The Book of Three

Chapter 19
The Secret

SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH the high window of a chamber pleasantly cool and fragrant. Taran blinked and tried to lift himself from the low, narrow couch. His head spun; his arm, swathed in white linen, throbbed painfully. Dry rushes covered the floor; the bright rays turned them yellow as wheat. Beside the couch, a white, sun-dappled shape stirred and rose up.
“Hwoinch!”
Hen Wen, wheezing and chuckling, grinned all over her round face. With a joyful grunt, she began nuzzling Taran’s cheek. His mouth opened, but he could not speak. A silvery laugh rang from a comer of the chamber.
“You should really see your expression. You look like a fish that’s climbed into a bird’s nest by mistake.”
Eilonwy rose from the osier stool. “I was hoping you’d wake up soon. You can’t imagine how boring it is to sit and watch somebody sleep. It’s like counting stones in a wall.”
“Where have they taken us? Is this Annuvin?”
Eilonwy laughed again and shook her head.
“That’s exactly the sort of question you might expect from an Assistant Pig-Keeper. Annuvin? Ugh! I wouldn’t want to be there at all. Why must you always think of unpleasant things? I suppose it’s because your wound probably did something to your head. You’re looking a lot better now than you did, though you still have that greenish-white color, like a boiled leek.”
“Stop chattering and tell me where we are!” Taran tried to roll from the couch, then sank back weakly and put a hand to his head.
“You aren’t supposed to get up yet,” Eilonwy cautioned, “but I imagine you’ve just discovered that for yourself.”
Wriggling and grunting loudly, the delighted Hen Wen had begun to climb onto the couch. Eilonwy snapped her fingers. “Stop that, Hen,” she ordered, “you know he isn’t to be disturbed or upset and especially not sat on.” The girl turned again to Taran. “We’re in Caer Dathyl,” she said. “It’s a lovely place. Much nicer than Spiral Castle.”
Taran started up once more as memories flooded over him. “The Horned King!” he cried. “What happened? Where is he?”
“In a barrow, most likely, I should think.”
“Is he dead?”
“Naturally,” answered the girl. “You don’t think he’d stand being put in a barrow if he weren’t, do you? There wasn’t a great deal left of him, but what there was got buried.” Eilonwy shuddered. “I think he was the most terrifying person I’ve ever met, and that includes Achren. He gave me a dreadful tossing about—just before he was going to smite you.” She rubbed her head. “For the matter of that, you pulled away my sword rather roughly. I told you and told you not to draw it. But you wouldn’t listen. That’s what burned your arm.”
Taran noticed the black scabbard of Dyrnwyn no longer hung from Eilonwy’s shoulder. “But then what…”
“It’s lucky you went unconscious,” Eilonwy continued. “You missed the worst of it. There was the earthquake, and the Horned King burning until he just, well, broke apart. It wasn’t pleasant. The truth of the matter is, I’d rather not talk about it. It still gives me bad dreams, even when I’m not asleep.”
Taran gritted his teeth. “Eilonwy,” he said at last, “I want you to tell me very slowly and carefully what happened. If you don’t, I’m going to be angry and you’re going to be sorry.”
“How—can—I—tell—you—anything,” Eilonwy said, deliberately pronouncing every word and making extravagant grimaces as she did so, “if—you—don’t—want—me—to—talk?” She shrugged. “Well, in any case,” she resumed, at her usual breathless rate, “as soon as the armies saw the Horned King was dead, they practically fell apart, too. Not the same way, naturally. With them, it was more sort of running away, like a herd of rabbits—no, that isn’t right, is it? But it was pitiful to see grown men so frightened. Of course, by that time the Sons of Don had their chance to attack. You should have seen the golden banners. And such handsome warriors.” Eilonwy sighed. “It was—it was like—I don’t even know what it was like.”
“And Hen Wen…”
“She hasn’t stirred from this chamber ever since they brought you here,” said Eilonwy. “Neither have I,” she added, with a glance at Taran. “She’s a very intelligent pig,” Eilonwy went on. “Oh, she does get frightened and loses her head once in a while, I suppose. And she can be very stubborn when she wants, which sometimes makes me wonder how much difference there is between pigs and the people who keep them. I’m not mentioning anyone in particular, you understand.”
The door opposite Taran’s couch opened part way. Around it appeared the spiky yellow head and pointed nose of Fflewddur Fflam.
“So you’re back with us,” cried the bard. “Or, as you might say, we’re back with you!”
Gurgi and the dwarf, who had been standing behind the bard, now rushed in; despite Eilonwy’s protests, they crowded around Taran. Fflewddur and Doli showed no sign of injury, but Gurgi’s head was bound up and he moved with a limp.
“Yes! Yes!” he cried. “Gurgi fought for his friend with slashings and gashings! What smitings! Fierce warriors strike him about his poor tender head, but valiant Gurgi does not flee, oh, no!”
Taran smiled at him, deeply touched. “I’m sorry about your poor tender head,” he said, putting a hand on Gurgi’s shoulder, “and that a friend should be wounded for my sake.”
“What joy! What clashings and smashings! Ferocious Gurgi fills wicked warriors with awful terror and outcries.”
“It’s true,” said the bard. “He was the bravest of us all. Though my stumpy friend here can do surprising things with an axe.”
Doli, for the first time, grinned. “Never thought any of you had any mettle to show,” he said, attempting to be gruff. “Took you all for milksops at first. Deepest apologies,” he added, with a bow.
“We held off the war band,” Fflewddur said, “until we were sure you were well away. Some of them should have occasion to think unkindly of us for a while to come.” The bard’s face lit up. “There we were,” he cried, “fighting like madmen, hopelessly outnumbered. But a Fflam never surrenders! I took on three at once. Slash! Thrust! Another seized me from behind, the wretched coward. But I flung him off. We disengaged them and made for Caer Dathyl, chopping and hacking all the way, beset on all sides…”
Taran expected Fflewddur’s harp strings to sunder at any moment. To his surprise, they held firm.
“And so,” Fflewddur concluded with a carefree shrug, “that was our part. Rather easy, when you come down to it; I had no fear of things going badly, not for an instant.”
A string broke with a deep twang.
Fflewddur bent down to Taran. “Terrified,” he whispered. “Absolutely green.”
Eilonwy seized the bard and thrust him toward the door. “Begone!” she cried, “all of you! You’ll wear him out with your chatter.” The girl shoved Gurgi and the dwarf after Fflewddur. “And stay out! No one’s to come in until I say they can.”
“Not even I?”
Taran started up at the familiar voice. Gwydion stood in the doorway.
For a moment Taran did not recognize him. Instead of the stained cloak and coarse jacket, Gwydion wore the shining raiment of a prince. His rich mantle hung in deep folds. On a chain at his throat gleamed a sun-shaped disk of gold. His green eyes shone with new depth and power. Taran saw him now as he had always imagined him.
Heedless of his wounded arm, Taran sprang from the couch. The tall figure strode toward him. The authority of the warrior’s bearing made Taran drop to one knee. “Lord Gwydion,” he murmured.
“That is no greeting from a friend to a friend,” said Gwydion, gently raising Taran to his feet. “It gives me more pleasure to remember an Assistant Pig-Keeper who feared I would poison him in the forest near Caer Dallben.”
“After Spiral Castle,” Taran stammered, “I never thought to see you alive.” He clasped Gwydion’s hand and wept unashamedly.
“A little more alive than you are.” Gwydion smiled. He helped Taran seat himself on the couch.
“But how did…” Taran began, as he noticed a black and battered weapon at Gwydion’s side.
Gwydion saw the question on Taran’s face. “A gift,” he said, “a royal gift from a young lady.”
“I girded it on him myself,” Eilonwy interrupted. She turned to Gwydion. “I told him not to draw it, but he’s impossibly stubborn.”
“Fortunately you did not unsheath it entirely,” Gwydion said to Taran. “I fear the flame of Dyrnwyn would have been too great even for an Assistant Pig-Keeper.
“It is a weapon of power, as Eilonwy recognized,’’ Gwydion added. “So ancient that I believed it no more than a legend. There are still deep secrets concerning Dyrnwyn, unknown even to the wisest. Its loss destroyed Spiral Castle and was a severe blow to Arawn.”
With a single, firm gesture, Gwydion drew the blade and held it aloft. The weapon glittered blindingly. In fear and wonder, Taran shrank back, his wound throbbing anew. Gwydion quickly returned the blade to its scabbard.
“As soon as I saw Lord Gwydion,” Eilonwy put in, with an admiring glance at him, “I knew he was the one who should keep the sword. I must say I’m glad to have done with the clumsy thing.”
“Do stop interrupting,” Taran cried. “Let me find out what happened to my friend before you start babbling.”
“I shall not weary you with a long tale,” Gwydion said. “You already know Arawn’s threat has been turned aside. He may strike again, how or when no man can guess. But for the moment there is little to fear.”
“What of Achren?” Taran asked. “And Spiral Castle…”
“I was not in Spiral Castle when it crumbled,” Gwydion said. “Achren took me from my cell and bound me to a horse. With the Cauldron-Born, we rode to the castle of Oeth-Anoeth.”
“Oeth-Anoeth?” questioned Taran.
“It is a stronghold of Annuvin,” Gwydion said, “not far from Spiral Castle, raised when Arawn held wider sway over Prydain. A place of death, its walls are filled with human bones. I could foresee the torments Achren had planned for me.
“Yet, before she thrust me into its dungeons, she gripped my arm. ‘Why do you choose death, Lord Gwydion?’ she cried, ‘when I can offer you eternal life and power beyond the grasp of mortal minds?’
“‘I ruled Prydain long before Arawn,’ Achren told me, ‘and it was I who made him king over Annuvin. It was I who gave him power—though he used it to betray me. But now, if you desire it, you shall take your place on the high throne of Arawn himself and rule in his stead.’
“‘Gladly will I overthrow Arawn,’ I answered. ‘And I will use those powers to destroy you along with him.’”
“Raging, she cast me into the lowest dungeon,” Gwydion said. “I have never been closer to my death than in Oeth Anoeth.
“How long I lay there, I cannot be sure,” Gwydion continued. “In Oeth-Anoeth, time is not as you know it here. It is better that I do not speak of the torments Achren had devised. The worst were not of the body but of the spirit, and of these the most painful was despair. Yet, even in my deepest anguish, I clung to hope. For there is this about Oeth-Anoeth: if a man withstand it, even death will give up its secrets to him.
“I withstood it,” Gwydion said quietly, “and at the end much was revealed to me which before had been clouded. Of this, too, I shall not speak. It is enough for you to know that I understood the workings of life and death, of laughter and tears, endings and beginnings. I saw the truth of the world, and knew no chains could hold me. My bonds were light as dreams. At that moment, the walls of my prison melted.”
“What became of Achren?” Eilonwy asked.
“I do not know,” Gwydion said. “I did not see her thereafter. For some days I lay concealed in the forest, to heal the injuries of my body. Spiral Castle was in ruins when I returned to seek you; and there I mourned your death.”
“As we mourned yours,” Taran said.
“I set out for Caer Dathyl again,” Gwydion continued. “For a time I followed the same path Fflewddur chose for you, though I did not cross the valley until much later. By then, I had outdistanced you a little.
“That day, a gwythaint plunged from the sky and flew directly toward me. To my surprise, it neither attacked nor sped away after it had seen me, but fluttered before me, crying strangely. The gwythaint’s language is no longer secret to me—nor is the speech of any living creature—and I understood a band of travelers was journeying from the hills nearby and a white pig accompanied them.
“I hastened to retrace my steps. By then, Hen Wen sensed I was close at hand. When she ran from you,” Gwydion said to Taran, “she ran not in terror but to find me. What I learned from her was more important than I suspected, and I understood why Arawn’s champion sought her desperately. He, too, realized she knew the one thing that could destroy him.”
“What was that?” Taran asked urgently.
“She knew the Horned King’s secret name.”
“His name?” Taran cried in astonishment. “I never realized a name could be so powerful.”
“Yes,” Gwydion answered. “Once you have courage to look upon evil, seeing it for what it is and naming it by its true name, it is powerless against you, and you can destroy it. Yet, with all my understanding,’’ he said, reaching down and scratching the white pig’s ear, “I could not have discovered the Horned King’s name without Hen Wen.
“Hen Wen told me this secret in the forest. I had no need of letter sticks or tomes of enchantment, for we could speak as one heart and mind to another. The gwythaint, circling overhead, led me to the Horned King. The rest you know.”
“Where is the gwythaint now?” asked Taran.
Gwydion shook his head. “I do not know. But I doubt she will ever return to Annuvin, for Arawn would rend her to pieces once he learned what she had done. I only know she has repaid your kindness in the fullest measure.
“Rest now,” Gwydion said. “Later, we shall speak of happier things.”
“Lord Gwydion,” Eilonwy called, as he rose to leave, “what was the Horned King’s secret name?”
Gwydion’s lined face broke into a smile. “It must remain a secret,” he said, then patted the girl gently on the cheek. “But I assure you, it was not half as pretty as your own.”

A FEW DAYS AFTERWARDS, when Taran had regained strength enough to walk unaided, Gwydion accompanied him through Caer Dathyl. Standing high on a hill, the fortress alone was big enough to hold several Caer Dallbens. Taran saw armorers’ shops, stables for the steeds of warrior, breweries, weaving rooms. Cottages clustered in the valleys below, and clear streams ran golden in the sunlight. Later, Gwydion summoned all the companions to the great hall of Caer Dathyl, and there, amid banners and hedges of spears, they received the gratitude of King Math Son of Mathonwy, ruler of the House of Don. The white-bearded monarch, who looked as old as Dallben and as testy, was even more talkative than Eilonwy. But when at last he had finished one of the longest speeches Taran had ever heard, the companions bowed, and a guard of honor bore King Math from the hall on a litter draped with cloth of gold. As Taran and his friends were about to take their leave, Gwydion called to them.
“These are small gifts for great valor,” he said. “But it is in my power to bestow them, which I do with a glad heart, and with hope that you will treasure them not so much for their value as for the sake of remembrance.
“To Fflewddur Fflam shall be given one harp string. Though all his others break, this shall forever hold, regardless of how many gallant extravagances he may put on it. And its tone shall be the truest and most beautiful.
“To Doli of the Fair Folk shall be granted the power of invisibility, so long as he choose to retain it.
“To faithful and valiant Gurgi shall be given a wallet of food which shall be always full. Guard it well; it is one of the treasures of Prydain.
“To Eilonwy of the House of Llyr shall be given a ring of gold set with a gem carved by the ancient craftsmen of the Fair Folk. It is precious; but to me, her friendship is even more precious.
“And to Taran of Caer Dallben…” Here, Gwydion paused. “The choice of his reward has been the most difficult of all.”
“I ask no reward,” Taran said. “I want no friend to repay me for what I did willingly, out of friendship and for my own honor.”
Gwydion smiled. “Taran of Caer Dallben,” he said, “you are still as touchy and headstrong as ever. Believe that I know what you yearn for in your heart. The dreams of heroism, of worth, of achievement are noble ones; but you, not I, must make them come true. Ask me whatever else, and I shall grant it.”
Taran bowed his head. “In spite of all that has befallen me, I have come to love the valleys and mountains of your northern lands. But my thoughts have turned more and more to Caer Dallben. I long to be home.”
Gwydion nodded. “So it shall be.”