"Well, have you decided yet whether or not you wish to pay a visit to Cantrev Madoc?" Eilonwy asked Taran as they rode with their travel host past the last reaches of the Hills of Bran Galedd. "If so, we should be veering off westward soon, shouldn't we?"

Taran frowned a little as he cast his eyes to the dusky peaks, which eased into ever more subtle slopes as they marched northward along the horizon. He had been tense for several days as they passed by those hills and the adjacent Red Fallows, laden as they were with memories of loss, and strife, and sacrifice, and grief. He was only eager to leave them behind. And yet…

"We ought to stop there…" he replied. "But I cannot say I wish to. Can you imagine how awkward it will be meeting King Morgant's successor? 'Greetings! It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance! Let us all put out of mind those unfortunate events with your traitorous kinsman that transpired a few years back. We promise to overlook his threat to turn us into Cauldron-Born if you will disregard the fact that our comrade slew him. It is all water under the bridge—truly!'"

Eilonwy chuckled. "Look on the bright side: perhaps he will be grateful to us for helping him gain the crown. I cannot imagine anyone being terribly sorry over the loss of an icicle like Morgant."

"Nor can I, but that does not mean he won't bear a grudge against us for the sake of family honor."

"Or simply for the sake of bearing a grudge," Eilonwy noted. "You would scarcely believe the sorts of things Achren used to stew about, for weeks and months and years on end. I do think she actually took some twisted pleasure in being angry—she certainly took pleasure in dreaming up horrendous forms of retribution. But that is neither here nor there at the moment. Do we stop in Cantrev Madoc or not? I am willing to suffer through it if you are."

Taran's reply was nearly a groan. "Yes, we shall go. We ought to learn the new king's name, at least, before he turns up for the Great Council. His is another one I've forgotten; the twenty or thirty other names seem to have crowded it out." So saying, he turned in the saddle and called out to their retinue that there would be change of course. One by one, the horsemen and carts turned to follow their king and queen, bearing westward toward the hills.

It took several days of travel through some fairly rough terrain to reach Caer Cynfael. When they at last came within sight of it, awed murmurs passed among several of Taran and Eilonwy's guards. Even seen from a distance, the stronghold was impressive. Massive towers stood sentinel all along the perimeter walls, their arrow slits glaring at the travelers like narrowed eyes. The gatehouse itself was as large as some lesser kings' fortresses. And that was merely the outer wall—it looked as though a second ring of defense lay beyond, slightly taller and peering over its shorter comrade. All loomed overhead, intimidating the royal travel host as it struggled up the switchback path to the gate.

As in Cantrev Rheged, as soon as their identities were announced, the gates rose and the Chief Steward arrived to greet them. After inquiring about the High King and Queen's full formal titles, then arranging for the horses to be taken to the stables, the stout man led Taran, Eilonwy, and a number of their guards into the heart of the mighty fortress.

They passed a multitude of buildings along the way, all bustling with servants coming and going. There was a clanging smithy; several workshops; falcon mews and dovecotes; a sizeable brewery; kitchens and bakehouses sending curls of smoke from chimneys to sky; stables large enough to house scores of horses; and even a rare separate barracks for the royal garrison, fronted by extensive training yards. At last, they came to the Great Hall—a soaring structure graced with high windows of actual glass above its entrance. Upon stepping inside, Taran and Eilonwy both gaped for a moment, awestruck. Carved columns and arches rose overhead in a forest of stone, supporting rafters painted with shimmering gold. Banners displaying the colors and emblem of the royal house hung proudly upon every wall. Guardsmen, dressed more richly than Taran himself, flanked the central aisle, glinting spears at their sides and swords at their hips. The High King and Queen walked past them slowly, accompanied by their own much humbler retinue. Atop the dais at the far end of the room, flanked by still more guardsmen, the cantrev king sat upon his ornate throne, which was covered with intricate carvings and inlays of gold and bone.

"My lord," the Chief Steward said, bowing, "I present to you High King Taran of Caer Dallben and High Queen Eilonwy Daughter of Angharad, Daughter of Regat, of the Royal House of Llyr. Your Majesties," he continued, turning toward them, "allow me to introduce King Meilyr Son of Medrawd, Son of Iorwerth, Son of Madoc."

Were it not for the introduction, Taran and Eilonwy could have sworn they were looking at a young King Morgant. Meilyr possessed the same dark hair, the same high-bridged nose, the same taut posture and keen, cold, falcon-like gaze of his predecessor. Even his jet-black raiment recalled that of the renowned war leader who had attempted to usurp both Arawn and High King Math. He was no more than a few years older than Taran, but sat upon his throne with the authority of a king twice his age. As he stepped down from the dais to meet them, he offered no more than the suggestion of a smile.

"Greetings and welcome to Caer Cynfael, Your Majesties," he said with the slightest of bows. "It pleases me to meet you at last, having heard so much of your accomplishments. I regret that I did not venture to Caer Dallben after Arawn's defeat, but I had no idea a coronation was at hand. May I inquire what brings you to my realm now?"

"We are on our way to Caer Dathyl," Eilonwy replied. "Given the state it is in, we thought it best to go there and begin repairs straight away."

"We will be hosting a Great Council there at the onset of summer," added Taran. "All cantrev leaders are invited to attend, to discuss both their immediate concerns and the future of Prydain. Since we were passing so close to your realm, it seemed better to notify you ourselves than to send a messenger."

"I thank you for extending me such courtesy," said Meilyr. "And you can be certain that I will attend that Council; I would not have my cantrev go unrepresented in such a weighty affair. It is an ambitious endeavor you propose, though," he added with a faint smirk. "I did not witness the destruction of Caer Dathyl myself, having led my forces to assist the embattled southern cantrevs, but I heard that it was nearly absolute. Will it be fit to accommodate such a gathering?"

"It will be as fit as we can manage in three months' time, and that will just have to do," Eilonwy replied a bit tartly. "At the very least, there will be a roof overhead, benches to sit upon, and a hearth fire for chilly evenings. I would hope cantrev leaders' minds and tongues work even in the absence of greater luxury."

Meilyr chuckled, but there was scant amusement in his eyes. "Indeed. You may have trouble convincing them of that, however. In my experience, I have found that cantrev lords are rather fond of their physical comforts." He paused, looking both of them over from head to toe, then scrutinizing their guards in turn. "Perhaps you would consider hosting the Great Council here at Caer Cynfael instead? Long has it been a seat of power, and I assure you there are no finer accommodations in all of Prydain. I could have all that you require ready at a moment's notice. It would be my pleasure to assist the new High King and Queen."

Taran's jaw tightened and Eilonwy squirmed inwardly. Meilyr's offer might have been generous on the surface, but the disdain beneath his words was vexingly clear.

"No, the Council must be held at Caer Dathyl," Taran asserted. "It is a place of immense significance to the people of Prydain—an emblem far greater than the sum of its timber and stone. All must see our commitment to raise it from the ashes, just as we hope to restore the land itself."

"As you wish," Meilyr replied with a dismissive shrug, as though he were graciously indulging an unsophisticated child. "Allow me to show you around Caer Cynfael, regardless. Perhaps you will find inspiration here for the restoration of Caer Dathyl."

Meilyr spent the ensuing hour leading Eilonwy, Taran, and their companions from building to building and room to room, extolling the myriad ways in which his stronghold surpassed all others: its walls were stouter; its site and layout more defensible; its interiors furnished with only the finest handiwork from the most skilled craftspeople in the land. He was not mistaken—Caer Cynfael was, indeed, second only to the Caer Dathyl of old in grandeur and might. Like the Great Hall, nearly every structure was formidable without and beautifully appointed within. Precisely cut and tightly fitted stone blocks framed large and lofty spaces. Lush tapestries and colorful banners adorned the bright white interior walls. Costly, clear-burning beeswax candles in ornate candelabras set every dark corner aglow. Even the humblest benches in the lowliest outbuildings far exceeded the best furniture of Caer Dallben. From flagstones to ramparts, Caer Cynfael exuded both power and wealth.

None of that made the young king's condescension any less grating. Each subsequent boast tried his guests' patience further. And just when the interminable tour seemed about to end, Meilyr led them over to the extensive stables.

"Now, let us ride out and I will show you more of my lands. Both forest and field are beyond compare. I would not have you leave without seeing them."

The High King and Queen exchanged a jaded glance behind Meilyr's back.

"Are you certain we have time? The sun is getting rather low…" Eilonwy pointed out.

"Of course there is time," Meilyr assured her. "We have an hour or so yet before we must return for supper. Besides, the meal must wait for us—as everything must wait for us. That is an advantage to rulership that you will learn to appreciate soon enough." Without even glancing her way, he ducked inside the stables to notify the Master of Horse that they needed horses fitted out for their ride.

Eilonwy huffed, blowing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. Then, while Meilyr was still preoccupied, she mockingly put her hands on her hips and puffed up her chest in imitation of his haughty mien. Taran snorted as he attempted to stifle his laugh. A round of muted snickering passed among the guards standing by, including a few of the cantrev king's own men. One of Smoit's warriors even touched his helmet and gave a smirking nod of approval to Eilonwy—he had encountered Meilyr before, it seemed. She grinned in return. Queenly behavior it was not, but no one present seemed to have any objection.

Meilyr, as expected, was no less pompous during the ride than during the preceding walking tour. At every opportunity, he continued to point out the wealth of his realm—and to dole out unwanted advice. Nearly every statement concluded with a phrase like, "that is simply how things are, you see," or "once you have had some time on the throne, you will understand." Eilonwy had to bite her tongue harder with each declaration.

"Ah, forgive my ignorance, but what is your relation to King Morgant?" Taran inquired after a while, hoping to interrupt the stream of pontification.

"He was my uncle," Meilyr replied. "My father's elder brother. Although, I came to know him far better than my father, who fell in battle when I was quite young. When my mother died a few years later, King Morgant took me in. He personally instructed me in the ways of both warrior and king. And having no children of his own, he named me as his heir—once I had sufficiently proven my mettle, of course."

"Do you… miss him, then?" Eilonwy asked, unable to conceal all of her incredulity.

Meilyr responded with a curt laugh. "Does one miss the whip lashing one onward? My uncle was a hard man: difficult to please; unshakeable in his authority; unmoved by any show of emotion or weakness, and scornful of those who displayed them. There was no love lost between he and I. Nevertheless," he continued, "I bore him great respect and admiration. I am grateful for the strength and knowledge he instilled in me, however unpleasant I found his means of doing so. I see the wisdom in them now. I am proud to wear his crown," he added with an upward tilt of his chin. "I only wish he could see the great deeds I will accomplish in the name of House Madoc."

"From what little I knew of him and what I heard from others, he was a formidable warrior indeed," Taran said, attempting to be diplomatic. "Lord Gwydion himself said as much, and honored your uncle in death even after he became a foe."

"Hmn. Gwydion." Meilyr's lip curled in a sneer. "For far too long, my uncle stood in his shadow—forever second in command, obliged to stand by and watch while the House of Don allowed Arawn's power to fester within Annuvin. Gwydion was a great warrior in his own right, but he was too reluctant to grasp and wield power. That reluctance came at a high cost to all of Prydain. Now, had my uncle recovered the Black Cauldron as planned, he would have crushed Arawn and kept King Pryderi's ambition in check—and Caer Dathyl would not now lie in ruin."

Taran frowned and cast a glance toward Eilonwy, who was clearly fighting to refrain from comment. "It is difficult to say where other roads of fate might have led," he allowed. To his mind, any road with Morgant in power would have been bleak—but it wouldn't pay to tell Morgant's nephew that.

"And we can only travel the road we are on now," Eilonwy put in. "There is no use wondering about the thousand others closed off to us. And at the moment, we had better turn around on this actual road and return to the castle. Queen or no, I do not wish to keep throngs of hungry people waiting."

Mercifully, King Meilyr acquiesced and waved the travel party homeward.


Supper that evening promised to be one of the grandest feasts Taran and Eilonwy had ever attended. By the time the Chief Steward ushered them back into the Great Hall, it was already teeming with lords, ladies, and high-ranking warriors. Some were still milling about while others stood beside their places at the long tables flanking the central aisle. Servitors bustled to and fro, exchanging spent candles for fresh ones, filling chalices with wine, and setting out fine metal plates for the meal to come. All heads turned toward the High King and Queen as they proceeded toward the table at the far end of the Hall, where two high-backed chairs awaited them in the central place of honor.

Meilyr, standing in his own place at Taran's right hand, greeted them briefly, then turned to provide his Chief Steward with further direction. For several moments thereafter, Eilonwy and Taran merely gazed out across the massive crowd of guests below. Taran shifted uneasily from right foot to left, and fingered the hem of his tunic for want of a better way to occupy his nervous hands.

"Oh, look—that must be her," Eilonwy suddenly whispered to him, nudging his foot with hers and nodding subtly toward the far end of the Great Hall.

"Who?"

"Rhodri's wife—or former wife, rather."

Taran glanced in the direction she had indicated. There, gliding through the massive portal, he saw a regal and lovely woman of middle years. Her pale complexion and the few strands of silver in her dark hair seemed almost to glow in the flickering candlelight. She was sheathed in a supple gown of violet so dark it was nearly black, shot through with delicate gold embroidery. A young lady of about fourteen walked by her side, equally fair but with a far less confident mien.

"I assume that is her, anyway," Eilonwy continued. "She certainly bears a resemblance to the rest of House Madoc. And her gown is far more exquisite than anyone else's here. And look at that necklace…"

Meilyr's Chief Steward rushed forward to attend the pair of ladies. As they approached the high table, Meilyr himself moved to greet them, bestowing a kiss upon the hand of each in turn.

"King Taran, Queen Eilonwy—may I present my father's cousin, Lady Ffion Daughter of Macsen, Son of Madoc, and her daughter, Princess Briallen Daughter of Rhodri."

Both ladies curtsied smoothly. Briallen's eyes remained lowered, but Lady Ffion offered Taran and Eilonwy a generous—and surprisingly genuine—smile. As they took their places to the left of Eilonwy, Meilyr turned to address his court.

"My lords and ladies," he called out, raising his hands for silence. "Caer Cynfael is indeed honored today! We count among our guests the new High King and High Queen of the land, Taran of Caer Dallben and Eilonwy of the House of Llyr. Let us all raise a toast to their reign—long and well may it endure!"

A rumble of applause passed through the assembled crowd. As Taran looked out over the sea of faces—all trained on he and Eilonwy—his cheeks grew hot. Would he ever grow accustomed to such attention, he wondered? Gradually, all hands fell silent. The guests continued to stare at him expectantly. Were they waiting for him to address them?

"And may Cantrev Madoc forever share in the prosperity we attain," he said. "We ourselves feel honored to be here with you today, and doubly honored to serve you as High King and Queen."

There was another round of applause, followed by more stares. Not one person took their seat.

"None may sit until you do, remember?" Eilonwy whispered, scarcely moving her lips. Hastily, he sat down, and watched everyone in the hall follow suit. He flushed again—and saw Meilyr smirk. Thankfully, an army of servitors arrived immediately with platters of food in hand, diverting the guests' attention. Taran made sure to take a sip of wine and a few bites of food right away so that others would be free to begin their meal. His own appetite had vanished entirely.

"So, Your Majesties, if I may ask: what brings you to Cantrev Madoc?" Lady Ffion inquired.

"They are hosting a Great Council at Caer Dathyl, and wished to meet with me in advance," Meilyr cut in, speaking for them.

"That is true," Eilonwy said, rushing to assert control over the conversation. "We think it important that all leaders in Prydain have some say in the future of this land. At the very least, we would like to know them all better—it is difficult to be diplomatic, after all, when one doesn't know a person's inclinations."

Lady Ffion laughed warmly. "You speak wisely—on both counts."

"You, too, are welcome to attend," Taran added. "As the former Queen of Rheged, I am sure you have much insight to offer."

A faint, ironic smile appeared on Ffion's lips, but it failed to reach her eyes. "And were I still Queen of Rheged, I would not hesitate to accept your gracious invitation. As matters stand, however, I regretfully must decline. I suspect neither my presence nor my opinions would be welcome."

"Nonsense!" Eilonwy assured her. "We would not extend the invitation if we did not genuinely want you there. And if it is King Rhodri that concerns you, well, he made no promise whatsoever to attend. Quite the contrary—he seemed about as eager to come as a cat is to take a bath."

"Oh, he will attend; you can be sure of that," Ffion replied. "You can also be sure that he would interpret my invitation as a personal affront—and that would only serve you ill. Cantrev Rheged may lack the power it once had, but it is still a force to be reckoned with. Rhodri is not one to have as an enemy."

Meilyr, overhearing, saw fit to offer his own opinion. "Nor would anyone want him as an ally," he scoffed. "That ill-tempered old badger… His power is nearly gone and his days are numbered. Leave him to his own devices and he will be out of your way within ten years." The young king took a long draught from his wine chalice, set it down with an assertive thump, then leaned back smugly in his chair. "Some cantrev lords are simply not worth the effort of diplomacy—you will learn that soon enough."

Taran and Eilonwy glanced over at Lady Ffion and Princess Briallen, curious to see their reactions to the slight against Rhodri. The Princess looked manifestly uncomfortable, her back stiff and her gaze even more resolutely downcast than before. Lady Ffion was more difficult to read. She, too, took a slow sip of her wine, gracefully returned the chalice to its place, then surveyed the bustling hall below. She wore a veil of deliberate indifference, and Taran could not discern what lay behind it.

"Rhodri is not the only cantrev lord one might accuse of being difficult," she remarked at last, slowly, flicking a brief sideways glance toward Meilyr. "There are many who speak without saying much; and many who leap to action without first looking ahead; and many who put glory ahead of reason. Few have accurate opinions of themselves." She paused, toying with the stem of the chalice and gazing absently at it. Taran thought he saw a break in her impassive countenance, but it was too fleeting to be sure. "And then there are those whose noble intentions go astray…" she added. "Perhaps none of them deserve attention, but it is unwise to ignore them."

To his right, Taran saw Meilyr's confident demeanor falter. The cantrev king sat up straight once more, with a look of embarrassment that quickly turned to a scowl.

"But let us speak of more pleasant matters," Ffion continued. She turned to address Eilonwy. "It is well that Prydain will have a High Queen after so long without. The land could do with a bit more… balance. And if you are as clever and strong-willed as your mother, I have no doubt you will bring about some much-needed change."

For a moment, Eilonwy was too stunned to speak. Her pulse quickened and a lump rose in her throat. "You knew my mother?" she asked, her voice catching ever so slightly on the last word. Taran, too, looked over and listened with interest.

"We met only once, when we happened to visit Caer Dathyl at the same time. It was many years ago, now. Yet, that single meeting was more than enough to give a sense of her spirit. She would have made a legendary queen had events played out differently."

Intense pride and longing swirled within Eilonwy—a sensation headier than the effect of the wine she had been drinking. "I scarcely remember her…" she said slowly, "only a few images here and there, a few scraps of song—mostly in dreams. I do hope that I shall live up to her legacy…" Beneath the table, she felt Taran's hand clasp hers and give it a reassuring squeeze.

"I have a feeling you shall. You look remarkably like her, if nothing else," Lady Ffion noted, a bit wryly. "But if the tales I have heard of your exploits are true, the resemblance does not end there." Her expression turned thoughtful. "In fact, once your court is established, perhaps I shall send Briallen to you to round out her education."

Surprise immediately supplanted Eilonwy's wistfulness. "To me? To our court?"

"Indeed, yes. I had thought to send her to Dinas Rhydnant. Yet, the more I think on it, the less confident I am that Queen Teleria is the example I wish my daughter to follow." She glanced over at the Princess. "She is an intelligent girl, but rather more timid than I would like. Whereas you, on the other hand…" Amusement danced in her eyes. "A rather exuberant bard visited our court a few years back and performed a number of songs describing your adventures. Briallen was quite taken by them. As was I, to be perfectly honest."

Eilonwy looked to The Princess. The poor girl had flushed scarlet at all of the talk about her. And yet, she looked as if she wanted to say—or ask—something. Eilonwy caught her eye and flashed a warm smile. "That bard must have been our old comrade, Fflewddur Fflam. He was with us on all of those journeys, you know." She leaned in closer to Briallen then, behind Ffion's back, and whispered conspiratorially behind her hand. "And knowing his tendency for 'adding color to the facts,' as he puts it, we had better talk later—just you and I—so I can tell those stories as they really happened. Would you like that?"

Briallen's flush deepened, but excitement set her eyes alight. "Oh, yes," she whispered back. "If you wouldn't mind, of course."

"I would be delighted to," Eilonwy replied. "I can't have inaccurate accounts of our adventures floating about in the world like misguided honeybees. Someone ought to know the truth of it."

Briallen smiled, albeit tentatively. "Is it… Is it true that you were the one to find the black sword Dyrnwyn?" she asked, more loudly. "And that you safeguarded it all of the way to Caer Dathyl? Even when attacked by bands of Huntsmen?"

"Entirely true," Eilonwy answered with a nod, sitting back in her chair. "Someone—who shall remain nameless—tried to divest me of it on account of my being 'just a girl,'" she noted with a teasing smirk in Taran's direction. "But I stood my ground, and he eventually came round to the idea of my carrying it. Sometimes, menfolk just need a bit of steady encouragement to see the wisdom of the ladies around them."

"And did you really defeat Queen Achren herself? And make Caer Colur entirely collapse?"

"More or less. I destroyed a spell book of Llyr, and that seemed to take care of the rest."

"She helped negotiate with King of the Fair Folk, too," Taran chimed in, mirth in his eyes. "Perhaps not as spectacular a feat, but an important one nonetheless."

Briallen's eyes went wide. "The Fair Folk? You met their king and survived?"

"Oh, he was more bluster than battering ram—at least with us. His tantrum-throwing ability is something to behold, though."

"So many adventures…" Briallen exclaimed, a little breathless with wonderment.

"Well, one gets into such scrapes in the company of an Assistant Pig-Keeper, a bard who is really a king, a Fair Folk dwarf, and a… well, a whatever Gurgi is," Eilonwy replied matter-of-factly.

Lady Ffion burst into a warm, golden, rolling peal of laughter. Elsewhere in the Hall, several heads turned her way in astonishment. Only then did Taran and Eilonwy notice that it was the first laugh they had heard all night.

Meilyr cleared his throat and shot Ffion a reproving glance. "You will have to forgive my cousin," he said drily. "Her expressions of amusement sometimes exceed the limits of her usual propriety."

"At least one person in this family knows how to laugh," Ffion replied, her tone as cool as an autumn morning. She reached for her chalice and raised it toward him in mock toast. "Never fear, dear cousin—my voice is not powerful enough to fell the precious golden rafters of your Great Hall." She took a leisurely sip of wine and turned back to Taran and Eilonwy. "And you, Your Majesties—please do not mistake my amusement for derision. I am merely pleased to find the new High Queen has some substance and character to her. Far better to have a rough piece of flint with a useful, sharp edge than a polished ruby good for nothing but show."


Riding out from Caer Cynfael the following day, Eilonwy and Taran lost no time in venting their pent-up annoyance with Meilyr's supercilious ways.

"So—I am thinking we absolutely must acquire some golden candlesticks like those we saw in Meilyr's Great Hall," Eilonwy noted, her voice awash with sarcasm. "And colored glass windows at least twice as large as his. Oh, and some of those tapestries that span the entire length of a room, too—it would never do to have smaller ones that leave portions of the wall bare."

"But of course," Taran replied with equal irony. "Commanding respect requires breathtaking displays of wealth, you see—Kings and queens must never allow commoners to see them as equals in any way, and that begins with appearances. It would never do for anyone to recall that I began as an Assistant Pig-Keeper," he added with a backward nod toward the cart bearing Hen Wen and her brood.

Behind him, he heard an amused snort from one of the Commot guardsmen riding close by. A few others chuckled. Hen Wen herself snorted in turn.

"Indeed. Nor that I spent hours in a scullery, cooking and scouring out pots and pans, despite being born a princess," Eilonwy added.

"We ought to visit other cantrev strongholds as well," Taran continued, "to see how large their stables and such are. We cannot afford to be outdone by some lowly chieftain or cantrev king. And when they visit Caer Dathyl, we ought to have our Chief Steward conduct a tour like the one Meilyr led us on, just to ensure that they are properly impressed by our resources and power. One should take every diplomatic meeting as a chance to overawe the other party, you know."

Eilonwy giggled, then pulled a face. "Ugh. I don't know who Meilyr thinks he is, acting like such an authority on kingship, and architecture, and diplomacy, and everything in between. He is scarcely older than we are, and has only been on his throne for a handful of years. Even with the rigorous instruction he received from Morgant—and I have no desire to know the details of that—I don't see how he could possibly be as knowledgeable as he claims."

"I don't think Gwydion himself was as wise as Meilyr presumes to be," Taran answered drily.

"Probably not," Eilonwy replied with a short laugh. "Do you think he was trying to intimidate us? Or did he genuinely believe he was being helpful?"

"I am inclined to assume the former," Taran said ruefully. "Particularly after he had us observe his warriors' training session this morning. That seemed a fairly obvious ploy to show off his strength. But I could be mistaken—at least in part," he added, his expression turning thoughtful. "There was something about his boasts that didn't quite ring true… as though he were attempting to convince himself of his superiority as much as convince us."

"Yes… I suppose do see what you mean," Eilonwy replied. "All the while he was going on about how splendid Caer Cynfael is, and how mighty his ancestors were, and how great his own deeds will be, I kept picturing a rooster puffing itself up and strutting about, trying to look larger than the other chickens—more air than substance, you know?"

Taran nodded. "Just so—as if he believes he must prove himself to the world." He paused, as a thought occurred to him. "In that, he reminds me of Ellidyr… And if he has a similar beast prodding him in the back, then I pity him. Yes, and understand him too. I well remember the pride I felt when King Morgant complimented me on my mettle. To hear praise from a legendary warrior, particularly one who seldom bestows it… That left me craving more. I can see how living under a man such as Morgant year after year could leave one feeling forever lacking—and how that might drive one on an endless quest for approval."

"True, but that doesn't make Meilyr any less insufferable—you cannot deny it," Eilonwy argued. "And he reminds me of King Morgant, far more than I would like."

"Oh, certainly," Taran agreed. "He is an insufferable braggart. But," he went on, "if I had to guess, the similarities between him and his uncle run about as deep as ripples on water."