Sixth day of Equos, darktime

Today seems a good time to describe some of the people around here. It is a worrisome circumstance that I find myself looking viciously forward to describing those I don't like. There will be something satisfying about it, like sucking a sore tooth, but I shouldn't be so quick to find fault in people. At least, that's what Dallben always said.

I've already written of Rhun and Queen Teleria, though I've made the queen sound quite fussy. She is fussy but never cross, and quite good natured, really; perhaps raising Rhun has given her great patience. King Rhuddlum is kind to me, and seems a capable enough king, although it's easy to see where Rhun got his addled wits; the king is always repeating himself, and, like his son, is easily amused by the simplest of things. But altogether they are pleasant people, and wear their nobility without pretence.

I can't say the same for some of the ladies; chiefly some of the ones my age – I don't know enough about the older ones to describe them properly, beyond the fact that their attitude toward me seems to be one of vague disapproval. The main social circle of girls revolves around one Aeronwen, the seventeen-year-old daughter of some cousin or other of the king. She is the one I loathed at once, and I daresay she feels the same; Eirliss has shared a rumor that Aeronwen was prepared to despise me because she herself had been passed over as a suitable bride for the prince. I can't imagine her being in love with him, so I suppose she was simply looking forward to ruling Mona. She's welcome to it, as far as I'm concerned, but I wouldn't wish such a thing upon poor Rhun.

We haven't had a true row yet, but I daresay the day is approaching. I've no doubt I'll be the one to start it, because although she insults me at every opportunity, she does it in a subtle, backhanded way that cloaks itself as friendliness. She bares her snapping teeth in a sneering smile when I ask her what she means and makes condescending remarks about how of course I couldn't understand, what with the disadvantages of my upbringing. It always makes me imagine how she would look if someone were to shave her eyebrows and chop her hair off with a dull ploughshare. Like a nutcracker, I expect…she has the jaw for it.

She's a very pretty girl in general opinion, popular with the young men, who fawn over her like perfect idiots, always praising the lustrous shine of her hair and the roses in her cheeks and all such nonsense. She treats them with all the respect such prancing pups deserve; I often overhear her in the midst of her group of girls in the sewing room, boasting of some compliment she's been paid lately and making fun of the one who paid it. She has a small devoted group of girls for friends, whose loyalty is retained out of fear of her animosity or hope of sharing her influence, I believe. They treat me with varying degrees of coolness but are too weak to bother about.

I believe Achren must have been like Aeronwen as a girl.

I find more pleasant company among the servants. Eirliss is delightful; now and then when I talk her into being more at ease she chatters freely about herself and her family. She shares my dislike for Aeronwen and those of her ilk, and saves juicy bits of information about them picked up from the other maids to laugh over with me in the evenings before bed. She's a shy, delicate thing and flits around my chamber like a little brown wren in a cage, always glancing wistfully out the casements when she passes them.

Then there are the stablehands and kennel-keepers, older men for the most part and wonderfully pleased when anyone shows interest in the horses and dogs. The horsemaster is a rather crusty old fellow named Morwen, who growls at me when I visit, snorts when I speak, and yet eyes the young stable lads venomously if they show any signs of getting too familiar with me, and always seems, coincidentally, to have a few spare apple slices on hand for me to pass out among the horses. I saw him give one of Aeronwen's squealing friends a disgusted look once when she jumped at big stallion's flicking an ear in her direction during a riding party, and that was enough to make me like him.

Then there is the governess who teaches deportment, Mistress Rhona. Short, round, old, smelling of lavender, she always looks like she's just sat on a pine cone but is too polite to complain. Her nervousness makes me so jumpy sometimes I simply want to smack her, and then I feel guilty, for it would be like slapping someone's grandmother. But it is impossible to be as composed as she is trying to teach me to be with her fluttering about like a butterfly in a net. Just when I think I have the correct behavior down and the right words memorized, I catch a watery blue gaze from her twitching eyes and it all flies right out of my head. She is better at dealing with the little girls; I think she simply does not know what to do with me.

Ah, well...I have lost interest in this now; my circle is limited. Perhaps I should instead be describing the people I wish I were with! Or is it, with whom I wish I were…that doesn't sound right either. Well, nevertheless…though it will likely make me fearfully depressed…

There weren't many of us at Caer Dallben but it was enough. Dallben is an enchanter – the most powerful in Prydain, though you wouldn't know it to look at him. He's so old and bent and frail-seeming he looks as though a puff of wind would blow him away, trailing his long whiskers behind. His face is a mass of lines, with more lines criss-crossed over those for good measure, and the lack of hair on his head is made up for in his eyebrows alone. But his eyes are grey and keen and clear, and they twinkle and flash by turns. You always feel a bit odd if you look at his eyes too long…as though the knowledge of a thousand worlds lay in them, and the weight of it could bury you. And there's also the uncomfortable sensation that they are piercing right into you and reading your every thought. He is often testy but I have never seen him truly angry, yet everyone in the house dances to his piping. He sleeps and meditates most of the time and doesn't say much, but what he does say is always worth listening to.

Coll is the real owner of Caer Dallben; he built it before Dallben ever came there, and I've never been clear why Dallben is the master of it, unless it is simply Dallben's way to be master wherever he is. Many years ago Coll was a great warrior, and still has the strong bearing and scars to prove it. But it is difficult for me to imagine Coll in any sort of battle rage; he is calm and quiet like a summer day, and moves with the patient deliberation of one who knows earth and trees and beasts as well as he knows himself. He laughs heartily when he is amused, and speaks plain sensible things about weather and milking and what phase of the moon one should plant potatoes in. He was married once, years ago before even Taran lived here, but his wife died very young. He speaks of her now and then wistfully, but it's been so long that I think her memory does not pain him. He kept some of her things, though – it was her clothing that got made over for me when I had outgrown my own, and the first time I wore one of her old dresses, he looked at me with a sad and thoughtful expression, like someone trying to remember a troubling dream. It must have cost him a great deal to give her things to me, and yet he seemed glad to do it. He is not handsome – he is barrel-shaped and bald, and weathered from so much time in sun and wind – but his face is kind, and his hands are gentle. His wife must have been happy with him for the short time she lived.

I'm not sure whether to include Gurgi with the animals or with us. No one knows where he came from or really what he is; Taran picked him up somehow shortly before I met him and Gurgi won't be got rid of. Not that anyone would want to. He is shaped something like a man, but smaller, and looks as though some of the length was taken out of his legs and put in his arms instead. He is completely covered with hair and typically quite dirty, and his face is uncannily like a dog's on a human head. I am reminded of him often, in fact, when I visit the kennels; the way the dogs fawn at your feet and paw at you, the way they plead with their eyes, the way they wriggle all over when they are pleased, and the way their ears prick up or droop along with their moods: all are qualities Gurgi possesses, with the additional benefit of speech. To be sure, Gurgi's speech has a personality all its own, but I often think it's how the dogs would talk if they could. He can be a nuisance, but he is so pitifully eager to be helpful you can't be vexed with him, although Taran often pretends to be. But even he can't pretend with any sincerity to dislike someone who worships him so devotedly, for Gurgi adores Taran to the point where I believe he'd willingly give up his life for him.

The only animal of great enough importance to warrant mention here is Coll's white pig, Hen Wen, who is apparently oracular, though I've never seen any manifestations of it. But it must be true, since legend has it that she was once stolen by Arawn himself, necessitating her rescue from Annuvin by none other than Coll the warrior. You'd never think it to look at her, though she's a lovely pig. And really it is she I have to thank for my place at Caer Dallben at all, as it was her running away that put Taran on the trail that eventually led to my meeting him.

And Taran…but he'll have to wait. I've saved him for last, and the shadow has reached the carpet edge.