"Princess Eilonwy, something quite serious has happened, and I am afraid your presence will be required to resolve it. You must accompany me immediately."
As he approached the girl in the corridor, the dim light of early morning was just peeking through the gratings. Magg spoke the words using his most imperious tone and manner, expecting the girl to be both impressed and cowed, and to immediately submit to his wishes. Instead, she threw back her head and stared him full in the face with an intelligence and awareness—almost a radiance— that shriveled him inside, shrinking him down into the coward that lurked deep within. It angered him in a way—all his life he had served those whom he saw as his inferiors, but somehow those people could command others respect and loyalty, while he often drew laughter, insults, and derision, in spite of his clearly superior skills and abilities. It wasn't just, that his worth was so undervalued. Facing the girl before him, though... he could only think of Achren—she was the only other woman he could recall who projected such confidence and power... although hers seemed to be quite of a different nature. To add, the princess was a beauty. A stunning beauty—but perhaps a bit young for him, he thought. Just a bit, but he could make an exception if necessary.
"Oh really!" she said, with more than just a trace of sarcasm. Eilonwy was dressed in a practical leather-laced shift, her colorful tresses pulled back and tied, with leggings and leather boots. Well dressed for the purposes of the day, Magg thought. It was not nearly the finery she had worn to Rhuddlum's feast the previous evening, but the quality of the cut, dictated by Queen Teleria, still pronounced her immediately as royal. "At once, of course! Actually, I have been dying to see more of Mona than this castle. Where are we going?"
"The incident requiring your attention has occurred just north of Dinas Rhydnant," he spoke again with a brusque, impatient confidence he did not feel, hoping to project authority while inwardly struggling to regain his composure. "I have a horse saddled and ready for you. It is best we do not speak more of this matter now, but please do follow me."
Very much to his surprise, she did so without further argument—he had thought this would be the most difficult part of the entire operation. In only a brief moment they were out of the castle and into the courtyard, and he strode quickly to the horses he had left tethered in the shadows near the north gate. He rapidly mounted, as did she, and she wordlessly fell in behind him as they galloped in tandem out of the portal.
As he took a last glance toward the stables, he noted the spiky yellow head of the bard, looking at the two of them in open mouthed astonishment—and he cursed himself for not having run the pretentious fool off sooner. He had not really expected to depart totally unseen, but had hoped for it, nonetheless.
He rode swiftly toward the Hills of Parys, north of the castle, with the princess cheerfully and easily keeping pace behind him. Things were going almost too well, he thought to himself. Was the girl completely sound in her mind? He wondered, for a moment, what Achren might hope to gain from such an addled young spitfire. Surely though, she knew what she was about.
After a short ride, they entered a thick and deserted stretch of forest at the base of the cool green hills, where Magg pulled up quickly and dismounted. Eilonwy halted her mount behind him. "Why are we stopping here?" she asked, and then looked about herself for the first time with a bit of apprehension. Just as Magg thought she might finally come to her senses and bolt from him, he was able to grasp the bridle of the horse with one hand and yanked her from the saddle with the other. The agile girl found her feet and promptly slapped him full in the face, and his head throbbed, his ear ringing like a bell as he cursed, but then he roughly spun her about, and threw her to the ground. He put his knee into the small of her slender back and pulled a leather thong from his cloak. All the while, she screamed and returned his curses with enthusiasm, using ancient words he had heard Achren mutter when angry—which seemed to be often. He knew from his previous scouting of the area that there was no one close enough to hear, but he still feared the girl's cries could be heard all the way back to Dinas Rhydnant. Eilonwy clawed at him with surprising strength until his own fingers bled, but finally he managed to get the girl's wrists tied together. Reaching again into a pocket of his cloak, he pulled out a cloth gag, pushed it over her head onto her face, and with considerable effort, wrestled it into her mouth and tied it behind. The words were now muffled, but no less furious, and the stream of curses continued with disgust and hatred.
Magg gathered up the horses, which fortunately had not wandered far. He pulled Eilonwy to her feet, and hauled her back into her saddle. "There now, your grace," he said sarcastically, his hands still smarting and his ear still ringing. "Treat me with a modicum of respect, and I will return the favor. We have a bit more of a ride, and then you may rest throughout the remainder of the day... that is, if you behave."
Holding her mount's reins in one hand, Magg proceeded further up into the hills, under overhanging willows and oaks, following the path he had carefully marked days earlier. After an hour, near the crest of one of peaks, he reached his destination. Tying the horses under a dense patch of trees next to a trickle of stream, he momentarily plunged his hands into the cold water to wash off the blood, and numb the pain of the scratches. He then pulled Eilonwy down from her saddle, and marched her over to a patch of bare cliff just under the summit. There the crack of a deep grotto led into the mountainside. Eilonwy balked before entering, and so he shoved her in the back, forcing the princess to stumble forward. "That's better, your highness," he said in a voice that he hoped was soothing. It is quite cool and damp inside, but I thought to bring you a warm cloak. You have nothing to fear from me – as long as you follow my orders. Achren wants you undamaged—if possible—although for what, I am not quite clear. I only know that it will bring the Queen and I closer to our ultimate goals." His lips twisted into a thin smile in the twilight of the cave.
In his own mind Magg saw Achren's eyes turning from ice blue to azure flame when she saw the prize that he, Magg, had won for her. He had gathered that Eilonwy contained some kind of latent enchantment, which Achren hoped to use to augment her own powers. She would again rule Prydain, she had told him at Caer Colur on one of the many nights he had spent there, scheming with her at the ancient table in the Great Hall, still impressive despite the general disrepair and disarray of the castle. Her enemies, the Sons of Don, even Arawn, would be cast down. She would once again wear the Iron Crown... but her friends, those who aided her on the path back to her rightful place—they would be rewarded beyond their wildest dreams.
She would need a consort, he had thought then... and certainly her seductive smiles had done nothing to dissuade him of the notion. He longed for the day when she would recognize his true worth, and see him as he saw himself: as an equal... as a man, and not just a servant. A handsome and desirable man. He imagined caressing that silver hair, and running his hands over soft pale skin, exploring the delectable, ageless curves beneath her gown. Unconsciously, he licked his lips at the thought.
In the near darkness, Eilonwy's eyes grew wide. Achren! She had hoped never to see her again, and her mind reeled. She recalled the hard crystalline eyes, the cruel lips over sharp white teeth, as she would regard her appraisingly, her flawless skin and features just barely hiding the ferocity and cruelty that lurked just beneath the surface. Whatever awaited her, it was worse than anything this worm could dream up. She thought of Magg's words, and the look on his face as he had said them. Did he imagine that Achren would ever consider him as anything more than a tool to achieve her own ends? If he did, he was an even bigger fool than she already thought.
Certainly most of her rational mind regretted her decision to leave Dinas Rhydnant with Magg, but for some reason, part of it did not. There were answers to be found, a trail to be followed. Something was afoot that must be played through to the end; she felt it deep inside. She had known from the start that Magg was up to something, when he approached her like a storm cloud looming in the corridor. His eyes had shone with avarice, and something bordering on insanity. No sensible person would have followed him, she thought now... but she had been compelled by something—some memory or instinct, perhaps. Something had urged her to play his game for the time being. However, the harsh realities of the kidnapping had never quite occurred to her. She regretted her parting words to Taran, and wished she had shown more sympathy to his obvious fear for her safety. He had known more than he told her.
In her mind she saw Taran—eyes flaming with some deep longing, some buried question that as yet remained unasked—and now wondered if she would see those eyes again. He would be searching, and he would find her. She knew he would, as surely as she knew how to draw a sword from its sheath. She must not depend on that though, but must also take care of herself. Somehow or other, this was a game that must be played. So she would play, and keep her mind and her courage intact. She hoped.
The small ship dashed gamely into the waves, as Iestin, son of Ianto, manned the tiller. He was a man of middle age, with short-cropped salt and pepper hair, and a weathered face permanently darkened by the sun, like Gwydion's own. The Briallen was a fine working vessel, a bit larger—if not quite as refined—as Melyngar had been, but her captain could still easily handle her himself, as he normally did when plying his trade as a fisherman. In the center of the vessel, a rowboat was strapped down on the worn deck, which Iestin had explained he used when casting nets in many of the small coves that adorned the rocky coast of Mona like sparkling blue scallops.
Gwydion, still dressed in the garb of the Shoemaker, although now once again with Dyrnwyn girded at his side, stood at the prow.
The previous day the ship and company had arrived from Caer Dallben, and that evening while they attended King Rhuddlum's welcoming feast in their honor, Gwydion had made his way down to the harbor. As he had wandered, by all appearances just an old man on a stroll before bed, he had met Iestin, mending his nets on the pier for the next day's fishing.
Gwydion greeted him, and introduced himself as Gruffydd. He seated himself on a bench next to him as they traded old tales and jokes and began to strike up a conversation. Soon, Gwydion's deft fingers, which had long ago learned the craft of weaving, were finding tears in the nets, and mending them as rapidly as the fisherman himself.
Finally, Gwydion mentioned having previously seen a ship anchored far out of the harbor, with a single blinking lantern, that seemed to be signaling to someone on shore.
"Aye," Iestin had said. "That ship, lately it has become quite the subject of conjecture and curiosity. It has been appearing off the harbor on a regular basis since last week. Of the others who have seen it, one—old Cymro, who has more curiosity than good sense—has even tracked her, to see what she is about. He says he saw a fine woman at her prow, with long flying silver hair shining in the moonlight. Cymro says the ship is plying the coastline between here and the northeast part of the island, where Caer Colur, the ancient seat of the House of Llyr, stands a lonely vigil and does battle against the waves. The magic that seals its gates must be strong, for it to still be there at all, all these years after Llyr itself sank beneath the sea. I have sailed there myself a few times, and I am convinced that only by a supernatural force could that castle still be standing. But stand it does... and as Cymro tells it, he claims he has seen the ship anchored outside her half-submerged seaward gates, and also a few lights flickering in the old castle at night. No one from Mona would dare do such a thing – too superstitious, and fearful of the power of the Daughters of Llyr... even if they are all dead—except of course, for that tender young princess Rhuddlum is entertaining, or so the wagging tongues say. So we wonder: who would have the audacity to enter that place? Some claim to remember the time years ago, right before the cataclysm happened... they claim that old Queen Achren herself took ship to the island, and consorted with Queen Regat and her kin, while secretly working with Arawn to overthrow the power of Llyr, which they both feared."
Gwydion had looked at the fisherman with astonishment... the tale was very close to what he believed to be the truth, based on every scrap of intelligence he had been able to gather since the fall of Llyr, and Angharad's disappearance. "Indeed? What an amazing tale," he had said. Inwardly he had remarked to himself never to underestimate the wisdom and intuition of denizens of the sea; he had seen more than one example recently.
Later in the evening, he had tarried near the harbor, looking for the signal–and still later had encountered Taran of Caer Dallben after he had tracked down Magg over the seawall at the north end. Together, they had confirmed it was he who signaling the anchored vessel at sea, and who was a traitor to his king.
Still, he had urged patience to young Taran, and had chosen to wait before acting. He had hoped to learn more of Achren's plan, but he cursed himself for that decision now. He had chosen to use Eilonwy as bait for a trap, thinking he was still a step ahead of his adversaries—but Magg had proved resourceful, and had moved much faster than he had expected. Eilonwy was now in danger, because of his ineptness and inaction. Not physical danger—he did not for a moment believe that Achren hunted her merely for vengeance. She had some other purpose in mind— but if anything happened to the daughter of Angharad, he would never forgive himself.
The next morning he had risen in the stables to the sound of the commotion starting in the Castle over the Princess's disappearance. As soon as he had heard the news from a stable boy, fear and misgiving had risen inside his chest, and he immediately returned to the village. There, he had retrieved his sword from the old shed and musty hay where had had hidden it, and strode back to the harbor before he could be caught in the general press—the royal court and servants were buzzing like a hornet's nest after a stone had been thrown, as they began the search.
He was not certain where Magg had taken her, but it seemed as likely as anything that she and Eilonwy were aboard the mysterious vessel. Achren could be headed for another shore altogether; he had learned much of her travels outside of Prydain—but he remembered Iestin's words the previous evening.
The fisherman himself was already there in the harbor, preparing his vessel and checking his supplies before departing for the day.
"Ah, the shoemaker now carries a sword, I see," Iestin said, with no real hint of surprise, his quick brown eyes appraising Gwydion with new interest. "I don't know of course, but perhaps that is related to the disappearance of the young princess this morning? Yes, news travels fast on an island, my friend. Also, I have seen many an old man, and you played one well... but most people see what they expect to see, and not what is actually before them. My own old mam taught me that."
The fisherman continued to rise in his estimation, and Gwydion smiled, thinking of how Captain Dylan had similarly seen through his previous disguise. Now though, he had little time to bandy words. "I seek passage to the northeast of the island without delay. I can pay you well – much more than you can make from a week's fishing."
"Indeed?" Iestin had said, as if he had risen that morning expecting this very offer and anticipating this very opportunity, without bothering to ask a sum. "Let us be off then, my friend," he had said with a wink.
Without another word, he had tossed aside his great net, and from his pier locker pulled a rusty curved short sword, and a great bow and quiver full of long arrows. "We may be in need of these, if the rumors I have heard of what is happening in the north are true."
Gwydion had pushed Briallen away from the dock, and in only a few moments, they were off. In short order, they had cleared the harbor and were sailing north along the coast in the clear morning sunlight. They could only be an hour or two behind Achren's ship, he reasoned. Perhaps there was still time to right this; to undo his own folly and wrest Eilonwy from the danger that faced her.
On any other morning, the beauty of the sun glinting on the sea, lighting up the impossibly white foam flying from the tops of the breakers along the coast, while the soft green Hills of Parys slid off to their right in the distance, would be cause for inescapable good cheer. Today, the warm air could not ward off the chill and fear that consumed him. What was his plan?
The Hills of Parys blurred in his mind's eye into the similar rolling hills of Llyr, and his mind wandered back to something that Princess Angharad had told him long ago, on a blissful day when they had been wandering those hills together. She had told him of a ceremony that happened when a daughter of Llyr had reached full womanhood—indeed, a ceremony that must happen, if the young princess was take her place among the enchantresses of Llyr. If it did not happen, exactly at the appointed time in the young girl's life, she would never be able to fully develop her powers, and could never ascend to the throne.
The ceremony involved two ancient talismans... one he knew to be in Eilonwy's possession, or it had been. The other had been lost without a trace ever since Princess Angharad disappeared.
Suddenly, he thought again of the old outpost of Llyr, the ransacked fort on the island of Lluned, Caer Dyfi. Achren had been there, he knew now, and she had been searching desperately for something. Had she possibly found it?
Although he did not formerly re-introduce himself, Gwydion had given up all pretense of hiding his identity from Iestin—the man was clearly too astute to fall for any further subterfuge. Neither though, could he reveal everything about his mission to him—that could only result in further danger for everyone involved. Iestin, for his own part, seemed to sense what Gwydion could not say, and also his alarm and discomfort. He cleverly turned the conversation to other avenues, that passed the time and lightened the atmosphere, allowing both men to ask and answer questions without either revealing more than he wished.
"So, there is a betrothal in the wind, I hear," Iestin said, and Gwydion started at that, and grimaced slightly before he could regain his composure. "Assuming that young lady is found, of course. Last of her line, isn't she? I remember her mother and grandmother well, from when they would visit Dinas Rhydnant on occasion all those years ago. You don't need to scowl so... I know the son of Rhuddlum seems a feckless fool, and perhaps he is, at this age. He has a good heart though—like his mother and father. They are all decent folk, and kind, and there is always more to them than you might expect at first. All in all, I think we are quite lucky, here on Mona. We could have done much worse."
By late morning, the Briallen was nearing the northern tip of the island. The current pushed down along the coast, spitefully pushing against the little vessel, as if defying it to go further. The shoreline became even rockier, with large white boulders like dragon's teeth forbidding a closer approach to the shore, and a barren finger of stone with high grey cliffs jutted out ahead from the shore, forming a natural seawall.
"Rougher than normal here," Iestin muttered. "We call this tide the hand of the Daughters of Llyr... according to the stories, they could slow ships at sea, or cause them to sail faster, as they wished."
Gwydion smiled grimly —again, he knew the story to be true, and from his own experience. Then, his attention was suddenly drawn north. At the western end of the natural barrier a sail had emerged, bearing a strange but familiar symbol, and soon the ship itself was visible.
It was Achren's ship, but somehow, he immediately sensed that neither she, nor Eilonwy, were on board.
"Aaaach! Iestin burst out, as he heaved to. "They reversed course to cover their tracks... probably figured they might be followed, if their morning's work was what we think. For sure they've been to Caer Colur already though—it's not much further—and delivered their passengers, whoever they were."
The Briallen sailed with all the speed Iestin could muster back to the south, but it was not enough. The larger ship bore down upon them, and before long Gwydion could see warriors lining the edges of her deck, and hear their cries.
Soon, arrows were striking the sea around them like angry flying fish, and a few even struck Briallen's hull and pierced her sail.
Gwydion picked up the great bow and quiver of arrows that Iestin had stowed forward. He drew and anchored an arrow to a spot at the angle of his jaw, just as his master-at-arms had taught him when he was a boy, many long years ago. He looked for a target, held his breath for a brief moment, and released. He heard a scream from the ship, and one of the warriors on the forward deck tumbled into the sea.
The curses and yells from the vessel increased in volume, and her sails luffed as the helm momentarily drifted free. It seemed that Briallen would begin to pull away, but then an authoritative voice barked orders, the sails again tightened, and the pursuit commenced. Soon, arrows were again flying all about them, and Gwydion returned the aerial onslaught as rapidly as he was able.
A thud, and then a grunt from Iestin, drew his attention, and the Briallen's own sail went slack as Iestin's hand fell from her tiller. An arrow had struck him in the back of the thigh.
Gwydion quickly dropped the bow, moved to Iestin's place, and took the tiller. The fisherman grunted again as he grasped the arrow and pulled.
Through the storm of arrows Gwydion guided the ship toward the surf, and the forbidding saw-toothed rocks that lined it. The arrows became less frequent, as the distance between the vessels increased. Gwydion steered left and right skillfully, just missing a few of the barely submerged boulders, and finally leaped from the craft, pulling it to the safety of the shore.
Iestin had managed to pull the arrow from his leg, and he wrapped a white cloth around it, already turning bright red from his blood. "Ah! That was deftly done, my lord," he said with real admiration. His voice showed a bit of strain from his trauma, but had lost none of its cheer and vitality. "You have had a turn or two with a sailing vessel, that is for certain. It seems we have another problem though," he said, gesturing out to sea.
The ship had dropped anchor, and a smaller landing craft had been lowered into the sea from her deck. Soon, a company of nine warriors was rowing toward the shore. Gwydion watched their advance, as he re-wrapped Iestin's wound with a fresh cloth.
"You should leave me and head inland," Iestin said, looking Gwydion in the eye. "I can hold them off with the bow, while you make your escape."
"Nonsense," Gwydion said, as he tied off the bandage. "Thank you for the offer–and for your courage, but we will make our stand here together."
Soon, the band from the ship had made land, perhaps a quarter mile north of the two men and the Briallen. They pulled their skiff to shore as their commander barked orders, and he soon led the men single file, at a rapid jog towards them down he beach, which was itself severely narrowed at that point by jutting low cliffs that lined the shore.
Gwydion once again took up the great bow, and slung the quiver over his shoulder. The bowstring sang as he released again and again, until his fingers stung from the effort.
The warriors drew closer, until their leader, only yards away, stopped and drew his sword.
"I see your bolt at sea that killed my best mate... that was nothing but good fortune," he said with an ugly sneer, "but your good fortune is about to end."
Gwydion, his hand on Dyrnwyn's hilt, motioned with his eyes back up the beach.
The warrior hesitated and turned, and his eyes grew wide.
The last warrior in the march had fallen first, more than two hundred paces distant. The others, in order, had fallen after, spaced more or less evenly, their bodies sprawled and lifeless on the deserted beach.
Gwydion drew his sword, and willed the flame to life. His opponent stumbled backward and fell, dropped his sword, and then regained his feet and fled toward the cliffs.
Gwydion stood and watched him run, but then he heard the bow sing again before the man fell.
"Erm... bad luck to leave one man standing. Old Mona superstition... " Iestin said, almost apologetically. "I'll take his sword; it's better than mine."
As the two men watched, the ship at sea drew up its anchor, and once again set a course toward the north.
As the sun began to settle toward the sea, Gwydion continued to tend Iestin's wound with a poultice he had made from weeds growing nearby near the grey cliffs, keeping one eye on the horizon. He had half expected another assault from Achren's henchmen, either from the sea or possibly over land, but the attack never came. He started a fire from driftwood and dried seaweed, and spitted and cooked some fish he had caught in the surf with a small hand net that Iestin still had on board.
"Again, you should leave me... I've put you behind, whatever it is you are planning," Iestin said, as he stretched out his wounded leg from his driftwood log seat and sighed. "My leg is much better; I'll get along fine."
"I do wish my plan were firmer in my own mind," Gwydion said with a grim smile. "As it is, tomorrow will have to do, but I do intend to go on—but still with my bold companion—for a while longer. I don't believe you will be able to launch the Briallen without me, and I will need both her and you, to reach Caer Colur. I'm afraid your generosity to me has turned into more than you ever bargained for."
"Nonsense," Iestin smiled, echoing Gwydion's former words. "It's not every day you get to sail with a Prince of Don... especially one who lives up to all the stirring tales and songs... very much unlike most members of the nobility."
Gwydion returned his smile and did not protest, but nodded at the compliment. "If I ever receive the opportunity, I plan to tell your own nobility of the boldness and worth of you island folk... and especially of the courage of one particular fisherman."
That evening, as Iestin snored peacefully, Gwydion lay watching the stars wheel overhead in the cloudless night. He thought again of Angharad, and what she had told him of the coming of age of a Princess of Llyr. Somehow the spirit of Angharad seemed close, closer than she had felt in many long and lonely years. But Achren felt even closer. He could sense her presence, watching and waiting.
Magg had lit a small torch in the cave, and affixed it to the wall. During the day, his simpering politeness had returned, and Eilonwy thought to herself that he was once again Magg, the efficient Steward of Dinas Rhydnant, as he offered her food and water—with the same cold courtesy he had afforded Rhuddlum and Teleria. He untied her hands long enough for her to stretch and to feed herself, while he stood nearby, his silver chain of office glinting in the torchlight along with his long dagger. After she ate, her skin crawled at Magg's touch, as her hands were re-tied in front of her, and her captor moved and sat a few paces away, or occasionally left the cave to check the hour and to ensure that their hiding place was still secure.
Finally, he entered the cave and announced, "Evening has come, your grace, and time for our journey to continue." With the same efficient cold courtesy he helped her to her feet, tied her hands behind her back once again, and returned her gag to her mouth.
He walked behind her from the cavern, close enough to smell his fetid breath. The horses stood ready. Soon they were mounted, and they moved at a slow pace in the twilight, down the hill into the northern valley.
The sun had long sunk behind the purple hills, and the frogs and crickets had begun their songs, when they reached the river Alaw. With his feigned politeness, Magg helped Eilonwy from the saddle and took the remaining water and provisions from his saddlebags, leaving the horses to wander as they wished. He quickly strode to a low willow overhanging the riverbank, and reached down to grasp at something. He emerged from the thick branches pulling an overturned skiff, which he righted and pulled half into the water. He then produced a set of oars from under the willow as well.
Magg turned and gestured for Eilonwy to enter the skiff, but saw she had backed away several paces. For some reason, the sight of the boat terrified her. Perhaps it was the grim reality of seeing Achren again... Eilonwy knew she would be waiting at the end of this voyage. Magg gestured again, more impatiently, as the princess turned to run.
With her hands tied behind her, it was difficult, and she stumbled when she heard Magg's heavy breathing behind her. His long arms caught her hair and tugged her backward, and she screamed into the gag and fell to her knees.
"We have come too far together, Princess, for you to have a change of heart now, don't you think? Come, we need to make haste. Your aunt Achren awaits."
"She's not my aunt!" Eilonwy screamed unintelligibly into the gag. Let go of me!" She refused to rise to her feet, and Magg was forced to drag her toward the boat by her sash, cursing as Eilonwy's kicks caught him in the shins and calves. Suddenly she realized that her bauble had fallen from the crevice of her gown, and apparently had rolled into the brackish weeds along the bank. "My bauble!" she panicked and screamed into the gag, but Magg could not understand her, and paid her no heed. Somehow it was part of her, and she could not remember ever having been separated from it, not for more than a few minutes, and that was as terrifying as anything else that was happening.
"You are trying my patience now, young princess," Magg spat at her. "Yes, Achren asked for you undamaged—if possible... but if not possible, slight damage is acceptable."
With that, he hauled Eilonwy to her feet and swung the back of his hand across her face, stunning her, and her own ears rang as Magg picked her up bodily and threw her into the front of the boat. He tied another rope from her bound hands to a ring attached to the side of the craft. "Be still now, unless you want to drown us both," he hissed, as he pushed the small boat from shore, and took up the oars behind her.
Eilonwy faced forward away from him, and her expression alternated between rage, sorrow and fear as tears rolled down her face. Darkness was falling. She wondered again where Taran was, and what he was doing, and if he was thinking of her. She willed him to not be far behind... but the looming fear of what lay ahead overshadowed the thought.
The river voyage seemed to go on forever, but still came to an end too soon. It was the early morning hours when Eilonwy smelled marshland, and soon after, the open sea. Magg plied his oars through a foaming surf, and the small craft bobbed and tossed. Eilonwy considered throwing herself overboard, but reasoned that the rope attaching her to the boat would not allow her to drown herself. It would only delay the inevitable. Also, the air was chill, and the water was cold... very cold.
The sea calmed, and Magg continued to ply his oars, although he seemed to be tiring. Eilonwy was scarcely aware of him now. It was a moonless night; only the stars provided a dim light, and ribbons of fog from the marshes reached across the sea like grasping fingers, probing at her. The princess felt a presence that stirred her, something part of her very being—like her bauble... but unlike the bauble, this presence did not feel bright and clean and beautiful. The feeling was broken, sad, and somehow corrupted.
Moments later, she could hear the wind shrieking and crying as it whistled through unseen gaps in unseen stone, and the stars ahead were no longer visible. The something ahead swallowed the light, like a great dark hand and broken fingers reaching toward the sky. Caer Colur.
A rusty hinge creaked, and a slit of lamplight appeared and grew brighter, as a sea gate swung open. Inside there was a small stone quay, and a figure dressed in black stood upon it, bright cold eyes shining, with silver tresses falling to her shoulders, bound only by a slender golden band at her brow. Her face was paler now, but seemed otherwise unchanged.
"Ah! At long last, my beautiful child has returned to me! How I have missed you, my dearest. We have been parted for much too long, and we have much to discuss," spoke Achren.
Eilonwy recoiled in horror. If Achren had said she were to be hung from one of the broken towers until ravens consumed her to the bone, the feeling would have been the same.
