While Taran was wrestling with the conflict at the quarry, Eilonwy was back at Caer Dathyl, wrestling with her fury at him by attacking the mountain of clutter amassed in their chambers.
"Ugh! My mind feels as jumbled as a bag of bones with all of this lying about!" she fumed aloud as she tore through the piles of miscellany. "It's a worse hodgepodge than Dallben's study! Small wonder he needed so much time for meditation; I can't even think straight in this mess."
The royal chambers were, in truth, in a remarkable state of disarray. Sundry garments—mostly Taran's—were draped over stools and piled at the foot of the bed where he had left them in his nighttime haste to collapse into sleep. Reams of parchments were shoved haphazardly onto shelves and stacked atop the work table amid a scattering of dull quills. Spent candle stumps poked up from their holders like misshapen cairns, marking where she and Taran had worked late into the night. None of it was the result of carelessness as much as pure exhaustion: with so much to be done, placing things neatly away had never seemed the wisest use of time—particularly when so much of it would need to be dragged forth again the very next day. Now, however, after several months of such neglect, the mess had piled up to a breaking point.
In hindsight, Eilonwy was beginning to regret her adamance that they could handle the upkeep of their chambers on their own. It had seemed so practical at the time: she hadn't wanted strangers poking through their belongings any more than was absolutely necessary, and short-staffed as they were, she'd thought it better for what few servants they had to attend to more critical tasks. They'd managed well enough at first without the daily attention of chambermaids, but several months on…
With a flustered huff, she leapt into a flurry of action. "Why can't he just put these things away right when he takes them off?" she ranted as she stormed about, snatching up article after article of twice- and thrice-worn clothing, hastily folding and shoving the cleaner garments into their storage chest and dumping the rest into a pile for the laundresses. "Forget ladies-in-waiting for me—he needs a gentleman-in-waiting to dress him. Maybe then this would all end up where it belongs."
She pounced on the explosion of work-related clutter next—half of which was in fact her own doing, although she was in no mood to acknowledge that, even to herself. She snatched up the old quills and stuffed them into a wooden box, then plopped the candle stubs into a sack so their wax could be salvaged later. The multitude of scattered parchments, she shuffled and sorted into tidier, more logical stacks—not the most thorough remedy, but an improvement nonetheless. Besides, she knew which piles her various documents lay in; Taran could sort out his on his own later, so long as they didn't look such a mess in the meantime. Finally, table cleared, she began venting her ire on the splotches of melted candle and sealing wax stuck to it, vigorously scraping them away with her thumbnail.
Once she had the workspace in some semblance of order, she moved on to the sleeping quarters. A few quick flurries of sheets and blankets was sufficient to cover the bed that would, after all, simply be unmade in a matter of hours. It took her a bit longer to work out how to re-hang the bed curtain that had been pulled down sometime along the way and had since lain abandoned in a plush puddle on the floor. Then, from beneath a pile of surplus, cast-aside goose-feather pillows, she recovered one of Taran's boots—missing for at least a week—and callously tossed it beside its brethren near the door. The pillows themselves, she reckoned could be tucked away somewhere. How did we end up with so many in the first place? she wondered as she stooped to scoop them up, picking off a few loose bits of down that were poking through the linen covers. It certainly wasn't my idea—or Taran's for that matter. As if we have more than one head each, to need so many pillows!
As she opened another of the storage chests and began clearing a space for them, her fingers brushed unexpectedly against cool, hard leather. After a flicker of surprise, her mind flashed back to that last afternoon at Caer Dallben when she'd packed the chest for their departure. There, beneath a spare blanket, the Book of Three lay buried—a treasure set aside for safekeeping, then forgotten in the face of more pressing concerns. But how could they have forgotten it? At a time when she and Taran needed wisdom so badly, it should have been the first resource they turned to. She could only assume their forgetfulness came down to habit: for years, the tome had been inaccessible to them—a tantalizing and forbidden mystery. But now…
Her fury vanished like a snuffed candle flame. Curious now, she tucked her hands under the book and lifted it from the chest. It was even heavier than it first appeared—dense with the burden of knowledge and history set down over untold ages. She hefted it over to the table and set it down with a soft thump. A light puff of dust rose into the air, tickling her nose. Reverently, she trailed her fingers over the tooled and embossed patterns that spiraled over its leather skin like the twists of fate. A shiver of excitement and awe tingled up her spine. In times past, such a touch would have seared like hot iron, shielding the book from unworthy eyes. The tome's inherent magic was gone now, its contents open, but it clearly still held power. Unconsciously holding her breath in anticipation, she unfastened the binding straps and cracked open the cover.
She didn't know what she sought to find, exactly—just began leafing through the ancient vellum pages at random. For a while, she simply marveled at the colorful tumult of images clambering around the margins: men and women, birds and beasts, leaves and blossoms, all surrounded by intricately twining knotwork. Soon enough, though, the sinuous letters pulled her deeper into the text itself. History began to unfurl from the pages and bloom in her mind's eye: happy and heartbreaking, glorious and humble, tales she'd heard whispers of and far more she knew nothing about. It was difficult not to lose herself in them. So many stories, and no time to read them all at the moment—perhaps not even enough time in a year, or ten years, or twenty years to read them all…
With a jolt, Eilonwy saw her own name spring from the page, crisp and bold, scribed in Dallben's firm but flowing hand. Her heart fluttered. There lay her name… and others. Names she had heard before, but recited by a spiteful tongue and driven into her memory with a sharp smack when she'd forgotten them… Name, after name, after name, after name, stretching across the page and rooting themselves deeply in time. Their syllables formed a chant as she read them aloud: Eilonwy… Angharad… Regat… Mererid… Morgana… Ceinwen… Glesni… Eleri… Rhiann… Eurolwyn… Creirwy… Branwen… Penarddun… Don. Thirteen names for thirteen moons, united under one brilliant sun.
Yearning for connection, she reached out and traced the names with her fingertips, feeling the faint grooves impressed into the page—the last vestige of her ancestors that she could touch. But no, that wasn't quite true, she remembered suddenly: she still bore the Golden Pelydryn, though its enchanted light would never shine again. Hastily, she dug into the purse hanging at her hip and withdrew the sphere that never left her side. She grasped it tightly as she continued to read, feeling the smooth, cool metal gradually warm in her hand.
The next several pages held far more than mere names. Each queen's history was set down indelibly in darkest ink: some poignantly brief, others enviably long; an ample share of failure and triumph, sorrow and celebration, pain and the transcendence of pain. Over and over, Eilonwy read of battles hard-won: on land, on sea, and within the depths of heart and mind. She watched the downfall of King Llyr and the ascendance of his daughters. She saw Caer Colur rise proudly above the waves, and felt a fresh twist of grief as she remembered its fall. She read of Sword-Maidens even braver than herself, and enchantresses more wise and powerful that she dreamed she could ever become. She read the partial tale of her own mother, woefully obscured by riddle and mystery even here, but hinting at some legendary confluence of love, sacrifice, and the sea. As she read, her heart swelled with equal measures of pride and a burning desire to be worthy of her lineage.
When she came to Penarddun's history, her swiftly searching eyes caught a mention of the Golden Pelydryn—an entire story within a story, in fact. She'd sensed the golden orb was old, but was it truly that ancient? As ancient as the daughter of a god and goddess? Eilonwy rubbed her thumb over its flawless surface, remarkably unmarred by time despite the abuse of her own rough adventures. Excitedly, she plunged into the tale…
...
By the edge of the sea, Penarddun sat weeping—
Penarddun, Daughter of the Living Sun—
Daughter of Belin and Daughter of Don—
Penarddun of the copper hair—
Penarddun, maiden deemed most fair—
sat weeping upon the shore,
where stone embraces water, and earth kisses sky.
...
She grieved that she, too, must soon become a shoreline,
ever caught between the sunlit land of her birth,
and the watery realm of her husband-to-be—
King Llyr of moon and darkest sea—
King Llyr, who touched the truth in dreams—
King Llyr Half-Speech, Son of Rhiannon
who parted an ocean to win her hand.
...
Her mother saw—and father, too—
and wondered what laid her heart so low.
"Beloved Daughter, what brings you to grief,
in this realm where sorrow can never hold sway?
Why have you come to this borderland,
where tears may fall freely,
and their salt mingle with the waves?"
...
"Weep I must," Penarddun cried,
"or the tears held back would drown my heart.
I grieve that my love is won at such high price—
my father's good will, and the haven of my home.
How will I fare in this kingdom new—
an island in cold waters, lit by the ever-changing moon?
How will I fare when all roads are unknown,
and every face I encounter is strange?"
...
Regret arose then in Belin's heart,
for rancor past and hard words cruelly spoken.
Though loath was he to see his daughter go—
daughter most beloved, daughter most fair—
across the sea forevermore,
his heart was split far deeper still
to see her leave with a spirit so broken.
...
So outward he reached, and caught a ray of sun,
streaming down upon them, warm and clear,
gathered it up into a pool of light—
light of the father—
pool of wisdom.
...
Then outward Don stretched her warm and gentle hand,
and pierced it with a shard of hazel shell,
and from it fell nine ruby drops of blood—
blood of the mother—
nine drops of life.
...
In Belin's hands, they mingled and cooled—
two souls into one, one body from two—
and as they mixed, more brightly they shone.
Deftly, he shaped from them a sphere of gold—
a sphere of gold, lit from within—
lit from within by the brilliant flame that reveals all truth,
and casts all falsehood into shade—
the Golden Pelydryn.
...
"Take this," said he, and placed the orb into Penarddun's hands.
"Take this, and find solace,
though you pass through dark nights and deep waters.
It shall ever be a light to guide your way,
with wisdom and with love."
...
"Take it," said Don, and circled her arms around her daughter tight.
"Take it and remember home,
though you walk unknown paths, among strangers.
It shall ever reveal what is hidden from sight,
and separate friend from foe."
...
Then Penarddun bowed her head low in thanks,
and held the Pelydryn close to her breast.
"Take it I shall, and will carry it always—
this light of wisdom, truth, and love.
The daughters I bear shall carry it too—
a link to the past, a guide in the present,
a beacon for the future yet to come."
...
And thus it was that Penarddun sailed—
Penarddun, Daughter of the Living Sun—
Daughter of Belin and Daughter of Don—
Penarddun of the copper hair—
Penarddun, maiden deemed most fair—
set sail aboard a ship of gold,
and carried summer with her to a distant shore.
...
A golden sunburst, outlined in crimson and encircled by a ring of thirteen moons, marked the ending of the tale. Seeing it, something wrenched hard within Eilonwy's chest. A single, animal sob burst from her throat and resounded back to her off of the stone walls. The edges of the emblem blurred in her vision as stinging tears welled up and began to flow—more tears than she thought it possible for one body to contain, yet somehow not enough to fill the gaping hole that had cracked open within her. As she sat there weeping, sobbing, time slipped away. Coherent thought slipped away. The world itself slipped away as she shut her eyes tight against it, overwhelmed by a surging ocean of grief…
"Eilonwy! What's wrong? What's happened? Are you hurt?"
Her eyes flew open to find Taran standing in the doorway, his face stricken with concern. Under the crushing wave of her anguish, she had not even heard him enter. Now, for once, words utterly failed her. "It's… I…" she stammered, gasping for air, tears still spilling freely down her cheeks. She spun the Book of Three around and pushed it across the table toward him. "Look…"
Puzzlement now piling atop fear, he hurried forward and bent over the massive tome, looking where she pointed. As quickly as he could, he scanned the pages, drinking in the language, the legend, the history, searching for what had distressed Eilonwy so. Worry turned to wonderment, though, as he read Penarddun's tale—of the Pelydryn and more—then read it all again to be certain of what he had seen, then leafed through the adjoining pages that cast light upon the vanished House of Llyr. Finally coming to the end, he looked back up at Eilonwy, awestruck.
She had gone quiet by then, but a sharp look of sorrow still haunted her gaze. "I… I let it go out…" she murmured. "I let it end…" Her lower lip trembled and she began to cry again, her face twisting and her shoulders quaking as silent tears gave way once more to full-fledged sobs. "I gave it up, Taran… I… I let the light… go out…"
In an instant, he dashed around the table and pulled her up into his arms, clutching her to himself as tightly as he dared—an instinctive move to shield her although he knew the attack came from within. For a long while, he simply stood with her: held her close while she wept, her face buried against his chest; stroked her back gently; kissed her head once, then again, then yet again, cradling it in his warm hand. With no adequate words to offer, he attempted to pour whatever soothing energy he could into her through touch, through presence.
All the while, he felt his own heart splintering. He, himself, had caused her pain. Eilonwy had stayed in Prydain to be with him; had sacrificed her birthright of enchantment because of him; had relinquished part of her very being and cut her last ancestral link in exchange for him. True, the ultimate decision had been hers—and freely made—but the underlying cause of it rested squarely upon his back. As he stood there, reeling, he recalled how painful it had been to hand Adaon's brooch of wisdom over to the enchantresses of Morva, though he had experienced its power for only a scant handful of days. What Eilonwy had sacrificed, in comparison… The ensuing tidal wave of empathy, and gratitude, and gnawing guilt threatened to bring him to his knees. But there was no turning it aside—nor should there be. He allowed the full force of it to break over him unchallenged, and held Eilonwy even closer. Whatever comfort he could summon up now, he owed entirely to her.
Gradually, her sobs abated. Then at last, with a shuddering sigh, she lifted her head and pulled away from him. She sniffed a few times, wiped her cheeks as dry as she could, and turned once again toward the book. Taran saw that she still clutched the Pelydryn in her hand. It gleamed dully with reflected light, copper-cast beside her hair. A flame of understanding flared within him in kind.
"Eilonwy… You did not make the light go out…" he said, quietly but firmly. "Not the true one. Don't you see? You are the light, with enchantments or without…" She gave no reply—merely looked over her shoulder at him, questioning. "You sacrificed the magic, but you are still the daughter of all those who came before you," he continued. "And now you have knowledge of them. The Pelydryn guided you when you did not have access to that knowledge; but now that you do have it, you no longer need an enchanted orb to remind you. The light is inside of you, Eilonwy. More than that, even—it is you. And it shines every bit as brightly as before."
That declaration seemed to push away some, if not all, of the lingering sadness and bewilderment in her eyes. "But… But I still cannot see clearly," she said plaintively, turning toward him in full. "There are strangers all around us, and we don't know whom to trust… and we guess at things more than we know them outright… and I feel like I can't tell up from down, or light from dark anymore… and Caer Dathyl still doesn't feel like home…"
Taran heard her voice hitch, and he stepped forward to embrace her again before a fresh surge of sorrow could sweep her away from him. He pressed light kisses to her cheeks, to her closed eyelids, to her lips, tasting the salt that lingered upon them and thinking suddenly of the sea around the Isle of Mona. He felt her body relax against his as she finally escaped some of the tension that gripped her, releasing it in an extended, exhausted breath.
"Listen…" he began again, his throat so tight now that every word ached. "Was Penarddun not in much the same situation as you: facing a new home, new people, new responsibilities as Queen?" Softly, he brushed an errant strand of hair from Eilonwy's forehead. She nodded slowly. "And even with the Pelydryn, most of what she accomplished, she did on her own by wits and not by magic. You can be just as strong, just as wise."
Eilonwy bit her lip to keep it from trembling. "But what if I cannot?" she whispered after a moment.
"You can," Taran assured her. "You shall. You have already. You light my way every day; you help make things clearer…"
"Do I?" she asked, tilting her face upward slightly to meet his gaze. Her nose was red from crying, her eyes puffy and still glistening with tears, but all Taran saw was the woman who carried his heart: as powerful as the ocean, turbulent and deep, and as warm and sustaining as a hearth fire on a winter day.
"You do," he asserted. "You have been a beacon since the very day we met, though it took me far too long to realize it. And I—" He halted, feeling his own eyes begin to prickle with tears. He blinked hard, huffed out a rough sigh, then pushed ahead, fighting to keep his voice steady. "I must do better at lighting your way in return. I have been far too distant of late… You chose me over so much, and continue to choose me, and… and I have failed to do the same." He shook his head slowly, filled with regret. "I am so sorry, Eilonwy. I am so sorry…"
A faint smile touched her lips, then—weak and weary, but genuine. "That's very… That's… Thank you. Thank you for saying that," she answered quietly. She withdrew from his arms, then, and sank back down upon the bench. For several moments afterward, she remained silent, staring at the Book of Three, wading deeply in thought while Taran looked on.
"Why didn't Dallben tell me?" she asked at last. A trace of anger hardened her voice. "He had all of those histories, all of those names, right there at hand and never told me…"
It was a fair question, without a fair answer. "Knowing Dallben, he likely thought it wasn't the right time for you to know," Taran replied.
"Right time? How could there be a poor time to learn about my own kin? They're mine," she argued. "I can understand why deceitful old Achren might have kept so much of that knowledge from me, only feeding me their names and a few mentions of how powerful they were, whether from spite or simply to keep me under her control. But Dallben?"
"He was forever keeping things from me when he thought it best, too," Taran reminded her. "And no, it never sat well with me at the time; but looking back on it, it usually turned out to be wise. Perhaps he guessed there would be a time, like now, when you would see more of your own story in those of your ancestors—when their histories might hold even more meaning for you."
"Perhaps…" Eilonwy allowed skeptically, frowning a little. "Oh, bother it! Why do you have to be right about that when I just want to be angry with Dallben for a minute? It would distract me from some of the sadness and homesickness…"
Taran heard some of her usual fire returning; he smiled crookedly in relief. Then, an odd but amusing notion came to him. "Well…" he ventured slowly, teasingly, "the next time you begin to feel homesick for our life at Caer Dallben, you are more than welcome to help me give Hen Wen a bath."
"Ha! Still no luck finding an Assistant Pig-Keeper of your own, then?" Eilonwy retorted.
"One or two… None that Hen fancies much, though," he replied, eyes twinkling. "And I am sure they would step away from their duties for the sake of their queen." He glanced around the chambers, finally noticing the marked improvement in their cleanliness. "And while we're on the subject of servants—are you certain you want to keep handling these chambers on our own? They look quite well now, but they've been getting rather out of hand…"
She cut him off with a mild glare of reproach. "A simple 'thank you for tidying up' will suffice at the moment. We can discuss the matter of chambermaids some other time."
Taran swallowed his suggestions. "Thank you. Truly," he said.
"You're welcome," Eilonwy replied with a pert toss of her hair. "Oh, and I finally found your boot that went missing. And we have enough pillows to smother a family of bears… you don't need more than one, do you?"
"No," Taran said, laughing freely now. He bent down to give Eilonwy another firm hug. "No, one boot for each foot and one pillow for my head is plenty—so long as I have one of you, too."
"Well, there is only one of me, so count yourself lucky that you found me and behave accordingly," she said tartly, smiling against his shoulder.
"I shall. I swear it," Taran vowed.
"Oh! I nearly forgot…" she continued, pulling back and looking up at him. "What ended up happening at the quarry?"
.
A/N: And here we have the product of convergent idea evolution and subsequent collaboration... Way back in December/January while CompanionWanderer was writing Daughter of the Sea and I was first drafting this chapter, we realized that, by some marvelous coincidence, we'd independently arrived at the notion that the Pelydryn was a wedding gift from Penarddun's parents: a miniature, symbolic sun to light her way when she left the Summer Country to marry Llyr. Upon discovering that, CW graciously filled me in on additional details of the Penarddun and Llyr history she had developed so that I could tailor this chapter to match her story even more closely. The list of Eilonwy's maternal ancestry is also a direct lift from that story, with permission. Hopefully, I've woven both elements into this chapter in a way that dovetails but does not seem redundant with her work.
