Twenty-second of Elembious, light time
My lessons with the Queen today were all about the history of Caer Dathyl and the Sons of Don. Quite interesting. I knew some of it from Achren, of course, but hers was a rather biased version…always going on about how they were usurpers and traitors. No wonder she's so bitter about Gwydion.
Anyhow, it was no surprise, then, that I found myself unable to sleep tonight, remembering my own experiences at Caer Dathyl. It's becoming rather a habit to write out things that nag at me at bedtime, as I'm finding it amazingly helpful. It's like chasing mice out of my bedroom.
Caer Dathyl itself is a sight to behold. It's too bad I didn't get a chance to really look at the castle as we approached, because I'm sure it would have been a marvelous first impression…all gleaming towers and golden banners. As it was, we were in a bit of a hurry, and preoccupied with not being chopped to bits by the Horned King's warriors. And the Horned King himself! It was years before I stopped having nightmares about him.
Llyr, that ride. I can vividly remember careening over bracken and bramble, clinging desperately to Taran with one arm and Melyngar's saddle with the other. She's a magnificent animal but no horse carries two gracefully, and it was all I could do to stay on. That blasted black sword was banging around on my back and throwing off my balance with every stride; utterly useless as a weapon and so much dead weight. Taran's hair was in my face and eyes, and my own kept getting ripped at by every passing twig and branch. Taran caught the worst of those in the face, but I got my share of lashing about the ribs and legs.
But the discomforts were nothing compared with the knowledge of what was chasing us. I could not have been more terrified if Death himself were on our tail, as it might just as well have been. I could hear the snorting and panting of the horse, every hoofbeat as he crashed through the undergrowth, even the guttural ragged breathing of the giant on his back. We had just crossed a stream when the harsh steel rasp of a sword being drawn screeched across the distance between the two horses. What an unmistakable, ugly sound that is when you aren't the one doing the drawing.
From the moment I heard it I felt suddenly enormous and mercilessly exposed, as though every body part was presenting a perfect target, and my skin prickled and crawled as I tried by sheer will to make myself smaller. Our pursuer had pulled astride of us by then and Taran and I both instinctively leaned to the right, away from him, as though somehow that few extra inches would save us; I remember letting go of Melyngar's saddle so that I could pull my left hand protectively to my chest.
It was a jolt like being hit with a battering ram when the Horned King spurred his mount into our path. Melyngar did her best, but our position was so precarious by then that there was no saving it. I'd always dreaded being thrown from a horse, but at that moment it was so much the least of my worries I don't remember giving the fall itself a second thought – just determined that when I hit the ground I would have no time to snivel about it but must spring up and get out of the way instantly. I distinctly remember thinking with that kind of clarity in the few seconds it took to be thrown, as though time slowed down in the air between horseback and earth.
I landed and rolled, scrabbling for traction in the bracken and dead leaves on the forest floor, and the whole world was churned-up earth and screaming horses and thrashing hooves – amazing how just two horses can suddenly seem to have a hundred legs when you're trying not to be under one of them. Before I could get my bearings Taran had grabbed me by the arm and we scrambled toward the nearest thicket. As we heard the crushing footfalls of the Horned King behind us, I had the odd notion that it was more like being tracked by a beast than followed by a man, and that even if it were dark he'd be able to find us by the smell of our fear.
Taran's face was dead white, but he had his sword out and when our pursuer was almost upon us he shoved me forward and shouted for me to run. Perhaps I ought to have. Instead I whirled around just in time to see Taran's blade shatter under an attack from the giant warrior. I froze in horror, but as the Horned King drew back for another blow Taran scrambled up, saw me still standing there, and leapt toward me, shouting something about a sword that I couldn't make out. I had forgotten about Dyrnwyn still strapped to my back, and before I knew what was happening he had grabbed the scabbard and yanked at it, taking a good handful of my hair along with it and almost pulling me down as I struggled to get free of the straps. I was shouting at him not to be a fool; that he couldn't draw it, that it was dangerous, but he paid no attention and I can't blame him, seeing the position we were in.
The Horned King had paused at the sight of the black sword as though it disturbed him, but as Taran struggled vainly to draw it the big brute shook off his doubt and raised his arms for another blow…and it was at that moment several things happened at once.
I had flung myself at the Horned King, intending to do I know not what, as I had no weapon of any kind. It sprang from desperation rather than bravery – all I could think was that I had to stop him, somehow, from smiting Taran. Just as I had begun to move there was a blinding flash of light and a cry of pain, but I had no chance to see what had happened, as the next moment I was being tossed aside like a ragged old garment. It's somewhat mortifying that the Horned King didn't even consider me worth killing before he threw me off!
I crashed against a tree and tumbled to its base in a paralyzed heap. It would have been a mercy to hit my head and black out but such was not my fate…I was in too much pain to move, but apparently not enough to faint, although the world swam before my eyes. For a confused moment I could make no sense of anything I saw, and I wish it had stayed that way, because clarity brought a truly horrifying scene.
The Horned King was on fire…flames of brilliant blue-white engulfed his entire figure. I could feel the heat from them even where I was, a short distance away. He was stumbling about like a madman, roaring in pain, and finally fell to the ground and writhed like a dying snake. His skin blackened and flaked away and sparks popped and flew…but did not kindle any of the surrounding tinder, strangely enough.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air, choking me. I screamed, but I could not drown out the sound of the big brute's dying agonies; his shrieks had become high-pitched and piercing. I'll remember those screams until I die…I couldn't get away from them. I could shut out the sight but there was no escaping the sound.
Frantically I scrambled away, stumbling back into the trees, screaming and sobbing in hysterics. I had forgotten all about Taran and Melyngar…I just wanted to escape from that hideous scene. I could think of nothing but to keep moving…get away…and when I blindly plowed into something solid and felt my arms grasped by large hands it threw me into utter panic. I screamed and fought and kicked and bit and was nearly out of my mind with fear, but the hands didn't let go – in fact a pair of very strong arms wrapped around me and with some difficulty forced me to be still. A deep voice spoke words I did not comprehend, but it was soothing and calm and continuous like a song, and as it brought me slowly back to myself I found I was being rocked like an infant against a man's broad chest.
When I stopped struggling and relaxed, the arms loosened and I pulled away to see the face of my captor, and thus laid eyes on Gwydion for the first time in my life.
I didn't know who he was, of course. But I knew he was someone important. There's an aura of authority about Gwydion that is unmistakable; something in the way he carries his head and the set of his jaw. I sensed at once I was safe, and studied him mutely for some moments, for he reminded me curiously of Medwyn's wolf Brynach - the same grey-streaked shaggy hair, the same keen eyes, the same intense, searching expression. His face was lined and rugged from exposure and he was badly in need of a shave, and his nose was a bit crooked. I daresay it's been broken more than once. I could not have called him handsome exactly, and I still couldn't, but you can't stop looking at him, somehow.
He looked at me with something like shock – or at least the nearest thing Gwydion could ever come to it. He takes surprises, like everything else, calmly and in course. At the time I thought he was just surprised to find a girl in such a place. I've figured out a few things since then.
He was composed in moments, seeming to shelve a library's worth of questions to the back of his mind, asking only one: "Are you hurt?" His teeth were brilliantly white in his dark face, and his canines just a wee bit more pointed than usual, and I thought again, abruptly, of Brynach.
I was myself again by then, suddenly remembered Taran, was sure he was dead, and burst into tears. Gwydion made to soothe me again, but I grabbed his arm and began dragging him back the way I had come, babbling (probably incoherently) that it wasn't me that was hurt, it was Taran, that he'd tried to draw the sword and the Horned King might have killed him. I don't know how much of it Gwydion understood but he did make out the name Taran, because he repeated it sharply and strode ahead.
Several of the warriors from Caer Dathyl had followed Gwydion into the woods and by this time they had clustered around us, so it was a score or so of men I led back to the body of the Horned King, in smoldering bits by this time. Taran was lying a short distance away; I shrieked and ran to him. He was limp and pale, and his right arm, flung up next to his face, was blistered and raw from wrist to elbow. I fell next to him in tears, and Gwydion knelt gravely and put a hand to his face and neck.
"He lives," he murmured, with a brief smile at me. "Be easy, Princess."
I was too distracted at the time to wonder how he knew I was a princess when I hadn't even told him my name. The relief at finding Taran alive was so great it crowded out everything else. As two of the men lifted Taran, another ran up holding the black scabbard, with Dyrnwyn still sheathed safely within. "We found this over there, beneath the tree, Lord Gwydion."
Before Gwydion could speak, I snatched the sword. "That's mine." The man started, and looked from me to Gwydion in consternation. I saw Gwydion's mouth twitch amusedly, even as he stared at Dyrnwyn with evident interest. All at once I registered what the man had called him and my mouth dropped open. "Gwydion!" I exclaimed. "Gwydion, Prince of Don?"
He nodded his head once, his green eyes twinkling. I thought of all the bitter things Achren had ever said of him and blushed. Of course none of it could be true.
"We thought you were dead," I blurted out, then thought to amend this with, "I'm terribly glad you aren't, of course." The men laughed and I squirmed, but inspiration struck. I knelt and held Dyrnwyn up toward him.
"I spoke the truth when I called this mine," I said, with a sidelong glance at the man I had taken it from, "for it was I who took it from the barrow beneath Spiral Castle. It wasn't doing any good for its previous owner," I added hastily, "but to be honest it doesn't do me much good either. Since it's mine to give, I should like to give it to you, Lord Gwydion. It says on the scabbard that it's only to be drawn by one of royal blood. I daresay you fill that requirement better than anyone else."
All the men fell silent and Gwydion smiled. He took the sword from me gravely and examined it. When he grasped the pommel I held my breath, but the sword slid out with nary a squeak of protest. He held it up and admired it, and a filmy streak of white flame slithered up the blade. There was a collective murmur from the men. "It is an elegant weapon," Gwydion said, "and a noble gift. I thank you, lady." I flushed with pride and pleasure and he sheathed the sword and handed it to me. "Perhaps you will do me the honor?"
I knew nothing about the sword-girding ceremony except its existence, as I've mentioned before, so I didn't say all the proper words. But I was giddy with the importance of it nonetheless. Even Gwydion's men were silent and respectful.
Once it was done he became businesslike and began to give orders. He bade the men carrying Taran to return to the fortress and me to accompany them, while he led the rest of the men back to their forces massing against the Horned King's armies. He walked to the body and picked up the antlered skull and I shuddered. I knew he did it to be able to show the enemy that their leader was dead, so it was practical – and effective – but I should not have wanted to touch the thing.
I told Taran later that I still saw the Horned King burning in nightmares, even when I wasn't asleep. It was true…there were times over the next few weeks when that horrible vision would crowd itself into my thoughts and it was all I could do to wrench away. I wish one could reach into one's memory and claw out the bits that were unpleasant.
But perhaps that is what writing about them does, in a way. They are never so pestering in my head after I've written them out here. Bless Dallben!
I've a bit of a plot bunny in gestation about writing this same scene from Gwydion's POV. Stay tuned for a oneshot on that topic.
Meanwhile, thanks for the new reviews! I'll try to keep these coming.