"There, you see?" Eilonwy said to Taran, pointing to a patch of churned-up earth near the fallen western wall that differed in color from the rest. "That is the trouble spot the builders mentioned. They said it won't hold the weight of the wall if they place the foundation back just as it was before—that stretch likely fell so easily because it was weak to begin with."
"Yes, I do see…" Taran replied, clambering down into the pit for a closer look. "So, what are they suggesting as a remedy? To dig deeper? Or extend the foundation out farther?"
Before Eilonwy could answer, the Chief Steward approached, bustling along quite spryly for a man of his years. He greeted her with a slight bow, then looked around, briefly puzzled, for Taran's whereabouts before spotting him in the excavation below.
"Ah. Right, then," he murmured to himself, peering over the edge and greeting Taran as well. "Pardon the interruption, Your Majesties, but a group of three riders has been sighted to the east, headed this way. Their identities are not yet known, but I thought it best to bring word to you immediately. Shall I prepare the Great Hall for an audience with them, in the event that proves warranted?"
"Yes, please do," Taran called up to him. "We will go have a look from one of the towers in the meantime and see if we recognize who it is. Thank you, Medyr."
The Chief Steward hastened off, humming lightly to himself, while Eilonwy reached down to give Taran a hand up to level ground. He made some effort to brush himself off, but it did little more than grind the soil deeper into his leggings.
"Well, I hope it isn't anyone we need to greet," he said with a frown. "Or that they're far enough away yet that we have time to change clothes. I don't cut a very regal figure at the moment…"
"As if I do," Eilonwy replied, with a glance down at her cropped gown and the patched leggings revealed below. "But if they cannot appreciate a king and queen who are willing to get their hands dirty, then they're likely not worth granting an audience to anyway," she added, prompting a smile from Taran.
Together, they climbed the steep stairs up to one of the intact eastern towers and looked out across the valley. The riders in question were still a little way off, but coming into range of recognition.
"I don't see any banners, or even house colors," Eilonwy noted. "And I can't imagine one of the cantrev lords would arrive so soon, or without a large retinue."
"No, surely not. They look to be traveling fairly lightly, too, so they cannot have traveled far." Taran raised a hand to shield his eyes against the sun as he gazed into the distance. His heart tripped over its next beat. "It almost looks like… But no, that cannot possibly be…"
Eilonwy squinted hard for a moment, then gasped, hands flying to her mouth. "Gurgi!? And Fflewddur!" she exclaimed. "How in the name of Llyr…?! And who is that with them?"
In a flash, she was racing down from the tower with Taran close on her heels. They did not even wait for their friends to arrive at the gate, but ran out and down the slope to meet them part-way. Seeing them, Fflewddur, Telyn, and Gurgi urged their steeds to a canter across the spring-green turf.
No sooner had they stopped and dismounted than Eilonwy tried to throw her arms around both Fflewddur and Gurgi at once, with only limited success. "How are you here?" she asked breathlessly. "Did the ships not leave for the Summer Country after all? Did everyone remain, or only you? Are you here to stay, or must you leave all over again? Oh, I can't bear the thought of that—it would be worse than someone uprooting a rose bush as soon as it begins to bloom! Please say you are here to stay… Oh, but if you are to stay, then you are such fools for giving up what you did!" Tears glistened in her eyes as she moved to embrace each of them again.
Taran stood speechless for a moment, equally surprised and overjoyed at the return of comrades he'd thought he would never see again. Relief welled up in his heart, too; the familiar faces of his beloved friends were anchors in the sea of strangers within which he and Eilonwy now swam. He clasped Fflewddur's hand firmly and clapped Gurgi heartily on the shoulder, grinning wide.
Telyn hung back a few paces, holding the horses' reins, a stranger yet to those she counted as friends. Fortunately, her discomfort didn't last long. Eilonwy and Taran were well aware of the unfamiliar guest in their midst, and looked questioningly at Fflewddur and Gurgi.
"Ah, forgive me—our traveling companion needs introduction," the bard said with a twinkle in his eye. He turned toward Telyn and waved her forward. "It is my immense honor to present to you Telyn Daughter of Branwen, a great healer from the northwest. Or, as you know her better…" he continued, pausing for dramatic effect, "…Llyan."
Eilonwy and Taran gawped at Fflewddur as though he'd just claimed that mountains were made of sawdust and frogs had taken up flying. They glanced back and forth between the bard and Telyn, desperately curious to get a closer look at her, but not wanting to stare rudely.
"What? But… how? Who did this?" Taran stammered. "I thought all enchantment had quit Prydain."
"Just so!" Fflewddur cried, seizing the opportunity to begin the gloriously improbable tale. "As it turns out, she was a person all along—or to begin with, that is—and the spell cast upon her is now broken! You see, it happened something like this…"
And with that, he launched into a predictably exaggerated version of their already quite remarkable journey. As before, Telyn interrupted when necessary to keep the truth from being bent to its breaking point. Only one ship had caught fire in the harbor, and no there had not been any hot pursuit. No, they hadn't swum across surging floodwaters at River Ystrad, although the crossing was difficult and she'd nearly gotten a good dunking. It was six thieves who attacked them in the Hill Cantrevs, not a brace of twenty—and fortunately so, since six ruffians had been terrifying enough. Yes, Fflewddur's subjects had welcomed him back with a lively celebration, but the revelry had lasted only one night, not three.
"Oh! This is so exciting I feel like I need two bodies to contain it!" Eilonwy exclaimed when the bard had finished. "I'm afraid things haven't been nearly so adventurous around here, although we have been busier than spiders trying to dance a jig. It's been nothing but building, and cleaning, and meetings, and planning, and all such I don't even want to think about. It will be infinitely better now with you here. And you, Telyn—now we have a new friend who is really an old friend! Why, that's like beginning a story and knowing from the outset that it ends happily!"
"Indeed," said Taran. "Will you be able to stay on awhile? There is to be a Great Council within two months; all of the cantrev leaders have been called upon to attend. I would have you three join in above any others."
"We heard as much from King Smoit when we passed through Cadiffor," Fflewddur said. "I, for one, would be delighted to attend! A Fflam never hesitates to weigh in on matters of state…" Telyn shot the bard such a pointed glance that he choked on his words midstream. "Ahem..." he coughed. "Yes, well, I have found such gatherings rather tedious in the past," he admitted, "but this is entirely different. I wouldn't miss the chance to help old comrades for anything."
Taran chuckled, and felt a twinge of sadness when he realized he had scarcely laughed in weeks. "I see Telyn's name suits her," he noted. "She is a truthful harp in her own right."
Fflewddur blushed. Telyn flashed him a brilliant smile.
After the newly arrived companions had had a chance to take some refreshment, Taran and Eilonwy led them around Caer Dathyl to show off the work being done. Although progress had been maddeningly slow relative to their hopes, the bustle of activity and visible repairs had restored some sense of life to the castle. The air of irrevocable devastation was gone, supplanted by a resolute hopefulness.
Nevertheless, a pained look came over Fflewddur when they approached the ruined Hall of Lore. Most of the charred debris had been cleared away, but the ground beneath still looked raw as a freshly dug barrow. A small shelter—scarcely more than a roof on posts with half-finished walls—had been built beside it. A small group of men and women sat within, gathered around a rough-hewn table. Fflewddur recognized several as members of the Bardic Council, and assumed the others were bards as well. Upon seeing the companions, one of the older men in the group rose and came to welcome them.
"Greetings!" he called out, a smile deepening the innumerable creases in his weathered face. He was slightly bent with age and his close-cropped hair was silvery-white, but his eyes were keen and his deep voice was strong and resonant as a drum. "Fflewddur Flam Son of Godo! Well-met! Why, the last time we crossed paths, you were a young man striving to pass the bardic exams. I do hope you will try your hand again someday."
Fflewddur bowed reverently. "I am honored to meet you again, Lord…" He halted abruptly upon realizing he didn't recall the man's name.
"Forgive me—I neglected to introduce myself," the old bard said. "I am Aneirin Son of Arovan, and have been granted Taliesin's former position as Chief Bard. Welcome to our Hall of Lore, such as it is," he added with a dark chuckle, gesturing toward the tiny hut. "It should be a fair bit less breezy inside within a week or so. But nevertheless—as the craftsmen rebuild Caer Dathyl stone by stone and beam by beam, so too, we bards work to rebuild the store of knowledge preserved here. All must be remembered and rewritten, or Arawn will have won a victory even in death."
"Well, sadly, I haven't a harp at the moment…" Fflewddur said, "but I do have my memory, and that is as sound as a miser's treasure trove! Why, I'm sure I recall one thousand songs! Two thousand, even!"
Telyn threw another dubious glance his way, punctuated by a single arched eyebrow.
"Ah, that is to say, I know a few hundred songs, at least. I would be thrilled to help you set them down in writing for posterity."
The Chief Bard laughed good-naturedly. "I see neither time, nor battle, nor your struggle with the harp Taliesin gifted you has blunted your enthusiasm—or your penchant for exaggeration. We would welcome your assistance. Alas," he continued, "you will have to content yourself with singing, and scribing, and playing on borrowed instruments, for we haven't a single spare harp to give you this time; the Cauldron Born destroyed every last one in the House of Lore. Still worse, our master luthier, Goronwy, was grievously wounded in the battle to defend Caer Dathyl."
"Wounded, but not slain?" Telyn asked hopefully.
Aneirin shook his head in dismay. "They might as well have slain him, and he may wish they had, for they robbed him of his livelihood. His arms and hands were so badly hurt that he likely will never make another instrument. Such was the evil of Arawn: even without killing men outright, he brought death upon them—the death of skill, the death of knowledge, and the death of hope.
"Even so," the Chief Bard continued, "we do our best to mend what we can, and regain what is not lost beyond recall. And so, we work—and will continue to work, tirelessly, until the Hall of Lore and Hall of Bards are bastions of knowledge and beauty once again.
"Come," he said, waving Fflewddur toward the hut. "If you would aid us in our toil, you might as well begin now."
Fflewddur beamed as though he had been granted the greatest treasure in Prydain. "Of course!" he cried, elated. "A Fflam never shirks! I shall work sunup to sundown, and by rushlight after that! I am in no hurry to return to my realm once the Council is over, and will gladly stay to help you."
"I shall come as well," Telyn interjected. "I recall quite a few songs myself, and medicinal plant lore too. I could help write it all down. Besides," she added, with a pointed head tilt in Fflewddur's direction, "you'll need someone present to keep him honest."
Aneirin laughed again, heartily, while Fflewddur looked as though he'd swallowed a bee. "Who am I to turn down an offer of help?" the Chief Bard said kindly, eyes twinkling. "If your heart is willing, we welcome it too."
And so, over the next several weeks, Fflewddur, Telyn, and Gurgi wove themselves into the daily rhythm of work at Caer Dathyl. As guests of honor, they were given chambers of their own within the Middle Tower, although they wasted little time there. Gurgi lent a furry hand in everything from smithing to carrying stone, and continued the pursuit of kitchen work that he'd begun with Delyth. Fflewddur made good on his promise to assist the bards, singing until his voice was hoarse, and scribing until his cramped fingers were indelibly stained with ink. He half hoped he would learn enough in the process to warrant another attempt at the bardic exams—a notion that met with enthusiastic support from Telyn, who volunteered to give him extra lessons in the plant lore he might be expected to know. She joined him and the bards for a portion of most days, served as a healer when the need arose, and spent the remainder of her time wandering among the crags, forests, and fields around Caer Dathyl. All in all, the toil was satisfying and made the days leading up to the Council flow swiftly by.
Then, in the full flush of late spring, right at the cusp of summer, a host of men came riding out of the west, bearing straight through the valley for Caer Dathyl. Above them, snow white banners blazoned with slashes of red snapped in the wind, nearly aglow in the midmorning light. The first of the cantrev kings had arrived—early.
Once the host reached the castle gates, Medyr summoned Taran and Eilonwy to the Great Hall, to welcome the new arrivals in state. With some lingering awkwardness, the young king and queen donned their still-unfamiliar crowns and took their positions upon their new thrones. They exchanged a quick glance that managed, paradoxically, to convey both trepidation and reassurance. The stillness in the Hall felt almost oppressive. Taran was suddenly very aware of his own breath, and Eilonwy sat up far straighter than was her wont. Somewhere in the shadows along the walls, one of the retainers gave a muffled cough. A torch sputtered briefly, and there was a quiet rustling as Medyr, standing beside the thrones, shifted his weight. Then silence held sway once again.
Several painfully long moments later, the guards swung wide the heavy doors. In strode a retinue of seasoned warriors escorting their king. Stiff-backed and stone-faced, their expressionless eyes were directed straight ahead, unwavering. The hilts of their swords glinted in the torchlight. In contrast to those stern, battle-scarred warriors, the king himself had a relaxed and open countenance, with chiseled features that were handsome albeit beginning to show the passage of time. The confident set of his shoulders bespoke a clear measure of pride, which seemed borne out by his raiment: although his pure white tunic and cloak were entirely unadorned, they were impeccably cut from the finest of fabrics.
"King Taran, Queen Eilonwy," intoned Medyr, "I present to you King Iscawin Son of Nav, ruler of Cantrev Arvon in the Western Domains." He bowed low, then stepped aside and returned to his place.
The cantrev king strode toward the throne and dropped to one knee before Taran and Eilonwy.
"My humblest greetings, Your Majesties," he said warmly, bowing his head momentarily before looking up to boldly meet their gaze.
"Well met Lord Iscawin. We did not expect you to arrive so soon," said Taran.
The cantrev king remained on bended knee. Just as Taran began to wonder why, Eilonwy cut in and gave him leave to rise. Inwardly, Taran cursed himself for, yet again, allowing nervousness to make him forgetful. He only hoped his expression did not betray his embarrassment at the misstep.
"I hope my early arrival poses no inconvenience," Iscawin remarked as he stood. "I thought I might be of service to you in preparing for the guests yet to come. After the destruction Pryderi wrought, the burden of hosting a Great Council here must be immense. Moreover," he added with a knowing smile, "the cantrev lords themselves are likely to be somewhat… contentious, to put it politely. Several are well known to me; I may be able to help smooth any ruffled feathers before they get too far askew."
For a moment, surprise stole the words from Taran and Eilonwy's throats. Whatever they had expected to issue from the unfamiliar king's mouth, it was not an offer of assistance.
Eilonwy recovered first. "Oh, your early arrival is no inconvenience at all," she replied. "And we certainly won't decline whatever assistance you are willing to provide. How very thoughtful of you to offer it."
"Yes, we are most grateful," Taran added. "But you are our guest here, and we ask no more of you than to join in the Council."
"Ah, but it would be to my shame if I did not offer more," Iscawin replied. "That is the very least I can do, and it will not begin to redress my absence in the battle with Pryderi last winter. It has weighed heavily on my conscience that my forces did not reach Caer Dathyl in time to aid King Math and Lord Gwydion."
Taran shook his head. "Do not take that upon yourself. The harsh weather hindered many from reaching us, and even had it not, I fear that would only have increased the ranks of the slain. The Cauldron-Born were an impossible foe that day.
"That said," he continued, "if you are truly willing to assist us now, we shall speak more of it tonight, after you have had time to settle in." Taran turned to the Chief Steward. "Medyr, please see to it that one of the guest chambers is fit to receive Lord Iscawin."
"That is generous of you sire, but there is no need," Iscawin put in. "A pavilion in the courtyard with the rest of my warriors is all the accommodation I require."
"Are you certain?" asked Eilonwy. "I'll admit, the guest rooms aren't nearly as fine as they once were—one can't have tapestries and fine furniture crafted within a few months, after all—but they're a fair sight better than a tent, and without the same risk of water leaking onto your head when it rains."
Iscawin chuckled. "I am well accustomed to the rigors of travel. Please, save the guest quarters for your closer companions, or those less hearty than I."
"As you wish," Eilonwy replied with a slight shrug. "That is quite gracious of you."
After a brief discussion about where Iscawin could set camp, he and his men marched from the Great Hall, silent but for the heavy tread of their boots on the flagstones. Taran dismissed Medyr and the other retainers to resume their own tasks, leaving the Great Hall empty save for Eilonwy, himself, and the guards at the door. He exhaled a deep sigh of relief.
"Well, that went better than I expected," Eilonwy stated. "After the welcome we received from Rhodri, I was bracing myself for more of the same rancor. One tries not to make assumptions, but it is difficult after encountering a bull like him, or all of the pompous lords and silly ladies I crossed paths with at Dinas Rhydnant."
Taran removed the heavy golden crown from his head and rubbed at a spot where it had dug into his skull.
"I still cannot get used to wearing this…" he muttered. "I can't help but feel like a commoner playing at being King. And it's even heavier that it looks."
"Dallben warned you as much, did he not? In fact, I seem to recall him saying something similar to me, when I complained about that circlet I wore upon returning from Mona. Granted, he was talking about the nature of rulership itself, but I suppose it applies to the actual crown just as well."
Taran smiled wryly. "Perhaps that was the first intent of a crown—a reminder to those wearing it that they should never take their power lightly."
"More likely, whomever made the first crown was merely trying to show off," Eilonwy countered with an equally wry grin. "But the reminder is an important one, however unintentional."
That night, as Fflewddur, Telyn, and Gurgi headed to supper, they spotted Eilonwy and Taran lingering in conversation with Iscawin outside the doors to the Great Hall.
"Gwyn's bones," Telyn cursed under her breath, stopping in her tracks and blanching at the sight of the King of Arvon. Fflewddur and Gurgi gave her a quizzical look, but there was no time to say more; Taran was already leading Iscawin and Eilonwy across the courtyard to them.
"Lord Iscawin, I would like to introduce some of my closest companions," Taran said. "This is King Fflewddur Fflam son of Godo, Telyn Daughter of Branwen, and Gurgi. Friends, this is Iscawin Son of Nav, King of Cantrev Arvon."
"Ah, Son of Godo," Iscawin said to Fflewddur with a warm smile. "A man of multiple talents, from what I have heard. The king and queen have told me of both your valor in battle and your bardic aspirations. A few of your songs have reached even my cantrev; it is good to finally meet their creator."
Fflewddur nodded appreciatively. "Yes, well, my skill is certainly no match for the great bards of Prydain, but if the songs have entertained you then there is hope for me yet."
"And Gurgi," Iscawin continued, without showing a trace of surprise at the shaggy creature's unusual appearance. "Of your loyalty, too, I have heard a great deal. King Taran is fortunate to have such a steadfast comrade."
Gurgi beamed. "Yes, yes! Bold, faithful Gurgi is ever at the side of humble, kindly wanderer. He does not stray with shriekings and squeakings—not even when frightened for his poor tender head. Gurgi only hopes that one day he, too, can become as wise as noble master."
"An admirable goal to be sure," Iscawin replied.
The cantrev king turned at last to Telyn and greeted her with a bow. "Now, Lady Telyn is known to me, from a fair number of years ago," he acknowledged. "My understanding was that you had vanished, milady. It is good to see that you are, in fact, alive and well."
"Well-met, King Iscawin," Telyn replied, her gaze and tone as icy as a midwinter night. "It has indeed been long since I was in Cantrev Arvon."
Her chill greeting startled the companions, but Iscawin showed no outward sign of taking offense. "The cantrev could ill afford the loss of such a skilled healer," he replied. "With any luck, you will soon grace it with your presence again."
Telyn's back was stiff as a poker and hatred seethed in her eyes, but her voice remained deadly calm. "The conditions for my return would run counter to your interests, my lord."
"Oh? How so?" Iscawin asked, a spark of curious amusement in his gaze.
"I shall not set foot in Arvon until Gwyn the Hunter summons you to your barrow," she replied.
The words hit the air like a slap. Eilonwy stifled a gasp and the other companions' eyes went wide. Iscawin's gaze darkened, but he maintained his composure.
"That is unfortunate," he replied steadily. Every drop of warmth in his voice had cooled to hard iron. "Perhaps you might be persuaded otherwise, in time. I am sure your mother and father would be eager to see you."
Telyn stared him down without another word.
"Yes… well… I suppose we had better go take our seats," Taran interjected awkwardly, taking a step back toward the Great Hall.
"Yes, let's," Eilonwy agreed, casting a wary glance from Telyn to Iscawin and back again. "The servitors won't bring anything out until we are present…"
Hastily, she, Taran, and Iscawin turned and disappeared into the Great Hall.
Fflewddur turned to Telyn. "Great Belin, what—"
"Not now," she cut him off brusquely. Her taut posture had not relaxed one bit. "I will explain another time, but… not now. I… I need to think. I need to breathe..." She brushed past him and Gurgi without making eye contact and fled across the courtyard.
They did not see her for the remainder of the night.
.
A/N: Reunions, plural—and so the mystery of Telyn deepens. I'd love to hear all of your hypotheses. ;-)
