The Book of Three

Chapter 2
The Mask of the King

HEN WEN had vanished. Ahead, Taran heard a thrashing among the leaves. The pig, he was sure, was keeping out of sight in the bushes. Following the sound, he ran forward. After a time the ground rose sharply, forcing him to clamber on hands and knees up a wooded slope. At the crest the forest broke off before a meadow. Taran caught a glimpse of Hen Wen dashing into the waving grass. Once across the meadow, she disappeared beyond a stand of trees.
Taran hurried after her. This was farther than he had ever dared venture, but he struggled on through the heavy undergrowth. Soon, a fairly wide trail opened, allowing him to quicken his pace. Hen Wen had either stopped running or had outdistanced him. He heard nothing but his own footsteps.
He followed the trail for some while, intending to use it as a landmark on the way back, although it twisted and branched off so frequently he was not at all certain in which direction Caer Dallben lay.
In the meadow Taran had been flushed and perspiring. Now he shivered in the silence of oaks and elms. The woods here were not thick, but shadows drenched the high tree trunks and the sun broke through only in jagged streaks. A damp green scent filled the air. No bird called; no squirrel chattered. The forest seemed to be holding its breath.
Yet there was, beneath the silence, a groaning restlessness and a trembling among the leaves. The branches twisted and grated against each other like broken teeth. The path wavered under Taran’s feet, and he felt desperately cold. He flung his arms around himself and moved more quickly to shake off the chill. He was, he realized, running aimlessly; he could not keep his mind on the forks and turns of the path.
He halted suddenly. Hoofbeats thudded in front of him. The forest shook as they grew louder. In another moment a black horse burst into view.
Taran fell back, terrified. Astride the foam-spattered animal rode a monstrous figure. A crimson cloak flamed from his naked shoulders. Crimson stained his gigantic arms. Horror stricken, Taran saw not the head of a man but the antlered head of a stag.
The Horned King! Taran flung himself against an oak to escape the flying hoofs and the heaving, glistening flanks. Horse and rider swept by. The mask was a human skull; from it, the great antlers rose in cruel curves. The Horned King’s eyes blazed behind the gaping sockets of whitened bone.
Many horsemen galloped in his train. The Horned King uttered the long cry of a wild beast, and his riders took it up as they streamed after him. One of them, an ugly, grinning warrior, caught sight of Taran. He turned his mount and drew a sword. Taran sprang from the tree and plunged into the underbrush. The blade followed, hissing like an adder. Taran felt it sting across his back.
He ran blindly, while saplings whipped his face and hidden rocks jutted out to pitch him forward and stab at his knees. Where the woods thinned, Taran clattered along a dry stream bed until, exhausted, he stumbled and held out his hands against the whirling ground.

THE SUN HAD already dipped westward when Taran opened his eyes. He was lying on a stretch of turf with a cloak thrown over him. One shoulder smarted painfully. A man knelt beside him. Nearby, a white horse cropped the grass. Still dazed, fearful the riders had overtaken him, Taran started up. The man held out a flask.
“Drink,” he said. “Your strength will return in a moment.”
The stranger had the shaggy, gray-streaked hair of a wolf. His eyes were deep-set, flecked with green. Sun and wind had leathered his broad face, burnt it dark and grained it with fine lines. His cloak was coarse and travel-stained. A wide belt with an intricately wrought buckle circled his waist.
“Drink,” the stranger said again, while Taran took the flask dubiously. “You look as though I were trying to poison you.” He smiled. “It is not thus that Gwydion Son of Don deals with a wounded…”
“Gwydion!” Taran choked on the liquid and stumbled to his feet. “You are not Gwydion!” he cried. “I know of him. He is a great war leader, a hero! He is not…” His eyes fell on the long sword at the stranger’s belt. The golden pommel was smooth and rounded, its color deliberately muted; ash leaves of pale gold entwined at the hilt, and a pattern of leaves covered the scabbard. It was truly the weapon of a prince.
Taran dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “Lord Gwydion,” he said, “I did not intend insolence.’’ As Gwydion helped him rise, Taran still stared in disbelief at the simple attire and the worn, lined face. From all Dallben had told him of this glorious hero, from all he had pictured to himself—Taran bit his lips.
Gwydion caught Taran’s look of disappointment. “It is not the trappings that make the prince,” he said gently, “nor, indeed, the sword that makes the warrior. Come,” he ordered, “tell me your name and what happened to you. And do not ask me to believe you got a sword wound picking gooseberries or poaching hares.”
“I saw the Horned King!” Taran burst out. “His men ride the forest; one of them tried to kill me. I saw the Horned King himself! It was horrible, worse than Dallben told me!”
Gwydion’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Who are you to speak of Dallben?”
“I am Taran of Caer Dallben,” Taran answered, trying to appear bold but succeeding only in turning paler than a mushroom.
“Of Caer Dallben?” Gwydion paused an instant and gave Taran a strange glance. “What are you doing so far from there? Does Dallben know you are in the forest? Is Coll with you?”
Taran’s jaw dropped and he looked so thunderstruck that Gwydion threw back his head and burst into laughter.
“You need not be so surprised,” Gwydion said. “I know Coll and Dallben well. And they are too wise to let you wander here alone. Have you run off, then? I warn you; Dallben is not one to be disobeyed.”
“It was Hen Wen,” Taran protested. “I should have known I couldn’t hold on to her. Now she’s gone, and it’s my fault. I’m Assistant Pig-Keeper…”
“Gone?” Gwydion’s face tightened. “Where? What has happened to her?”
“I don’t know,” Taran cried. “She’s somewhere in the forest.” As he poured out an account of the morning’s events, Gwydion listened intently.
“I had not foreseen this,” Gwydion murmured, when Taran had finished. “My mission fails if she is not found quickly.” He turned abruptly to Taran. “Yes,” he said, “I, too, seek Hen Wen.”
“You?” cried Taran. “You came this far…”
“I need information she alone possesses,” Gwydion said quickly. “I have journeyed a month from Caer Dathyl to get it. I have been followed, spied on, hunted. And now,” he added with a bitter laugh, “she has run off. Very well. She will be found. I must discover all she knows of the Horned King.” Gwydion hesitated. “I fear he himself searches for her even now.
“It must be so,” he continued. “Hen Wen sensed him near Caer Dallben and fled in terror…”
“Then we should stop him,” Taran declared. “Attack him, strike him down! Give me a sword and I will stand with you!”
“Gently, gently,” chided Gwydion. “I do not say my life is worth more than another man’s, but I prize it highly. Do you think a lone warrior and one Assistant Pig-Keeper dare attack the Horned King and his war band?”
Taran drew himself up. “I would not fear him.”
“No?” said Gwydion. “Then you are a fool. He is the man most to be dreaded in all Prydain. Will you hear something I learned during my journey, something even Dallben may not yet realize?”
Gwydion knelt on the turf. “Do you know the craft of weaving? Thread by thread, the pattern forms.” As he spoke, he plucked at the long blades of grass, knotting them to form a mesh.
“That is cleverly done,” said Taran, watching Gwydion’s rapidly moving fingers. “May I look at it?”
“There is a more serious weaving,” said Gwydion, slipping the net into his own jacket. “You have seen one thread of a pattern loomed in Annuvin.
“Arawn does not long abandon Annuvin,” Gwydion continued, “but his hand reaches everywhere. There are chieftains whose lust for power goads them like a sword point. To certain of them, Arawn promises wealth and dominion, playing on their greed as a bard plays on a harp. Arawn’s corruption burns every human feeling from their hearts and they become his liegemen, serving him beyond the borders of Annuvin and bound to him forever.”
“And the Horned King…?”
Gwydion nodded. “Yes. I know beyond question that he has sworn his allegiance to Arawn. He is Arawn’s avowed champion. Once again, the power of Annuvin threatens Prydain.”
Taran could only stare, speechless.
Gwydion turned to him. “When the time is ripe, the Horned King and I will meet. And one of us will die. That is my oath. But his purpose is dark and unknown, and I must learn it from Hen Wen.”
“She can’t be far,” Taran cried. “I’ll show you where she disappeared. I think I can find the place. It was just before the Horned King…”
Gwydion gave him a hard smile. “Do you have the eyes of an owl, to find a trail at nightfall? We sleep here and I shall be off at first light. With good luck, I may have her back before…”
“What of me?” Taran interrupted. “Hen Wen is in my charge. I let her escape and it is I who must find her.”
“The task counts more than the one who does it,” said Gwydion. “I will not be hindered by an Assistant Pig-Keeper, who seems eager to bring himself to grief.” He stopped short and looked wryly at Taran. “On second thought, it appears I will. If the Horned King rides toward Caer Dallben, I cannot send you back alone and I dare not go with you and lose a day’s tracking. You cannot stay in this forest by yourself. Unless I find some way…”
“I swear I will not hinder you,” cried Taran. “Let me go with you. Dallben and Coll will see I can do what I set out to do!”
“Have I another choice?” asked Gwydion. “It would seem, Taran of Caer Dallben, we follow the same path. For a little while at least.”
The white horse trotted up and nuzzled Gwydion’s hand. “Melyngar reminds me it is time for food,” Gwydion said. He unpacked provisions from the saddlebags. “Make no fire tonight,” he warned. “The Horned King’s outriders may be close at hand.”
Taran swallowed a hurried meal. Excitement robbed him of appetite and he was impatient for dawn. His wound had stiffened so that he could not settle himself on the roots and pebbles. It had never occurred to him until now that a hero would sleep on the ground.
Gwydion, watchful, sat with his knees drawn up, his back against an enormous elm. In the lowering dusk Taran could barely distinguish the man from the tree; and could have walked within a pace of him before realizing he was any more than a splotch of shadow. Gwydion had sunk into the forest itself; only his green-flecked eyes shone in the reflection of the newly risen moon.
Gwydion was silent and thoughtful for a long while. “So you are Taran of Caer Dallben,” he said at last. His voice from the shadows was quiet but urgent. “How long have you been with Dallben? Who are your kinsmen?”
Taran, hunched against a tree root, pulled his cloak closer about his shoulders. “I have always lived at Caer Dallben,” he said. “I don’t think I have any kinsmen. I don’t know who my parents were. Dallben has never told me. I suppose,” he added, turning his face away, “I don’t even know who I am.”
“In a way,” answered Gwydion, “that is something we must all discover for ourselves. Our meeting was fortunate,” he went on. “Thanks to you, I know a little more than I did, and you have spared me a wasted journey to Caer Dallben. It makes me wonder,” Gwydion went on, with a laugh that was not unkind, “is there a destiny laid on me that an Assistant Pig-Keeper should help me in my quest?” He hesitated. “Or,” he mused, “is it perhaps the other way around?”
“What do you mean?” Taran asked.
“I am not sure,” said Gwydion. “It makes no difference. Sleep now, for we rise early tomorrow.”