Chapter Two
Gwydion returned her embrace with a gentleness that would have surprised her in a man of his prowess, had she not had previous knowlege of him. Then he held her out at arm's length, and looked her over with eyes whose approval did not quite mask the curious, wistful expression she always caught in them. "Well-met, all of you," he said, glancing at the others, his face breaking into its rare wolf-smile. "Gurgi looks as hungry as ever, Eilonwy prettier than ever...and you, Assistant Pig-Keeper, a little the worse for wear." His green-flecked eyes twinkled. "Dallben has mentioned how you came by those bruises."
Taran threw back his head, defiant even before his idol. "I sought no quarrel."
"But one found you nonetheless," the prince chuckled. "I think that must be the way of it with you, Taran of Caer Dallben. No matter...let me look at you." He grasped the boy by the shoulders and held him out, as he had Eilonwy. "You've grown since last we met. I hope you have gained as much wisdom as height."
Eilonwy snorted. Taran scowled at her and Gwydion laughed, releasing him and clapping him on the shoulder. "We shall see. Now I must make ready for the council."
He strode out into the yard, leaving Eilonwy and Taran gaping at each other before they rushed to be on his heels, reaching the door at the same time. Gurgi, seeing the way blocked, leapt out the way he'd come in. Taran, all manners forgotten, shoved past, jostling Eilonwy against the doorpost. With a strangled noise of outrage, she kicked at him as he stumbled out, but he ignored her in his excitement as he scrambled after Gwydion. "Council?" he panted, "what council? Dallben said nothing of a council."
"Dallben hasn't been saying much of anything to anybody," Eilonwy added, as Gwydion paused in his stride.
"You should understand by now that of what he knows, Dallben speaks little," he said. "Even in as short a time as you've known him, I think. But yes, there is to be a council. I have summoned others to meet us here."
Taran was almost bouncing on his toes, his excitement so palpable she thought she could see it with her eyes shut. "I am old enough to sit in a council of men!" he burst out eagerly. "I have learned much; I have fought at your side; I -"
Gwydion laid a hand on his arm. "Gently, gently. We have agreed you shall have a place. Though manhood may not be all that you believe." He hesitated, gazing at the boy; Eilonwy felt a sudden wave of inexplicable sadness roll over him. She blinked, but it was gone, and he was clapping Taran on the shoulders once more. "Stand ready. Your task will be given soon enough."
He strode off, Taran staring after him as though he'd just been handed the royal treasury. He spun toward her, his face aglow. "Did you hear that? I'm to sit at the council! They've a task for me!"
"It's—" she began, falteringly, and stopped in confusion, for the impulse to be happy in response to his joy was warring with something...something she could not name, that was settling hollow and heavy in her chest. She stared at Taran; his glowing eyes were looking past her, through her, and she realized he might as well be leagues away, shouting his triumph to anyone who would listen. "It's wonderful," she finally managed. He seemed not to notice the flatness of her voice.
"So this is what they've been planning! I wonder what it's about. And who else might be coming!" He was pacing, Gurgi following him adoringly while she stood still, pensive, watching them. "He said he's invited others. It must be something tremendous! What do you think it could be?"
"I can't imagine," she said dully, knowing he wasn't listening, "but I hope it's done soon." His enthusiasm was beginning to annoy her; in fact, she felt she was about to lose her temper completely. Drat councils and Gwydion and everyone else, coming in and upsetting everything. "I've...got work to do," she muttered, almost to herself, and was not surprised when he waved a vague hand with an "mmph" of acknowledgement as she backed away toward the cottage. Her eyes felt hot and prickly when she reached the scullery and plunked herself down before her pile of pots. She took a breath and held it to keep it from coming out as a sob, tossing a handful of clean sand into an empty cauldron and scrubbing with unnecessary vigor.
She'd had to get away from him just to think, but the only thought that she could muster seemed to be not fair. Not just the unfairness of not being invited - not even being considered - to take part in the council. She'd known, even without asking, that she'd been excluded not from deliberate slight but because none had thought to include her in the first place, though she had as much experience as Taran, and more, in dabbling in dangerous matters. This was what came of being a girl. It was easy to ignore at Caer Dallben, most of the time, where everyone worked as equals and only Dallben made occasional disgruntled noises about young ladies wearing leggings and being taught to handle weapons. Even he conceded the practicality of Coll's argument that Taran needed someone of his own age and energy level to spar with, and that it was no harm for a girl to be able to defend herself, whatever. But Eilonwy had spent enough time at Caer Dathyl to know it was not How Things Were Done in the rest of the country, barring the legends of her own ancestral home - which wasn't, in point of fact, part of Prydain - and would not have expected to be included in a council of men, or wasted time arguing over her exclusion, however silly she thought it.
A tear dropped down her nose, spotting the iron, and she scoured it away angrily. Crying, yes, so very helpful just now. The scullery was not the place for a good cry - save that for the loft, where nobody would see or interrupt - and anyway what on earth was she crying about? Because a lot of men were about to have a council? Rubbish. Because Taran was sitting in on it? Also rubbish. What did she care what he did? Probably they'd just set him to oiling everyone's boots while they discussed Important Matters, and he'd come stomping back to her, his pride in his pocket, and sit and sulk for a while...and then everything would be as it was again.
As it was. Eilonwy paused in her scrubbing. The real unfairness was that this world she loved, this peaceful circle of home and hearth and harvest, could be so summarily interrupted and turned topsy-turvy without so much as a by-your-leave...and that aggravating boy not only did not mind this but welcomed it. How could he be so elated at the prospect of danger? For danger there would be...Gwydion's grave demeanor, behind his affectionate greeting, promised it.
She sighed. It was more of Taran's restlessness, his yearning for something greater than gardening and bathing pigs. She wished she could shake enough sense into him to realize how lucky he was to live here. He had seemed to begin to understand it, a little, when she'd first met him - admitting to her, several times over their journey, that he wished he were back home, hoeing turnips, instead of marching through the woods pursued by undead creatures. And he had seemed happy enough, in the months since, despite his occasional grumblings. But now here he was, jumping at the first chance of something else. Caer Dallben still wasn't enough for him. Not even with...
Well, never mind.
More tears, thumping to the stone floor. She sniffed, angry at herself. You're being ridiculous. You don't even know what this council is all about. It could be something worth disrupting everything for. She stared into space. Gwydion wouldn't call a council at Caer Dallben for anything other than dire import. That could mean many things, but it almost certainly involved a threat to the state. Arawn, most likely, but...but suppose...Achren...
A chill swept over her, heart pounding in her ears; she leaned her forehead against the cold iron pot, sucking in air to quell a sudden wave of nausea; the same sensation that woke her up, terrified and soaked in sweat on moonless nights. She shut her eyes, whispering the words Dallben had taught her, soft, long-voweled sounds that soothed the spirit and quieted the mind; less magic, he said, than simple meditation. Dallben rarely advocated magic when something mundane would do, and her specific talents were bent more toward conflict than calm, anyway.
The scullery seemed too small, suddenly, airless and cramped, and Eilonwy shook the sand out of the pot, stood it on its shelf, and stepped out into the yard with a deep breath of the crisp, smoky air. Pushing the thought of Achren from her mind, she turned toward the orchard and scuffed through the fallen leaves, crunching them satisfyingly under her boots, admiring their fiery hues burning against the still-green turf.
At the far edge of the orchard she paused in surprise; the stubble barley field was covered in dozens of armed men pitching tents. Horses, hitched to picket pins, mouthed the cut straw. Campfires were being kindled, and banners unfurled...a bear, a dragon, a boar.
In spite of her misgivings she felt a quickening, a mingling excitement and ambivalence. Here was something; Gwydion had, indeed, invited "others" to this council; she twitched her mouth at his customary understatement. Whatever it was all about, it was nothing small. And Taran wasn't going to be oiling any boots.
Curiosity pricked at her, drove her back through the orchard and toward the cottage; the yard was milling now with several figures; Gwydion she saw, speaking with two strangers; Taran was crossing from the stables in the company of...of...
Eilonwy shrieked, breaking into a run toward them. The tall, lanky figure at Taran's left looked up, his face alight in a broad grin as he spread his arms wide. She flung herself at him and he spun her around, laughing his merry, musical laugh, his harp jangling upon his back. When he set her back on her feet, breathless, her agitation was, for the moment, forgotten. "Fflewddur," she gasped, "oh, Fflewddur, it's you."
"A Fflam in the flesh." He took her hands and held them out as though he were going to dance her about the yard, but merely stared at her and grinned. "Great Belin, look at you, love. If it were known at large that Coll grew such pretty things in his garden, you'd all never know a minute's peace here." He winked rakishly. "I don't need to ask if farm life suits you; I can see it plainly."
"Flatterer," she retorted, blushing, not so much at his compliments as at the fact that Taran was standing at his shoulder, listening to them with an embarrassed expression that suggested he didn't know whether to agree or not. "Should I ask whether kingship or barding suits you lately?"
"Ah." He dropped her hands and gestured toward the cottage. "Well, that's what this council will decide. I've been invited in some capacity, so it remains to be seen whether Gwydion wants a sire or a singer." He leaned toward her with a conspiratorial air. "But between you and me, I'd prefer the latter."
A cough from behind him drew her attention, and she looked around and down in surprise, noticing for the first time the leather cap that hovered behind Fflewddur's elbow, the tufts of red hair and grumpy expression beneath it. "Doli!" She resisted an urge to drop to her knees to look him in the face.
The stocky dwarf bowed, his red eyes twinkling. "Well met again, Princess. I'll forgive you for overlooking me, seeing how hard it is for anyone to see past this spectacle when he's performing." He jerked his head at the bard, who masked his grin in an expression of mock offense.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Fflewddur retorted. "It's hardly my fault you can't get used to being invisible, old boy."
"Humph!" Doli growled, so like her memories that she laughed out loud again.
"Oh, it's good to see you both!", she sighed, taking Fflewddur's arm as they continued toward the cottage. "I wish we'd known you were coming."
"I take it you're both as in the dark as we are over what it's all about," Fflewddur remarked. "Gwydion didn't even tell me it was a council - just suggested a visit to Caer Dallben was in order. He's keeping this one close."
Coll had dragged the big table and several kegs out into the front garden, and Gurgi, always eager to be helpful, was laying out platters and mugs; strange men by twos and threes were gathering there for refreshment. Eilonwy cast Taran a meaningful look. "We'd better help."
Taran hesitated a moment, clearly reluctant to leave the company of their friends, but nodded, and accompanied her to the cottage. "You should see the sort that are here," he murmured. "All camped out in the grain field - war bands."
"I saw them." Eilonwy stacked loaves of bread in his arms. "Here, take these out. I'll serve the pottage."
He shifted from one foot to the other, balking. "I'm part of this council! I don't want to be seen...I mean..."
He trailed off, seeing her frown. She'd already picked up a ladle and pointed out the door with it to keep from smacking him over the head. "So is Coll, unless I'm much mistaken! If Coll son of Collfrewr, the savior of Hen Wen, can serve princes with his own two warrior hands I expect it's no dishonor for an Assistant Pig-Keeper to do it. Now move."
Taran moved, without much enthusiasm, and she turned to the hearth, where a stack of wooden bowls lay waiting. Coll bustled in. "Good lass," he clucked, with obvious relief, when he saw her ladling out the pottage. "They'll eat for half an hour yet before Dallben wants everyone. Make sure you get a bite before it's all gone."
"Think there'll be enough?" Her stomach was growling at the smell of the roast rabbit as he took up the spits. "There must be a hundred here."
"Most brought their own," Coll said, heaping the meat upon a wooden platter and grabbing the saltcellar. "The bands are cooking out in their camps. It's just the leaders here now, and Smoit not arrived yet, there's a mercy." He hurried away, his bald head gleaming.
Taran returned, Gurgi on his heels, and both began taking up the steaming bowls to carry them out. On his fifth or sixth trip in the boy was glowing. "You must come meet this man," he told her eagerly. "Adaon, the son of Taliesin. Fflewddur says he's the bravest warrior and the most promising future bard in the whole country. He's telling a story now - you should hear him."
"I'd love to," Eilonwy answered tartly, "when I can set foot out of this room for half a minute. Here wait, take the cheese out, and the apples. Is everyone served yet?"
"All but that Pen-Llarcau fellow." Taran scowled, his dark brows beetling together, a little flush of anger coloring his face as she piled more food into his arms. "He's off under the trees, eating his own provisions. Too good for the rest of us, I suppose. I'm not going to invite him in."
"I can't blame you there." She filled bowls for herself and Taran and balanced hunks of bread on top of each. "Come on. Coll said to make sure we fed ourselves, so might as well take the chance where we can."
Outside the sunlight was dazzling after the dim kitchen. A dozen or so men were gathered about the big table, seated on stumps or upon the low stone fence that surrounded the yard; they were conversing jovially, for the most part, the mood one of gaiety at meeting old friends and companions. Gwydion looked serious as always, and a large, dark fellow near him was eating in silence, a little apart.
Taran led her to a small group that included Fflewddur and, for a group of that inclusion, was unusually quiet. As they approached she realized it was because everyone in it was attending raptly to one figure who was speaking - or perhaps, chanting? -something halfway between poetry and prose, the cadence of his voice turning ordinary words into almost-music. Eilonwy had heard enough of the bardic style in Caer Dathyl to recognize a recitation, and hurried to find a place to sit where she could hear him better, but it seemed too late; just as she stepped up, the speaker fell silent, and his listeners broke out into exclamations of admiration, a few of them clapping their hands and stomping the ground as expressions of praise.
Fflewddur, noticing her, rose quickly from his stump and motioned for her to take his place. The other men stood as well as he took her hand and pulled her into their circle, announcing grandly, "the Princess Eilonwy." She flushed, embarrassed, as they all inclined at the waist and murmured greetings. She had never gotten quite used to court manners, and though there was something pleasant about the tokens of respect afforded ladies and rank, it seemed a bit silly and out-of-place here, in this place where she regularly scoured pots and shoveled manure. She noticed Taran, standing outside the ring, looking bemused and a little wistful at the proceedings, and felt some strange, indefinable thing twist at her insides.
Fflewddur gestured toward the man who had been speaking and presented him by name; the Adaon Taran had mentioned. He was a young man, she saw, younger than Fflewddur though older than Taran; in his early twenties, perhaps, tall and well-proportioned. Straight black hair fell to his shoulders, framing a finely-shaped, handsome face. He bowed to her with the noble bearing of one raised among royalty, and as he rose she caught her breath at the strange brilliance of his grey eyes.
"Well met, my lady." Adaon extended a hand to help her sit, the careless poise with which he did so arresting her from her usual habit of plunking down like a sack of turnips. She sank as gracefully as she could manage to Fflewddur's vacated stump, rather bedazzled by the smile the young man cast from her to the bard and back again. "Your name I know also, thanks to our gallant friend's excellent tales."
Fflewddur attempted to look modest and failed, as she grinned at him. "I wonder," Eilonwy remarked, "how many of his accounts of me are quite accurate."
"They are entirely and precisely accurate, as you well know I'm not allowed poetic license," the bard sniffed, and then smiled at her, his gold-hazel eyes twinkling. "But in a few special cases, the facts are quite impressive enough on their own."
"You're in rare form," she said, and Adaon laughed.
"Indeed. I must learn the art of compliments from this master," he said. "How is it such a silver-tongued rogue remains unattached?"
Eilonwy and Taran both looked at Fflewddur with interest, for this was a question they had pondered together, but the bard deflected, with a rueful, self-deprecating grimace. "Men resort to flattery when they've little else to offer," he said, "which is why you have no need of it. Speaking of which, how fares sweet Arianllyn?"
Ears pricking, Eilonwy returned her attention to Adaon, who was setting his mug down with a wistful smile. "She is well. Disappointed, a little, that I am taking part in this quest. We had hoped to be wed before winter, but it seems unlikely now."
So he was betrothed. Eilonwy, feeling unaccustomedly shy, covered her silence by eating, listening to Fflewddur banter, and wondering what sort of woman had captured this man's heart. She had seen a few of the young ladies who populated Caer Dathyl, from a distance, and not cared for them overmuch. They talked of nothing but young men. Adaon...handsome, well-spoken, warrior, and bardic son of Taliesin to boot, probably had every faint, tittering creature in the castle ready to throw herself at his feet.
A clang from the bell at the cottage door drew their attention. Coll was there, shouting for all to assemble inside; it was time for the council. Taran was on his feet in a moment, dropping his bowl on the ground and heading for the cottage without a backward glance. Eilonwy looked at his fallen implements with annoyance, guessing who would be expected to do the washing-up now that they were all going in. Fflewddur cast her a sympathetic look as he rose. "Dirty business," he grunted. "Leave it all, and we'll help you after the council's over."
She shook her head. "No. I might as well have something to do. Gurgi can...help," she finished, seeing that Gurgi, in his way, was already helping clean the dregs from the fallen bowl. He had sat quietly and eaten from his own platter throughout the repast, which must have been a terrible test of his will, and she giggled, watching his amber eyes glazing over above the rim of bowl.
"Yes, yes," he said dreamily, licking his lips with a long pink tongue. "Gurgi will help wise princess with pickings and stackings, washings and sloshings. He will be good." Eyes gleaming, he trotted to the table, where the departing warriors had left the scattered remnants of their meals.
Adaon and Fflewddur took leave of her - Adaon with another bow, while Fflewddur only smirked - and Eilonwy sat, watching them all pile into the house until she wondered it didn't burst at the seams. The last to go in was a giant of a man with a flaming red beard who rode up just as Gwydion was heading inside; he dismounted and flung himself roaring at the Prince of Don like an attacking bear. Startled, she sprang up, but Gwydion was clapping the bear on the back, apparently unfazed, and the roaring seemed to be words, though she could not quite make out what they were. This imposing personage squeezed through the door and it shut behind him.
Peace fell suddenly upon the yard, broken only by the low brrrcchhth-tuk-tuk of chickens come to seek out the crumbs of their feast, and the whispering of dry leaves in the orchard. Eilonwy sighed, stretched, and looked around at the scattered remnants.
Well. It wouldn't clean itself.
