"This Council business is simply impossible," Eilonwy lamented to Taran as they readied for bed a few nights later. "We managed to settle all of, what, one issue in the past two days? And even that still has details to be worked out tomorrow. At the rate we're going, I think the whole of Caer Dathyl will be rebuilt before the Council is finished."
Taran looked wearily at the growing stack of parchments piled atop the large table in their solar—a testament to how much ordinary business they'd not been able to attend to since the Great Council began. "It was my hope that giving everyone a voice in the decisions would make them more inclined to abide by them. I'm beginning to think that was a mistake…"
"One can definitely see why so many kings end up becoming tyrants," Eilonwy mused. "Dealing with so many squabbles, and rivalries, and contrary opinions, and challenges to one's authority… The frustration might make me want to lop off a few heads, I can tell you. Not that you or I would actually succumb to that temptation, but nevertheless… It seems much more understandable now that I've seen some of these cantrev leaders firsthand."
"Perhaps we will fare better tomorrow?" Taran ventured. "Although, I can't imagine them being any more agreeable when discussing taxation…"
"You might want to begin by bringing up the Mona Haven seawall instead—it would likely be a bit less contentious," Eilonwy suggested. "Then again… Come to think of it, I'm sure someone will complain about another cantrev receiving help instead of their own realm. Best to leave that for a private conversation with the delegation from Mona, then. Or do you think we should arrange a voyage to visit Queen Teleria and discuss it with her directly, before she chooses a successor and we have yet another person to consider? It would have been helpful if she had simply come to the Council herself—although I understand why she wouldn't care to at such a difficult time…"
"Mmmfff," Taran groaned as he plopped down on the edge of their bed, elbows on knees and head in hands. "Of course there will be more arguments if we mention the seawall. I cannot think of a single thing those men wouldn't complain or quarrel about. I can hardly get a word in before one of them sends the conversation off sideways and I need to steer it back again…" He looked back up and shook his head ruefully. "And Tegwyn and Cedrych are the worst of them! I would not have thought it possible, but they are even more belligerent than Lord Gast and Lord Goryon! I swear, they bicker like two lovers turned sour …"
"Well…" Eilonwy said as she unbound and began brushing out her hair, "…you might not be too far off with that comparison."
Taran snapped to attention. "What? What do you mean?" he asked, entirely caught off-guard.
"I mean exactly what I said. Rumor has it they were very close comrades at one time… very close, if you take my meaning. Granted, that is more Dinas Rhydnant gossip, so one really can't be sure. But it certainly seems to fit the way they behave toward each other. Oddly enough, I've found they're actually quite pleasant each on their own—very quick-witted, and nowhere near as glum as some of the other Hill Cantrev kings. And from what Smoit told me, they're both very brave in battle, too, despite what they claim about each other."
Taran was stunned, still too caught up on the first part of Eilonwy's revelation about of the kings to notice much of the rest. "But… them? But they have wives… and heirs…" he stuttered.
"Oh, that." Eilonwy shrugged. "Kingly duty. And that's assuming those heirs are even really their sons; who knows what sort of arrangements they've made with their wives. You saw how brazenly Queen Carys was chatting up one of Iscawin's men, and Tegwyn didn't seem to bat an eye. It's really none of anyone's concern, if you ask me. Only, I do wish he and Cedrych would get past whatever went awry between them, since it's causing so much trouble for us now…"
"Huh." All of Taran's surprise and confusion tumbled out in a single non-word. Exhausted from the long day and with his mind reeling, he flopped backward onto the bed, his legs still half-dangling over the side. "I feel like I am peeling onions…" he said after a while. "Dealing with these cantrev leaders, I mean. Just when I think I have a sense of them, I cut deeper and find that it is just layer, after layer, after layer…"
"Yes, people can be like that," Eilonwy replied, yawning as she clambered into bed and burrowed under the blankets. "And in my experience, peeling back those layers is equally likely to make one cry." She yawned again and curled up into a tighter ball. "But enough about kings and quarrels and vegetables—I am simply too tired to talk any more. Perhaps in the morning… And don't you dare jest about the peculiarity of my not wanting to talk."
Taran lay silent for a long while, staring into the darkness, perplexed and pondering, absentmindedly twining his fingers through Eilonwy's hair. Onions indeed, he thought. Of a kind he seemed to know precious little about.
Finally, with another deep sigh, he shifted closer to Eilonwy and wrapped his arm around her waist.
"Thank you, by the way," he murmured in her ear.
"Hmmm? For what?" she asked sleepily.
"For speaking up as you have in Council… For standing beside me, and just… just being you."
"What else would I do?" Eilonwy asked. "I haven't come this far with you to leave you dangling out there alone like a worm on a fish-hook. And I can't very well be anyone other than myself." She clasped Taran's hand and pulled his arm more tightly around her. "But you're welcome just the same."
High in the Middle Tower, a light shone from the casement of one of the guest chambers. Since that first night at Caer Fflam, Telyn had made an intermittent habit of interrupting Fflewddur's sleep: usually, to take her own rest on the low couch she'd set beside his hearth; other times, to talk; occasionally, to go over an old song that had popped up into her head, lest she forget it again before their next work session with the bards. That particular night was a combination of sorts: Telyn resting on her accustomed perch, gazing intently into the fire; Fflewddur pacing slowly while singing under his breath, deciding whether to amend the lyrics to one of his own songs before it was indelibly scribed in ink—and glancing at her each time he passed.
Suddenly, he stopped mid-stanza and mid-stride, studying her more closely. She sat in her usual place, but her demeanor was nothing like her typical languorous repose. Instead, she seemed pensive and drawn, her arms encircling legs drawn up to her chest, contracted, defensive. He read the same tension in her that he'd seen that night in Craddoc's hut, after the encounter with the thieves.
"Telyn, you look troubled… brooding," he remarked. "What is amiss? Surely, it is not my singing that offends you…"
"Oh, no—no of course not," she replied, looking up with a smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
"Council matters, then? You disapprove of the decisions made today?"
"Mmn," Telyn grunted a vague confirmation. She looked back toward the fire and began fiddling with the hem of her linen shift.
"It seemed like a clever enough solution to me: allowing the war leaders to hold their cantrevs for three years, with Taran and Eilonwy then installing them as kings if they've managed well, or sending them packing if they haven't. That allows some time to determine their worthiness, but not enough for them to amass overwhelming armies or stockpiles of wealth. And if they do become, shall we say, a bit resistant to the idea of relinquishing control, it will certainly be easier to boot them out than one of the established cantrev kings."
"Yes, that seemed reasonable enough," Telyn stated.
"Iscawin, then? You spoke out against him gaining some of Pryderi's lands…"
Her expression darkened further. "For all of the good that protest achieved," she muttered, bitterness breaking through her previously flat tone.
"Well, how would you prefer it had gone? We couldn't very well have Pryderi's old war leaders take them, not after they betrayed King Math; Meilyr was correct about that much. By rights, Taran ought to have stripped them of their heads in addition to their lands, but I do see the reason in extending some mercy for the sake of maintaining good will—fewer vengeful kinfolk to contend with."
"I suppose so."
"Besides, even with the new land holdings, Iscawin's realm is about equal to some of the larger Southern Cantrevs, no more," Fflewddur went on. "And Taran maintained control over the River Kynvael, so he and Eilonwy still hold a path to the sea. That seems like a sound strategy to me."
"It is."
"Then what is your complaint? It cannot really be, as you claimed, that you think it unfair to grant land to one king and not the others."
"No, that is not the full reason, but is the reason I could afford to give in Council," Telyn explained.
"I don't understand," Fflewddur said, a bit testily. Her taciturn replies were fast becoming frustrating; it was not her wont to be so guarded and evasive. "Iscawin seemed to think well enough of you when he introduced himself—before that barbed reply you made, anyhow. And he has been helpful in Council, which is more than I can say for most of the others. What quarrel do you have with him? You've never said a word about it. Great Belin, I never thought I would need to ask this of you, but speak plainly, please."
Telyn's hands ceased fidgeting and she looked squarely at the bard. "Iscawin is a viper," she hissed, her voice acrid with contempt. "He is not to be trusted. And you can be certain his presence here is to serve his own ends—not those of Taran and Eilonwy, or even Prydain itself."
Fflewddur quailed slightly, taken aback at her sudden, vehement response. His brow furrowed in confusion. "Are we speaking of the same man? From the way he's behaved thus far, he seems like a decent sort—a bit ordinary, perhaps, but that's hardly reason to condemn someone. Your description sounds more fitting for one of Arawn's henchmen."
"And he might well have been one, were he not too shrewd to fall for Arawn's deceit," Telyn asserted. "You have seen only what Iscawin wishes you to see; he may not be an enchanter, but he is a shape-shifter nonetheless."
"All right… But how so? What has he done?" Fflewddur asked slowly, apprehension coldly creeping up the back of his neck.
Telyn paused for quite a while, searching for words that could answer his bewildered gaze. When she found them at last, they poured forth in a torrent, seeking release almost of their own accord, before thought or caution could hold them back. "Iscawin… beguiles his prey by embodying whatever traits they respect or desire most," she warned. "To those who esteem strength and power, he portrays himself as a cool-headed, stone-hearted warrior. To those who prize wealth, he appears in the glittering raiment of the richest king, and offers to help them gain the same. Men who seek revelry and diversion find him to be a light-hearted companion. Women who crave love meet a silver-tongued seducer who, at first, seems to be the sweetest and most attentive of men. Even those who value noble traits are not immune to his deception; to them, he feigns humility, compassion, wisdom… and those are the most heartbreaking victims of all, for their very honor becomes their undoing." She paused, hugging her arms more tightly around herself and looking back toward the fire. "It's insidious, you see? Through guile, Iscawin gains a person's trust. Then, with the gentlest of hands, he places a rope around their neck and helps them tie their own noose. He is ruthless. When people no longer serve his ends, he tosses them aside like spent rags… At best he casts them aside," she added with a shudder. "Wherever he goes, discord follows; any who oppose him simply disappear. His own brother—a far better man—was driven into exile for fear of him."
She halted and shook her head with a contemptuous grimace. "And that is the man who now holds half of the Western Domains, and has bent the ear of the High King… And I did not speak against him soon enough, for fear he would retaliate against my family. That is why I am troubled."
At first, Fflewddur was at an utter loss for words. What horrendous things had Telyn seen? His stomach turned—what horrendous things had she suffered? He swallowed hard against the lump rising in his throat. "Those are… serious accusations," he said at last, somberly. It was a pitifully weak reply, he knew, but the only one that came to him through his shock.
"They are deserved. Iscawin is vile," Telyn spat. "He is the reason I fled Arvon in the first place."
Fflewddur looked at her questioningly, hoping she would continue. Instead, she rose from the couch and began pacing, slipping away once more into her thoughts.
"And…?" he prompted. "What happened, exactly?" He was nearly bursting with curiosity—and now a heavy measure of foreboding, too—about Telyn's untold past. She had revealed much about herself to him since that first day near Avren Harbor, but nothing about the reasons she had left her home and family behind.
Telyn glanced over at him, called back to the tangible world by the sound of his voice. "Do you want the long story or the short one?" she asked wearily.
"Oh, you know me," Fflewddur said, taking a seat on his pallet as if settling in to hear an epic. "The long one, of course."
Telyn frowned. "I was afraid of that. I scarcely know where to begin, though…"
"Well, jump in at the middle, then. I often do that when composing a new chant," he suggested.
"Even the middle is… complicated. And grim," Telyn replied. She hesitated, worrying her lower lip. "I don't want to spoil your night any more than I have already… Are you certain you wish to hear it?"
"Great Belin, of course—you've kept me in suspense for months! If you are willing to tell it, that is."
Telyn sighed heavily and sat back down on her couch. "I would rather not—but I shall. And you will have to forgive me for being a poor storyteller compared to you. Nevertheless…" She drew a deep breath, as if preparing to enter frigid waters, then plunged into her tale.
"Already, you know that I come from a family of healers—through my mother's line, running back to before the Sons of Don arrived, although my father also gained some skill at it. As such, they were often called upon to treat members of the royal court, including Iscawin himself. I, too, attended them—more often as I grew older and more adept at my trade. Well… somehow along the way, I caught Iscawin's attention. In truth, I cannot fathom why—I'm certainly no legendary beauty, nor wealthy, nor powerful. Although…" Telyn interrupted herself with a sardonic twist of a smile, "perhaps that was reason in itself: it is far easier, after all, to poach common game than rare, prized creatures; no one pays any mind when sparrows and hares go missing… Regardless," she continued with a shrug, "I had enough sense to shun his attention; I had seen enough of what happened to those who fell in with him. They would come to my family for aid sometimes… battered bodies, broken spirits… hollowed-out shells of people, really." She paused, biting her lip, her gaze going distant for a moment before she shook herself back to the present.
"Now, at that time," she continued, "I had recently been wed to a man named Rhys." As the memory of him arose, Telyn's tense expression softened and her eyes brightened. "He was a farmer, no more, but that suited me just fine. And he was kind, and steadfast… and had a slightly crooked nose where it had been broken once… and a lopsided grin that never failed to make me smile…" She broke off suddenly, her face contorting in a fresh surge of grief as the specters of memory rose from their barrows in her mind. Fflewddur watched, his own heart aching, as she fought to push them back—a hand clapped over her mouth to dam up any sobs, tears slipping past eyelids shut tight. He yearned to reach out to her, to gather her in his arms and be her refuge, but feared any move might shatter her resolve to continue her tale. He knew, now, how it must end; he did not need to hear it. Somehow, though, he sensed that she needed it to be heard.
After some time, Telyn drew in and released a shuddering breath, wiped the errant tears from her cheeks, and continued. Her voice was steady once more—resolutely detached. "One evening, Rhys failed to come home. He'd taken our share of taxes to the castle, and I expected him to return late, but nightfall came and he still did not arrive… I waited up for him until morning." She halted and swallowed hard. Her hands gripped the edge of the couch, and her eyes remained fixed on the floor. When she began again, her voice was as bitter as wormwood. "I set out at dawn to search for him… Found him lying in a ditch beside the road, with a dagger-wound in his heart."
Fflewddur sucked in a sharp breath, aghast. Telyn rushed ahead before he could speak or she could lose her nerve. "Then Iscawin truly began to hunt me, like a hound after a hind." Her lip curled in disgust. "It was revolting the way he tried to play upon my grief; to feign concern and offer comfort when I'm sure he had a hand in the murder. I tried to steer clear of him, but how do you avoid a king when you are in his service?" She shook her head in dismay. "Shunning him seemed only to spur him on, as if he relished the challenge… I knew if I stayed and bent to his will, it would be my ruin. Yet, if I stayed and continued to refuse him, he would have made life a waking nightmare for me and for everyone I loved. So, I fled. I grabbed a handful of possessions, bid goodbye to my family, and fled.
"Iscawin did not pursue me, but misfortune certainly did. As I was heading eastward through the Hill Cantrevs, I happened to pass by Morda's hut. With all of those thorn hedges around it, I knew better that to approach, curious though I was. But in trying to pass it by, I was so busy watching my back that I wasn't minding my feet. I walked right into one of his snares, and was strung up like a gutted deer. Morda found me before I could struggle free. The instant he cut me loose, I fought back—nearly broke away, too, but he caught my ankle and sent me tumbling… pinned me down, spat in my face… said I fought like a mountain cat, and so a mountain cat I would become. And in a flash of that Fair Folk gem he possessed, so I was. I bolted before he could snatch me again, too terrified even to test my new strength against him.
"Fortunately, after escaping Morda, I fared well for a while. Life as a cat was agreeable enough once I grew accustomed to it. I missed human companionship sorely, of course, but the world appeared so much more vivid, and I suddenly had so much freedom and strength… But then Glew trapped me." She sneered disdainfully. "I still can't quite believe the little coward managed that—it's embarrassing, really. He caught me in a particularly lean season, when I was too hungry to pass up the live sheep he'd set out as bait. Apparently, he wanted a mountain cat because he thought it would garner him some respect—make him seem more powerful and imposing. You can imagine how well that worked. Well, when that plot failed, he decided to keep me around anyway. He carted me over to Mona, then tried to test out all of those noxious potions on me. If he wanted to become a giant so badly, he should have had the guts to test them on himself! It did allow me to escape in the end, though, so I suppose I cannot complain now." She shrugged and sighed. "I ended up a giant cat, he ended up a giant stuck in a cave, and you know most of the rest…"
Coming to the end of her long tale, Telyn finally met Fflewddur's eyes—and saw they were ablaze with rage. "Great Belin!" the bard roared, leaping to his feet. "I'll have that conniving, murderous maggot by the throat before he can draw his next breath! I'll skewer him with his own sword! I'll string him up from a parapet! A Fflam never hesitates to root out a rotten apple, and he sounds like the most worm-eaten one of all!"
Startled, it took Telyn a moment to realize he was referring to Iscawin, the only one of her former attackers upon whom he could still exact vengeance.
"We must warn Taran and Eilonwy immediately!" he continued. "There's not a moment to lose!"
"Oh, sit down," Telyn chided, snapping back to her customary matter-of-factness. "Yes, we must tell them the truth about Iscawin—I've waited too long as it is. But storming in and causing a scene in the middle of the night will only make you look like a madman. We can speak to them about it in the morning. Besides, we'll still need to figure out Iscawin's game, and that will take stealth—not the impetuous outburst of a Flam."
Deflated, Fflewddur plopped back down. "I was only trying to be helpful," he muttered. "I admit, I do get carried away from time to time. But, in my defense, this seems like a situation where it's absolutely warranted. From what you've said, Iscawin deserves to be thrown in the deepest, foulest dungeon to rot—if he's allowed to live at all!"
"Oh, I wholeheartedly agree. A large part of me would like to stab him through the heart and make that dagger hilt is the very last thing he sees," Telyn replied. "I'm only urging you to have some patience before we take his guts for my bootlaces."
"Hmph," Fflewddur grunted. To say anything more would loose the flood gates holding back his fury. He wanted to drag Iscawin from his bed and hold him immediately, violently to account: for his numerous, heinous crimes; for robbing Telyn of home, family, love—indeed, all but the most rudimentary elements of life; for breaking the heart of the woman he himself…
…loved.
His mind tripped over the admission. Suddenly, there it was, the truth laid bare: the woman he loved. Telyn. The harp that made his spirit sing. Oh, the bitter irony of it, to fully own that revelation immediately after seeing how much she still ached for her slain husband. He could say nothing, now. He could never hope to fill that hole in her heart. He could not even risk trying, for fear of wounding her more deeply if he failed…
He glanced Telyn's way again. She sat there, shoulders slumped, looking very… small. Drained, too, as though each word of her story had withdrawn vital energy from her as it crossed her lips. Wordlessly, he rose from his pallet and crossed the space between them, sat beside her, placed a reassuring arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him, resting her head against his own shoulder.
"Perhaps I should have killed him long ago…" she murmured, "should have just mixed some deathcap mushroom in with his medicine. It would have been so simple… He certainly deserves such a fate—and who knows how much trouble his death might have spared others?"
"What held you back?" Fflewddur asked quietly.
"I just… couldn't. To stoop to his level of depravity with poison? No—that would be a perversion of my knowledge: a dishonor to my trade and to the plants and mushrooms themselves. The power they contain is a gift to us, to be wielded with respect and toward compassionate ends. And yet," she continued after a beat, "I would not think twice about slaying him in a fair fight—and the end result would be the same. So perhaps I ought to have poisoned him… Oh, I don't know," she sighed. "I made my choice. I do not know whether it makes me noble or a coward, but there it is."
"Noble, to my mind," Fflewddur answered after a moment. "Many justify dishonorable behavior by claiming it serves a greater good—but it has been my experience that those who go too far down that road tend not to find their way back."
"Hmm."
She said no more, merely sat there beside him, head to shoulder and side to side, until she was too tired to fend sleep off any longer. Then Fflewddur took to his bed, and she to hers, bidding each other a simple 'good night,' and surrendering to the healing darkness.
Or attempting to. By the sound of Telyn's soft, measured breathing, Fflewddur gathered that she had managed to fall asleep, wrung dry by the press of emotions she'd faced. He, on the other hand, was still wide awake for all his weariness. A whirlwind of thoughts raced and spun through his head. An inescapable restlessness had taken hold of his limbs, making it impossible to find any comfortable position on his pallet. Every sound in the room seemed amplified, worming its way into his ears and further jarring his already rattled mind. After what felt like an age, he abandoned the quest for sleep, quietly pulled on proper clothes, lit a small lantern, and went out to wander through the sleeping castle. Perhaps, moving his body would still his mind. Perhaps, he could tire himself thoroughly enough that his very thoughts would exhaust themselves. Perhaps, he would walk until dawn and all would become clear in the bright light of day. Perhaps.
