” said the bard, “I think you’re taking too much blame on yourself. You had no way of knowing Gwydion wasn’t in the dungeon.’’
“It changes nothing,” Taran answered. “I have made my decision.”
Fflewddur was about to protest, but the firmness of Taran’s words silenced the bard. After a moment, he asked, “What is your boon, then?”
“It is twofold,” said Taran. “First, tell me how I may reach Caer Dathyl as quickly as possible. Second, I beg you to conduct this girl safely to her own people.”
Before Fflewddur could open his mouth, Eilonwy gave an indignant cry and leaped to her feet. “Conducted? I shall be conducted where I please! I’m not going to be sent back, just so I can be sent somewhere else; and it will be another dreary place, you can be sure. No, I shall go to Caer Dathyl, too!”
“There is risk enough,” Taran declared, “without having to worry about a girl.”
Eilonwy put her hands on her hips. Her eyes flashed. “I don’t like being called ‘a girl’ and ‘this girl’ as if I didn’t have a name at all. It’s like having your head put in a sack. If you’ve made your decision, I’ve made my own. I don’t see how you’re going to stop me. If you,” she hurried on, pointing at the bard, “try to conduct me to my mean, stupid kinsmen—and they’re hardly related to me in the first place—that harp will be in pieces around your ears!”
Fflewddur blinked and clutched his harp protectively, while Eilonwy went on.
“And if a certain Assistant Pig-Keeper—I won’t even mention his name—thinks otherwise, he’ll be even more mistaken!”
Everyone started talking at once. “Stop it!” cried Taran at the top of his voice. “Very well,” he said, after the others grew quiet. “You,” he said to Eilonwy, “could be tied up and set on Melyngar. But,” he added, raising his hand before the girl could interrupt, “that will not be done. Not because of all the commotion you raised, but because I realize now it is best.”
The bard looked surprised.
Taran continued. “There is greater safety in greater numbers. Whatever happens, there will be more chance for one of us to reach Caer Dathyl. I believe we should all stay together.”
“And faithful Gurgi, too!” shouted Gurgi. “He will follow! Too many wicked enemies are smirking and lurking to jab him with pointy spears!”
“If he agrees,” Taran said, “Fflewddur shall act as guide. But I warn you,” he added, glancing at Gurgi and Eilonwy, “nothing must hinder our task.”
“Ordinarily,” said Fflewddur, “I prefer to be in charge of this type of expedition myself. But,” he went on, as Taran was about to protest, “since you are acting for Lord Gwydion, I accept your authority as I would accept his.” He bowed low. “A Fflam is yours to command!
“Forward, then!” the bard cried. “And if we must give battle, so be it! Why, I’ve carved my way through walls of spearmen…”
Six harp strings broke at once, and the others strained so tautly they looked on the verge of snapping. While Taran saddled Melyngar, the bard set ruefully to work repairing his harp.