Eilonwy was awake before sunrise. Hood pulled over her face, she could not see the lightening sky, but she heard Taran awaken with a start, and sensed it was near morning. She lay motionless, her thoughts too sluggish and morose to spur her exhausted body to rise.
What did it matter, anyhow? They were lost, their friends gone, and their leader lay beneath stone. What hope they had in haste was gone - what more could the three of them do, to aid this quest? There was nothing for it, now, except go back to Caer Cadarn, as they should have done in the first place - assuming they could get back, assuming Taran even knew in which direction it lay, since she certainly didn't.
Getting there safely would be a feat in itself, and a relief, to be sure, but she felt sick at the thought of conveying their failure to Gwydion and the rest of the company. To return without their friends, without the cauldron - to bring the news of Adaon's death to those who had loved and revered him - and all because Taran couldn't stand to lose face before that self-absorbed ass of a prince! She grit her teeth and turned her face unhappily to the ground, caught in opposing snarls of anger and sympathy. He had, after all, been punished enough for his foolishness, and no doubt was even more conflicted at the thought of returning to Caer Cadarn than she was, knowing the account he would have to give of himself. She must not make it worse by needling him over it.
She heard him rise and walk away, his footfalls slow and dragging, heard him speaking low to the horses, their quiet nickers in response. There was the flapping of blankets and the creaking of leather; he was saddling them, obviously intent on quitting the glade. Her heart sank at the thought of giving up on Doli and Fflewddur, but it made sense enough. If their friends could track them here, so could the Huntsmen, and the likelihood of the latter was probably greater.
She sat up slowly and painfully, and patted Gurgi to wake him. "Morning," she murmured, as his tousled head made an appearance from the folds of his cloak.
Taran was returning, his steps no longer sluggish. "Hurry," he ordered. "We'd better get an early start before the Huntsmen overtake us."
Eilonwy bristled at his tone. "Good morning to you, too." He paused for a moment to look at her, startled, and she was struck by his expression - oppressed and distant, preoccupied, as though a heavy weight lay upon him that took all his concentration to carry, one that left him no room for pleasantries or courtesy. It annoyed her. He needn't assume he was the only one still pained and grieving. "The Huntsmen will find us soon enough," she said flatly. "They're probably as thick as burdock between here and Caer Cadarn."
He was strapping on a quiver of arrows with a frown. "We are going to the Marshes. Not Caer Cadarn."
She stared at him, flabbergasted, and burst out, "What? Are you still thinking about those wretched swamps? Do you seriously think we can find that cauldron, let alone haul it back from wherever it is?"
He looked blank, again as though his mind was in an entirely different space, and said nothing to explain himself, which annoyed her still more. How could he just stand there, still obsessed with this ridiculous quest, and not even try to defend his own stubbornness? "On the other hand," she added bitterly, "I suppose it's the only thing we can do, now that you've got us in this stew. There's no telling what Ellidyr has in mind. If you hadn't made him jealous over a silly horse…"
At Ellidyr's name he finally looked at her, really looked, his face full of strange pain, and she broke off in dismay, biting her own tongue — no, no, this was not what she'd meant to do, to say to him; why was it so hard to…
"I feel…pity for Ellidyr," Taran said, in a low and rather awed mutter, clearly as confused by the statement as she was. "Adaon once told me he saw a black beast on Ellidyr's shoulders. Now I…I understand a little what he meant."
He stood still, and his hand fumbled at his throat, where he wore the brooch Adaon had left to him. His gaze turned inward again, full of an uncertain, solemn thoughtfulness she had never seen in him, and she was quiet for a moment, letting the astonishment of it settle over her, like a wild creature resting, for a moment, in her hands. "I…well," she stammered, "I'm…surprised to hear you say that." He glanced up to meet her eyes and she flushed with shame. "I…I'm sorry. It was kindhearted of you to help Islimach, and I was glad you did. You meant well, and…and that's encouraging in itself." Belin, what was she saying? It wasn't about the horse. It had never been about the horse; she knew that, why did… "It does make a person think there might be some hope for you after all," she finished, in a rush, and immediately wanted to sink into the ground.
Blast! What kind of encouragement was that? He'd been wonderful about Islimach, gentle and sure and humble and compassionate; why couldn't she just say that? Why did it feel so routine, so much safer to provoke him instead of praise him? Not that it mattered; he refused to be provoked, making no answer but moving toward the horses, again with the air of being leagues away in his mind. Eilonwy followed sullenly, undecided about whether she was more irritated with him or herself.
She moved automatically with him to Melynlas before they both hesitated, startled at the realization that there was no longer a need to share a mount. Lluagor stood quietly, her head low, Melynlas nuzzling at her nose in fond concern. Eilonwy swallowed as Taran nodded to her. "You'd best ride her," he said hoarsely, and she nodded, and made her slow way to the mare's side.
It felt strange, and wrong, and she gasped as she clutched the saddle and pulled herself up onto Adaon's horse, gripped the unfamiliar girth tight between her knees. "Gurgi," she called to the creature still standing forlornly upon the ground, "come, ride with me." He scrambled up behind her and she sighed. Somehow, sharing made it better, made her feel less like she was taking what was not rightfully hers.
Taran clucked to Melynlas and turned to look at last upon the barrow they had built, the harebell blossoms glowing like blue stars in the shadows of the boulders. She felt his pain, the farewell weighed in sorrow, guilt, and shame, and knew he would carry it long, and far, a token of remembrance as dark and solid and cold as that bit of iron at his throat. It cut her to the marrow, and she did not try, this time, to will away her resentment as she gazed upon the stones.
You left him quite a heavy load to bear, you know, she thought. It's not that I'm ungrateful you saved his life. But I wonder if it could have been prevented — his pain, and your father's, and your lover's, and all those that cherish you. But now grief is all they've got, and here we are, alone and lost and hunted in the wild…all so you wouldn't worry that you'd made a decision for the wrong reasons.
I hope it was worth it.
Again, guilt pricked her, the goad of an intolerable tug-of-war between grief and anger. But she had cried out all her tears the day before; it was anger that had the edge now, and though sadness still weighed heavy in her chest, her eyes were dry as she turned away and followed Taran from the glade.
They turned south and rode for an hour in silence, and her agitation grew. It wasn't Taran's silence that irked her — it was the distance she still felt from him, a gap he seemed completely unaware of, lost as he was in his own thoughts. She wanted to talk, to throw open the doors of her dark and agonized feelings and let light stream in, bring them out into the open air where they might get shaken and smoothed out. She wanted him to talk, to goad him into telling her what the strange, unsettling looks she kept seeing on his face meant, into explaining the odd mingling of wonder and awareness she sensed from him, so seeming-incongruous with his anxiety. But she knew he would hear nothing of what she might say, and wasted no breath.
On the edge of a ridge he pulled up, raising his face to the wind, and then turned Melynlas abruptly in a different direction without a word. Her frustration, welled up like water behind a dam, spilled over without warning. "Since you're leading us," Eilonwy snapped, "I wonder if it would be too much to expect you to know where you're going."
She regretted it at once, but he seemed not to notice her tone, which made her less sorry than she might have been. "There is water nearby," he said. "We shall need to fill our flasks." He paused and looked momentarily confused. "I…I think…yes, there is a stream, I'm sure of it. We must go there."
Baffled, Eilonwy turned Lluagor and followed. They wandered diagonally, crossing small hills; upon a downward slope the sound of running water reached their ears and they made their way to the bottom of a ravine, where a cold rivulet wound through a stand of rowans.
Taran reined up suddenly with a cry of surprise and she hurried forward to see what had startled him. The sight made her echo his shout; Fflewddur was sitting on a rock in the midst of the stream, dabbling his bare feet in the rushing water.
He looked up at the noise, his face breaking into joyous relief. "Oh!" he called out, springing up and splashing toward them. "Thank goodness! I was afraid…oof!" he exclaimed, as Eilonwy, having flung herself from Lluagor's back, tumbled into his arms the moment he cleared the bank. She breathed him in with a barely-supressed sob, and he embraced her tightly, patting her back. "Steady now," he murmured, "it's been a time, eh? But we're all in one piece." She stood up straight, too stricken to tell him everything, as Taran joined them on the ground. Fflewddur embraced him likewise and went on with forced cheerfulness,"What a stroke of luck, my finding you—or your finding me, rather. I hate to admit it, but I'm lost. Completely. Got turned around somehow after Doli and I began leading the Huntsmen a chase. Tried to make my way back to you and got lost even more."
He peered over their shoulders expectantly. "How is Adaon? I'm glad you managed to…" His voice trailed away as he looked from one of them to the other, at the stark and unspeakable truth written in their faces. "Oh," he said, his entire body drooping, and then "oh," again, softly. His face blanched and his jaw tightened; he swallowed, and his arm around Eilonwy's shoulders squeezed hard. "And you two had to…" he muttered, broke off again, and passed his free hand over his eyes, rubbing at his forehead. "Belin."
They were all silent for long moments. Then Fflewddur stood straight, and shook his head. "There are few like him," he said. "Very few. We can ill afford the loss. Nor the loss of our good old Doli."
"Doli!" Taran cried, in anguish. "Is he also—?"
"No, no," Fflewddur said hurriedly, "or that is…I can't say, really. I'm not sure what happened — all I know is we were galloping at top speed. You should have seen him! He rode like a madman, popping invisible and back again, shouting out insults and egging them on. It drove the Huntsmen mad, racing after him, and if it hadn't been for him they'd have dragged me down for certain. They're stronger than ever now. Then my horse fell."
His harp made a tense, jangling noise, muffled from within its case on his back, and he hastily added, "That is to say I fell off, and the wretched beast streaked away like a shooting star. By that time Doli had led them well away. At the rate he was going…" Fflewddur sighed. "What has befallen him since then, I do not know."
He sat on the ground and began binding up his leggings, pulling on his boots. "Oh," Eilonwy exclaimed in concern, "Fflewddur, your poor feet." They were blistered and swollen - no wonder he'd had them in the frigid water.
The bard chuffed amiably. "Oh, it's nothing. I've been walking for some leagues, but I'm used to that." But he grimaced as he held one boot upside down, dumping several pebbles out.
"No more of that," Taran said. "You must ride Lluagor. Do you mind sharing with me again?" he added, turning to Eilonwy.
Slightly mollified at being asked, she shook her head, and Fflewddur sighed in relief as he swung onto the horse's back. "Where are we headed? Back to Caer Cadarn?"
Taran's face tightened. "No," he said shortly, "we're moving south toward the Marshes."
The bard looked surprised for a moment. "Ah. Well, I…" He hesitated, reflecting soberly, and Eilonwy wondered, with a moment's cautious hope, if he would insist on turning back. But no. "I suppose it's the only course," he said. "I don't know the way back, to be honest, without any landmarks, and a mission is a mission. The trouble is, if we veer too far south, we'll simply end up in the sea and miss the Marshes altogether."
Taran shrugged despondently. "It's all I know to do," he mumbled, mounting Melynlas again. Eilonwy settled behind him, and they were off, in a slow amble, following the meandering brook downstream.
No one spoke, but she did not sense that any of them were particularly alert, though the dangers had not decreased. Rather, a pall of despondency had settled over all, a deadly and despairing exhaustion. Taran was slumped in front of her, his head bowed, and she could tell he made little attempt to guide Melynlas, who seemed to be more or less choosing his own path. She did not have the energy to question it. He would do what he liked in the face of all reason regardless; what did it matter? Even Fflewddur, usually their endless well of bright optimism, sat wearily in the saddle, and when she caught him glancing at them his gaze was full of sadness and worry. He sighed often. Behind him, Gurgi dozed, leaning against his back.
The trees thinned at last, and before them stretched a wide, rolling meadow, thick with tall grass. Taran sat up slowly, and pulled the horse to a gentle stop. He looked about them, and up, at a gray bird circling overhead. It wheeled, glided across their path and then disappeared across the fields. "That was a marsh bird," Taran said, pointing in the direction it had flown. "If we follow its path I think we shall come directly to Morva."
Fflewddur brightened up a bit. "Well done. I must say I never would have noticed it."
"That's at least one clever thing you've done today," Eilonwy grumbled. Fflewddur cast her a reproachful glance and she sighed, prodded once again by shame. But Taran still made no indication of even noticing, much less being upset by her irascibility. He was gazing after the marsh bird with a puzzled frown.
"This is not my doing," he said. "Adaon spoke the truth. His gift is a precious one."
She sensed the shift in him, the wonder. "What gift?"
He turned toward her in the saddle as much as he could, to display the clasp at his throat. "This. His brooch. Ever since I put it on I've felt…different. It's hard to explain, but…" His fist closed over it, hiding it from view as he clutched it. "I had such vivid dreams last night, and I think they came from it. About all of us, and Ellidyr. I saw the black beast Adaon always spoke of. And I saw a stream, and Fflewddur's harp on a boulder in the middle of it. And I saw a meadow - this meadow!"
He spoke quickly, all of it coming out in a rush, a flood. "Don't you see?" he said fervently. "I dreamed about Fflewddur's harp, and we found Fflewddur himself. It wasn't all my idea to go looking for a stream; it just came to me and I knew we would find it. Just now, when I saw the bird—that was in my dream. And there was another dream, a terrible one, with wolves…that's going to happen too, I'm sure of it. Adaon's dreams were always true; he told me of them."
So, this was what he'd been lost in all day! He'd all but ignored her to concentrate on a lot of dreams. His eagerness was palpable, a tremulous, growing excitement over something she could not sense or share, and she stared at the iron clasp with ambivalence. "Dreams are one thing," she said skeptically, "and they can sometimes be meaningful, of course. But Adaon was a wonderful man. You can't tell me it was all because of a piece of iron. I don't care how magical it is. Wearing it won't make you into him, just like that."
"No," Taran answered, "I don't mean that. I think…" He hesitated, his fingers running over the grooves in the clasp reverently. "What I believe is that Adaon understood these things anyway. Even with his clasp, there is much I don't understand. All I know is…I feel different, somehow."
He was sitting straighter, his eyes clearing, brow unfurrowed. "I can see things," he explained, "really see them, in a way I never saw before…or smell, or taste them. I can't say exactly what it is; it's…so strange. And…and awesome, in a way, and very beautiful sometimes." His voice sank to a low murmur as he shook his head. "There are things that I know, and I don't even know how I know them."
He glanced at her then, almost apologetically, as though he knew he could not convey what he meant in a way she could grasp. It caught at her breath; she saw that the gap between them was not his doing but something else, something that held him spellbound, a will o' the wisp only he could follow. The light in his face was beautiful and wondrous, but strange, an alien thing that made her want to reach out and catch hold of him, hold him fast lest it turn him into something else entirely. Her heart pounded in her throat, and she swallowed down something hard.
"Yes," she whispered, "I believe it now. You don't even sound quite like yourself. Adaon's clasp is a priceless gift. It gives you a kind of…wisdom." He was still looking at her, that otherworldly light in his eyes nearly fey, and she grasped at anything that would ground him, keep him there with her in that moment, automatically falling back on a wry note out of habit. "I suppose that's what Assistant Pig-Keepers need more than anything else. "
He blinked, as if startled, seeming at last to see her instead of something beyond, and slowly, wistfully, he smiled, for the first time in days.
