The Book of Three

Chapter 6
Eilonwy

TARAN CAME TO HIS SENSES on a pile of dirty straw, which smelled as though Gurgi and all his ancestors had slept on it. A few feet above him, pale yellow sunlight shone through a grating; the feeble beam ended abruptly on a wall of rough, damp stone. The shadows of bars lay across the tiny patch of light; instead of brightening the cell, the wan rays made it appear only more grim and closed in. As Taran’s eyes grew accustomed to this yellow twilight, he made out a heavy, studded portal with a slot at the base. The cell itself was not over three paces square.
His head ached; since his hands were still bound behind him, he could do no more than guess at the large and throbbing lump. What had happened to Gwydion he dared not imagine. After the Cauldron warrior had struck him, Taran had regained consciousness only a few moments before slipping once again into whirling darkness. In that brief time, he vaguely remembered opening his eyes and finding himself slung over a guard’s back. His confused recollection included a dim corridor with doors on either side. Gwydion had called out to him once—or so Taran believed—he could not recall his friend’s words, perhaps even that had been part of the nightmare. He supposed Gwydion had been cast in another dungeon; Taran fervently hoped so. He could not shake off the memory of Achren’s livid face and horrible screaming, and he feared she might have ordered Gwydion slain.
Still, there was good reason to hope his companion lived. Achren could easily have cut his throat as he braved her in the council hall, yet she had held back. Thus, she intended to keep Gwydion alive; perhaps, Taran thought wretchedly, Gwydion would be better off dead. The idea of the proud figure lying a broken corpse filled Taran with grief that quickly turned to rage. He staggered to his feet, lurched to the door, kicking it, battering himself against it with what little strength remained to him. In despair, he sank to the damp ground, his head pressed against the unyielding oaken planks. He rose again after a few moments and kicked at the walls. If Gwydion were, by chance, in an adjoining cell, Taran hoped he would hear this signal. But he judged, from the dull and muffled sound, that the walls were too thick for his feeble tapping to penetrate.
As he turned away, a flashing object fell through the grating and dropped to the stone floor. Taran stooped. It was a ball of what seemed to be gold. Perplexed, he looked upward. From the grating, a pair of intensely blue eyes looked back at him.
“Please,” said a girl’s voice, light and musical, “my name is Eilonwy and if you don’t mind, would you throw my bauble to me? I don’t want you to think I’m a baby, playing with a silly bauble, because I’m not; but sometimes there’s absolutely nothing else to do around here and it slipped out of my hands when I was tossing it…”
“Little girl,” Taran interrupted, “I don’t…”
“But I am not a little girl,” Eilonwy protested. “Haven’t I just been and finished telling you? Are you slow-witted? I’m so sorry for you. It’s terrible to be dull and stupid. What’s your name?” she went on. “It makes me feel funny not knowing someone’s name. Wrong-footed, you know, or as if I had three thumbs on one hand, if you see what I mean. It’s clumsy…”
“I am Taran of Caer Dallben,” Taran said, then wished he had not. This, he realized, could be another trap.
“That’s lovely,” Eilonwy said gaily. “I’m very glad to meet you. I suppose you’re a lord, or a warrior, or a war leader, or a bard, or a monster. Though we haven’t had any monsters for a long time.”
“I am none of those,” said Taran, feeling quite flattered that Eilonwy should have taken him for any one of them.
“What else is there?”
“I am an Assistant Pig-Keeper,” Taran said. He bit his lip as soon as the words were out; then, to excuse his loose tongue, told himself it could do no harm for the girl to know that much.
“How fascinating,” Eilonwy said. “You’re the first we’ve ever had—unless that poor fellow in the other dungeon is one, too.”
“Tell me of him,” Taran said quickly. “Is he alive?”
“I don’t know,” said Eilonwy. “I peeked through the grating, but I couldn’t tell. He doesn’t move at all, but I should imagine he is alive; otherwise, Achren would have fed him to the ravens. Now, please, if you don’t mind, it’s right at your feet.”
“I can’t pick up your bauble,” Taran said, “because my hands are tied.”
The blue eyes looked surprised. “Oh? Well, that would account for it. Then I suppose I shall have to come in and get it.”
“You can’t come in and get it,” said Taran wearily. “Don’t you see I’m locked up here?”
“Of course I do,” said Eilonwy. “What would be the point of having someone in a dungeon if they weren’t locked up? Really, Taran of Caer Dallben, you surprise me with some of your remarks. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings by asking, but is Assistant Pig-Keeper the kind of work that calls for a great deal of intelligence?”
Something beyond the grating and out of Taran’s vision swooped down and the blue eyes disappeared suddenly. Taran heard what he took to be a scuffle, then a high-pitched little shriek, followed by a larger shriek and a moment or two of loud smacking.
The blue eyes did not reappear. Taran flung himself back on the straw. After a time, in the dreadful silence and loneliness of the tiny cell, he began suddenly to wish Eilonwy would come back. She was the most confusing person he had ever met, and surely as wicked as everyone else in the castle—although he could not quite bring himself to believe it completely. Nevertheless, he longed for the sound of another voice, even Eilonwy’s prattling.
The grating above his head darkened. Night poured into the cell in a black, chilly wave. The slot in the heavy portal rattled open. Taran heard something being slid into the cell and crawled toward it. It was a shallow bowl. He sniffed carefully and finally ventured to touch his tongue to it, fearing all the while that it might be poisoned food. It was not food at all, but only a little water, warm and musty. His throat was so parched that Taran disregarded the taste, thrust his face into the bowl, and drank it dry.
He curled up and tried to sleep away his pain; the tight thongs pinched, but his swollen hands were mercifully numb. Sleep brought only nightmares and he roused to find himself shouting aloud. He settled down once more. Now there was a rasping sound under the straw.
Taran stumbled to his feet. The rasping grew louder.
“Move away!” cried a faint voice.
Taran looked around him, dumbfounded.
“Get off the stone?
He stepped backward. The voice was coming from the straw.
“Well, I can’t lift it with you standing on it, you silly Assistant Pig-Keeper!” the muffled voice complained.
Frightened and puzzled, Taran jumped to the wall. The pallet began rising upward. A loose flagstone was lifted, pushed aside, and a slender shadow emerged as if from the ground itself.
“Who are you?” Taran shouted.
“Who did you expect?” said the voice of Eilonwy. “And please don’t make such a racket. I told you I was coming back. Oh, there’s my bauble…” The shadow bent and picked up the luminous ball.
“Where are you?” cried Taran. “I can see nothing…”
“Is that what’s bothering you?” Eilonwy asked. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Instantly, a bright light filled the cell. It came from the golden sphere in the girl’s hand.
Taran blinked with amazement. “What’s that?” he cried.
“It’s my bauble,” said Eilonwy. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
“But—but it lights up!”
“What did you think it would do? Turn into a bird and fly away?”
Eilonwy, as the bewildered Taran saw her for the first time, had, in addition to blue eyes, long hair of reddish gold reaching to her waist. Her face, though smudged, was delicate, elfin, with high cheekbones. Her short, white robe, mud-stained, was girdled with silver links. A crescent moon of silver hung from a fine chain around her neck. She was one or two years younger than he, but fully as tall. Eilonwy put the glowing sphere on the floor, went quickly to Taran, and unknotted the thongs that bound him.
“I meant to come back sooner,” Eilonwy said. “But Achren caught me talking to you. She started to give me a whipping. I bit her.
“Then she locked me in one of the chambers, deep underground,” Eilonwy went on, pointing to the flagstones. “There are hundreds of them under Spiral Castle, and all kinds of galleries and little passages, like a honeycomb. Achren didn’t build them; this castle, they say, once belonged to a great king. She thinks she knows all the passageways. But she doesn’t. She hasn’t been in half of them. Can you imagine Achren going through a tunnel? She’s older than she looks, you know.” Eilonwy giggled. “But I know every one, and most of them connect with each other. It took me longer in the dark, though, because I didn’t have my bauble.”
“You mean you live in this terrible place?” Taran asked.
“Naturally,” Eilonwy said. “You don’t imagine I’d want to visit here, do you?”
“Is—is Achren your mother?” Taran gasped and drew back fearfully.
“Certainly not!” cried the girl. “I am Eilonwy, daughter of Angharad, daughter of Regat, daughter of—oh, it’s such a bother going through all that. My ancestors,” she said proudly, “are the Sea People. I am of the blood of Llyr Half-Speech, the Sea King. Achren is my aunt, though sometimes I don’t think she’s really my aunt at all.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I said I live here,” Eilonwy answered. “It must take a lot of explaining before you understand anything. My parents died and my kinsmen sent me here so Achren could teach me to be an enchantress. It’s a family tradition, don’t you see? The boys are war leaders, and the girls are enchantresses.”
“Achren is leagued with Arawn of Annuvin,” cried Taran. “She is an evil, loathsome creature!”
“Oh, everybody knows that,” said Eilonwy. “Sometimes I wish my kinsmen had sent me to someone else. But I think they must have forgotten about me by now.”
She noticed the deep slash on his arm. “Where did you get that?” she asked. “I don’t think you know much about fighting if you let yourself get knocked about and cut up so badly. But I don’t imagine Assistant Pig-Keepers are often called on to do that sort of thing.” The girl tore a strip from the hem of her robe and began binding Taran’s wound.
“I didn’t let myself be cut up,” Taran said angrily. “That’s Arawn’s doing, or your aunt’s—I don’t know which and I don’t care. One is no better than the other.”
“I hate Achren!” Eilonwy burst out. “She is a mean, spiteful person. Of all the people who come here, you’re the only one who’s the least bit agreeable to talk to—and she had you damaged!”
“That’s not the end of it,” Taran said. “She means to kill my friend.”
“If she does that,” said Eilonwy, “I’m sure she’ll include you. Achren doesn’t do things by halves. It would be a shame if you were killed. I should be very sorry. I know I wouldn’t like it to happen to me…”
“Eilonwy, listen,” Taran interrupted, “if there are tunnels and passages under the castle—can you get to the other cells? Is there a way outside?”
“Of course there is,” Eilonwy said. “If there’s a way in, there has to be a way out, doesn’t there?”
“Will you help us?” Taran asked. “It is important for us to be free of this place. Will you show us the passage?”
“Let you escape?” Eilonwy giggled. “Wouldn’t Achren be furious at that? She tossed her head. “It would serve her right for whipping me and trying to lock me up. Yes, yes,” she went on, her eyes dancing, “that’s a wonderful idea. I would love to see her face when she comes down to find you. Yes, that would be more fun than anything I could think of. Can you imagine…”
“Listen carefully,” Taran said, “is there a way you can take me to my companion?”
Eilonwy shook her head. “That would be very hard to do. You see, some of the galleries connect with the ones leading to the cells, but when you try to go across, what happens is that you start to run into passages that…”
“Never mind, then,” Taran said. “Can I join him in one of the passageways?”
“I don’t see why you want to do that,” said the girl. “It would be so much simpler if I just go and let him out and have him wait for you beyond the castle. I don’t understand why you want to complicate things; it’s bad enough for two people crawling about, but with three, you can imagine what that would be. And you can’t possibly find your way by yourself.”
“Very well,” Taran said impatiently. “Free my companion first. I only hope he is well enough to move. If he isn’t, then you must come and tell me right away and I’ll think of some means of carrying him.
“And there is a white horse, Melyngar,” Taran went on. “I don’t know what’s been done with her.”
“She would be in the stable,” Eilonwy said. “Isn’t that where you’d usually find a horse?”
“Please,” Taran said, “you must get her, too. And weapons for us. Will you do that?”
Eilonwy nodded quickly. “Yes, that should be very exciting.” She giggled again. She picked up the glowing ball, cupped it in her hands, and once again the cell was dark. The stone grated shut and only Eilonwy’s silvery laugh lingered behind.
Taran paced back and forth. For the first time, he felt some hope; though he wondered how much he could count on this scatterbrained girl. She was likely to forget what she started out to do. Worse, she might betray him to Achren. It might be another trap, a new torment that promised him freedom only to snatch it away, but even so, Taran decided, they could be no worse off.
To save his energy, he lay down on the straw and tried to relax. His bandaged arm no longer pained him, and while he was still hungry and thirsty, the water he had drunk had taken some of the edge from his discomfort.
He had no idea how long it would take to travel through the underground galleries. But as time passed, he grew more anxious. He worked at the flagstone the girl had used. It would not move, though Taran’s efforts bloodied his fingers. He sank again into dark, endless waiting. Eilonwy did not return.