The star-sprinkled sky was strewn with cold shreds of cloud when Taran woke at last. Eilonwy, dozing next to him, jolted to awareness at his first stirrings. She lit her bauble, set it upon the log, and bent over his face, anxious to know at once whether he was fully come back to them. His eyes opened slowly, and he blinked in confusion at her. She watched recognition dawn in his gaze, undefinable but certain, and let out her held breath in tremulous relief.

"There you are," she said, with a forced cheerfulness that masked her urge to burst into tears. "I'm glad you decided to wake up."

Fflewddur and Gurgi hurried over, Gurgi exclaiming in joy and throwing his woolly arms around the boy's head. Taran grunted, and then coughed so violently he had to struggle upright. Fflewddur shooed Gurgi off and assisted him with his good arm. "That's it," the bard encouraged, "clear it all out. You'll be all right."

"You swallowed so much of the river," Eilonwy explained, as the bewildered boy caught his breath, "we were afraid we'd never be able to pump it out of you. And that rap on your head didn't help matters."

Taran stiffened and gasped. "The Crochan. Ellidyr!" he exclaimed, his voice a rasping croak, and he coughed again. "This fire…we dare not show the light! Arawn's warriors..."

He broke off in another fit of coughing. But he remembered! An hysterical sound popped from her throat, and Eilonwy covered her face and sat back, forcing herself to swallow the rest. Belin! She'd managed not to cry all the time he'd been unconscious. What good was it to start howling now?

Fflewddur was clucking soothingly to Taran, urging him to lie back. "Easy, now. It was either build a fire or let you freeze to death, lad, so of course we decided on the first. At this point, I doubt it can make too much difference." He cocked his head ruefully back toward the scene of their encounter with Ellidyr. "Since the cauldron is out of our hands, I don't believe Arawn will have quite the same interest in us. Happily, I might say."

Taran struggled back up at this, frantic. "The cauldron? Where is it?"

They both had to restrain him as he swayed. "Lie back," Eilonwy admonished him impatiently. "It's with Ellidyr."

Fflewddur broke in before Taran could speak again. "And if you ask where he is, we can answer you very quickly: we don't know."

"Wicked prince goes off with wicked pot," Gurgi added, "yes, yes, with ridings and stridings!"

"Good riddance to them, I say," Fflewddur declared. "I don't know which is worse, the Crochan or Ellidyr. Now, at least, they're both together."

Taran stared from one of them to the other, and put his hands to his head with a cry. "You let him go? You let him steal the Crochan?"

Fflewddur sighed. "Let is hardly the word, my friend."

"You seem to have forgotten," Eilonwy said a bit tartly, "Ellidyr was trying to kill you." A frisson of mild irritation was sizzling in her, and a hysterical impulse to laugh at her own contradictions: how could she want both to shake him and embrace him in such equal measure? But irritation was, at least, familiar— and paradoxically, comforting; it tamped down and tempered the other overwhelming things she felt. "It's a good thing you fell into the river," she added, "because I can tell you the goings-on weren't very pleasant on the shore."

Taran looked confused and doubtful, but submitted to their insistence that he be still, and between them they managed to convey something of what had transpired.

"I've never seen a man in such a frenzy," said Fflewddur. "Shouting at the top of his voice, calling us robbers and oath-breakers, and that we were trying to keep him in second place. That's all he's able to say or think now…if you choose to call that thinking."

Taran stared into the fire, obviously shaken by their tale. "I fear the black beast has swallowed him up, as Adaon warned," he said. "I pity Ellidyr from the bottom of my heart."

Eilonwy and Fflewddur exchanged dubious glances over his head. "I should pity him more if he hadn't tried to slice off my head," the bard muttered.

Taran remained thoughtful. "For long, I hated him. But in the little while I bore Adaon's brooch, I believe I saw him more clearly. His heart is unhappy and tormented."

Eilonwy snorted, but kept her own counsel. If it helped him to pity Ellidyr, so be it! But it was more than she could find in her to do. "Nor shall I forget what he said to me," Taran went on, "that I taunted him for seeking glory, yet clung to it myself." He spread his hands before him, black against the firelight, and sighed, "With dirty hands."

This was too much. "Pay no heed to what Ellidyr says," Eilonwy cried. "After what he made us do, he has no right to blame anyone for anything."

Taran shook his head. "And yet, he spoke the truth."

"Did he? It was only too true of himself," Eilonwy amended. "For his own honor he would have slain us all. Taran, believe us. You could never be like him, no matter how unhappy you were."

"We managed to escape from him, due to some rather—" Fflewddur continued, caught her alarmed eye and stammered, "Er, that is, he finally stopped pursuing us, and soon the horses, the Crochan, and Ellidyr were gone. After that, we followed down the river looking for you." He glanced at Eilonwy again, his brows furrowing, and again she shook her head. "You hadn't gone far," he said, "but I'm still amazed that anyone can swallow so much water in such a short distance."

Taran sat up again, and attempted to get to his feet. "We must find him. We dare not let him keep the Crochan! You should have left me and gone after him. Come now, there is no time to lose!"

He fell back weakly before he was even halfway up. Fflewddur and Gurgi caught him, and struggled to help him sit back down. "No, lad. I'm afraid there's no use in it, as our friend Gwystyl might say," the bard said, with a mild undercurrent of rebuke. "There's not a sign of him anywhere. We have no idea where he planned to go or what he had in mind to do, and he has too long a start on us. And, though I hate to admit it, I don't believe any one of us, or all of us together, could do very much against him." He flopped wearily onto the ground himself, cradling his broken arm. "We're hardly in the best way to deal with the Crochan or Ellidyr, even if we found them."

Taran, unwillingly convinced, was silent for a long moment, but for his ragged breathing. "You, too, speak the truth, my friend," he said at last. "You have all done more than I could ever ask. Alas, much better than I. Yes, it would be useless now to seek Ellidyr, as useless as our quest has been." He scraped a chunk of bark from the log and threw it into the flames angrily. "We have forfeited all for nothing—Adaon's brooch, our honor, and now the Crochan itself. We shall return to Caer Dallben empty-handed." He dropped his face into his hands, mumbling, "Perhaps Ellidyr was right. It is not fitting for a pig-boy to seek the same honor as a prince."

Eilonwy recoiled at these words on his lips, and fell next to him on her knees, gripping his jacket so that he had to turn toward her. "Pig-boy!" she repeated angrily. "Don't you ever speak of yourself that way, Taran of Caer Dallben. No matter what has happened, you're not a pig-boy; you're an Assistant Pig Keeper!"

He turned his weary eyes to her, locking onto her gaze. She thought of his face, that day she had girt on his sword, so radiant that he had seemed to light up the whole scullery. That glowing spirit was now snuffed out, quenched by one blow after another in the days since. If she had wished, then, for his humility…oh, what now would she not give to see that fire in him blaze back to life!

He was staring into her face searchingly, as though begging her for the spark of hope he could not find in himself. She thought inexplicably of that single ember she had not stamped out, live and glowing and as near as if she held it in her hand.

Almost unconsciously she found his clenched fist, pried it open and clasped it, palm to palm, as though she could somehow pass that spark along to him. "You're an Assistant Pig-Keeper," she repeated. "That is honor in itself. Not that they don't mean the same thing, when you come right down to it, I suppose. But one is proud and the other isn't. Since you have a choice, take the proud one!"

He looked almost startled, and she heard him swallow, before his gaze dropped and settled on their entwined hands. Almost automatically she followed it, and stared at the tendons that ran from his knuckles to his wrist, the veins that crossed over them like tree roots seeking sustenance…at her own fingertips, wrapped around his thumb.

The silence stretched long. Long enough for her to notice the pounding of her own heart and the flush rising to her face. Long enough to notice, from the corner of her eye, Fflewddur's unsuccessful pretense not to be watching them from the corner of his. Belin! Couldn't a person comfort a friend without feeling awkward about it? What had she said, to make the whole world suddenly hold its breath?

Taran's grip on her hand tightened. "Adaon once told me," he murmured, "that there is more honor in a field well-plowed than in a field steeped in blood." His eyes rose up again and she caught her breath—there it was! That light in him was kindling again, faint, but there, a flame to be nurtured. "I see now," he said, "that what he said was true above all."

Behind his words she saw green garden rows and an apple-strewn orchard, the bounty of rich earth and honest work, and well-earned rest around a glowing hearth. "A field well-plowed?" she repeated gently. "In that case, you never had to leave home to find it, did you?"

He looked sheepish for just an instant, and then chuckled. "Indeed. Though I do not regret serving as Gwydion commanded. But neither do I begrudge Ellidyr his prize." His head rose, gaze clear, mouth set firm. "I, too, shall seek honor. But I shall seek it where I know it will be found."

His crooked smile flashed, like a swift ray of sun breaking through fog, and she almost burst out in a strange sob of relief and gladness that he should look and sound so…so Taran again. Only…only not, really. The boy she knew, before this, wouldn't have said anything so lovely and sensible...before the cauldron, before the Marshes, before the brooch, Adaon, Ellidyr. He'd have said something to make her want to smack him, no doubt.

But now…now she could only return the smile, and squeeze his hand again, and wonder why she grew so warm when he did not let go…when he kept on not letting go, until Gurgi threw himself into his master's lap, vowing his awe at the wisdom of great lords, and his eagerness to return to the sowings and reapings of home.

Eilowny sat back as Taran wrestled with Gurgi's enthusiasm, tingling with something suspended halfway between relief and regret. She glanced at Fflewddur, and caught his dreamy smile before he could hide it; he coughed at her frown and pretended to pat himself down for his tuning key before he remembered his broken arm.

Taran, having convinced Gurgi to lie down quietly, leaned back against the log with a weary sigh. "I wish we could turn home at once," he confessed, "but I suppose we'd better head back to Caer Cadarn and tell Gwydion all that's happened. We've not been released from the quest."

Eilonwy nestled down near him, wrapped in her cloak. "We'll travel a bit easier without the Crochan, anyway," she sighed, "but I wonder whether we shall ever get our horses back."

She saw him wince, but he made no answer. Unwillingly her mind turned to Ellidyr. Where was he now? Had she burned him very badly? Suppose…suppose the gwythaints had found him, and even now the cauldron was being dragged back to Annuvin. Dread curled in her gut. She and her companions might be safe, and she'd tasted happiness for a moment, but…Taran was right. Their quest was not ended, and danger still loomed over them all.

She shivered, breath stuttering between her teeth. Taran reached out and took her hand again. His palm was warm, and she thought again of that single spark, as though he were handing it back to her, now that it had done its work. The warmth crept through her tired limbs, and she slept at last, wrapped in its pleasant glow.

Their journey the next morning was indeed easier for the loss of the cauldron. Free of both its malignant influence and the fear of attracting unwanted attention, they made their way with somewhat better spirits. But the cold was bitter, and their pace, on foot, was slow, even through less arduous terrain. Though no one spoke of the impossibility that they would reach Caer Cadarn in time to be of any use to anyone, Eilonwy felt that everyone was thinking it.

It was midday when Taran, scanning the land about, exclaimed aloud, "There are men in the trees! There, on that ridge to the southeast!" They all halted, staring in dread where he pointed, and became instantly aware of the lack of cover. "Quick," Taran ordered, "to that thicket. Run!"

They did so, carving through the dead grasses of an open meadow, but before they had reached it, the sound of galloping hooves beat upon their ears. "Weapons to hand!" Taran panted, drawing his sword; Fflewddur, having belted his at his right side, joined him somewhat awkwardly, muttering maledictions about broken arms. Gurgi knocked an arrow. Eilonwy, weaponless, heart pounding, thought of the flames thrown before Ellidyr. Did she dare it now? Could she do it again?

The warm tingle began in her fingertips and wrists, but before she had need of any words, Fflewddur threw up his sword and waved it excitedly. "Put up your weapons!" he whooped. "We're safe at last! These are Morgant's warriors! They bear the colors of the House of Madoc!"

Taran cried out in relief as the galloping band drew near, with King Morgant himself at its head on a giant black steed. The boy ran forward and dropped to one knee before him.

"Well met, Sire," he cried. "We feared your men were servants of Arawn."

The king swung to the ground in one smooth move. He was a big man, broad and powerfully-built, with the fierce, proud air of a hawk. He put down a hand for Taran, raising him to stand. "But you would have stood against us nonetheless," he said approvingly, glancing over them all.

It was a compliment, but Taran, who might once have stood straighter with pride in it, let it pass unnoticed. "What of Prince Gwydion, of Coll?" he asked. "We were separated at Dark Gate and have had no word of them. Adaon, alas, is slain. And Doli, too, I fear."

"Of the dwarf, there has been no trace," Morgant answered. "Lord Gwydion and Coll Son of Collfrewr are safe. They seek you even now." His dark face broke into a half-smile, one that made Eilonwy strangely uneasy. "Though, it has been my good fortune to find you.

"The Huntsmen of Annuvin pressed us sharply at Dark Gate," Morgant went on. "At last we fought free of them and began to make our way toward Caer Cadarn, where Lord Gwydion hoped you would join us. We had not reached there before we had word of you, and that you had taken it on yourselves to go to the Marshes of Morva. That was a bold venture, Taran of Caer Dallben," Morgant added, "as bold, perhaps, as it was ill-advised. You should learn that a warrior owes obedience to his lord."

Taran looked taken aback, and for all that Eilonwy had said almost the same thing at the time, she flinched in indignation at such criticism from another source. After all they'd been through, to be scolded for insubordination! She glowered, but Taran was already protesting. "It did not seem we could do otherwise. We had to find the Crochan before Arawn. Would you not have done the same?"

Morgant, though his smile had disappeared, nevertheless nodded. "I do not reproach your spirit," he said, "but would have you understand that Lord Gwydion himself would hesitate to make a decision of such weight. We would have known nothing of your movements had not Gwystyl of the Fair Folk brought us news. Lord Gwydion and I separated then to search for you."

Eilonwy's jaw dropped. That sniveling wretch? "Gwystyl?" she blurted out. "Not Gwystyl! Why, he wouldn't have done the least thing for us until Doli threatened to squeeze him! Gwystyl! All he wanted was to be let alone and hide in his wretched burrow!"

Morgant turned his piercing gaze upon her. If he were surprised to see her with the company at all, he made no sign of it, but the guarded approval she sensed from him toward Taran evaporated. To her he was as cold as stone. "You speak without knowledge, Princess," he said. "Among all who hold the way posts, Gwystyl of the Fair Folk is the shrewdest and bravest. Did you believe King Eiddileg would trust a lesser servant so close to Annuvin? But if you misjudged him, it was his intention that you do so."

Confused into silence, she had no time to ponder this revelation; Morgant turned back to Taran and said, "As for the Crochan itself, though you failed to bring it from Morva, Prince Ellidyr has done us noble service."

All exclaimed, and Morgant nodded. "Yes, my warriors came upon him near the River Tevvyn in the course of our search. From his words, I understood that you were drowned and your companions scattered, and that he bore the cauldron from Morva."

Too much, this; she could not bear it, would not. "That's not true!" Eilonwy declared hotly, shoving in front of Taran to face the king.

Taran gripped her arm in alarm. "Be silent!"

She spun around, throwing off his grip. "No, I will not be silent! You aren't going to tell me you still think you're bound by that oath you made us all swear!"

"What does she mean?" Morgant asked. Eilonwy spun again, to see the man eying them both shrewdly.

"I'll tell you what I mean!" she cried, ignoring Taran's sputtering protest. "It's very simple. Ellidyr abandoned the company halfway through the journey. He never came to the Marshes at all!" Her face was hot, as the injustice of it all came rushing back. Oh, it felt good to speak the truth! "Taran paid for the cauldron— paid dearly. And we—the three of us— carried it almost on our backs every step of the way from Morva. Until Ellidyr came along again, and helped us." She swiped furiously at the angry tears that would keep welling to her eyes. "Oh yes, he certainly did that—just the way a robber helps you tidy up your chamber! That's the truth of it, and I don't care what anybody else says!"

Morgant stared hard at Taran. "Does she indeed speak the truth?"

Taran did not answer. He gave her one conflicted glance that tore at her heart, and bowed his head, his mouth a thin line. So, he thought her an oath breaker now? Was she? Was an unjust oath, made under duress, to a man who then betrayed them, any kind of oath worth keeping? His touchy sense of honor would say yes, apparently. She growled in frustration, throwing up her hands and turning away; Fflewddur intercepted her, halting her attempt to stalk away and laying his good arm about her shoulders in approval, murmuring, "Steady on, love."

Morgant was nodding thoughtfully as he continued to stare Taran down. "I believe she does, though you stay silent. There was much of Prince Ellidyr's tale which rang false to me. As I once told you, Taran of Caer Dallben, I am a warrior and I know my men. But when you face Ellidyr himself, I shall know beyond all doubt.

"Come," the king ordered, "we shall ride to my camp. Your task is ended. The Crochan is in my hands."

He made arrangements for them to share mounts, leaving two of his own warriors to return to camp on foot, and they all galloped swiftly into the wood. The camp was not far, and they reached it in a few minutes: a cluster of tents blended into the trees at the edge of a clearing, guarded by a deep ravine. Lluagor and Melynlas were tethered among the horses of Madoc; a little apart, Islimach pawed the ground nervously and pulled at her halter.

Near the center of the clearing stood the Black Crochan, flanked by two warriors with drawn swords. Eilonwy felt her spirit quail at sight of it, at the dark mist of fear and foreboding that hung about it, all the despair and gloom they had battled while it was in their care. Would they have to be around the horrid thing from here on? How could they ever have thought to bear it to Dallben? The very idea of this abomination contaminating the air of Caer Dallben, the good soil of Coll's farm, made her want to retch.

They dismounted and waited for Morgant, who strode toward them. Taran motioned toward the Crochan, and spoke in a voice low with dread. "Do you not fear Arawn will attack you here and gain the cauldron once again?"

Morgant's hooded eyes flashed, as though incensed at the notion that he could fear anything. Eilonwy drew back, alarmed at the sudden rush of dark fury that flowed from him. "Whoever challenges me shall be met," the king said coldly, "be it the Lord of Annuvin himself."

He led them to a pavilion, ushering them inside. Upon the ground lay a man, motionless, bound and battered, his face a mass of blood and bruises. At first, none of them knew him, and Eilonwy cried out in pity and horror at the sight. But in a moment, tattered and singed as it was, they recognized the threadbare raiment of...

"Ellidyr!" Taran exclaimed in shock. "How is this? Sire, your warriors had no right to use him so ill! This is shameful and dishonorable treatment."

The king turned to him, all his former approval melted away into grim and dour authority. "Do you question my conduct, Taran of Caer Dallben? You have much to learn of obedience. My warriors heed my orders and so shall you. Prince Ellidyr dared to resist me. I caution you not to follow his example."

Before anyone could respond to the sudden shift, he called out, and armed guards strode into the tent. Morgant gestured toward the companions. "Disarm them," he ordered, "and bind them fast."