Shock pummeled Taran and Eilonwy yet again. Rhodri? Rhodri was the traitor? He who had seemed most like an ally of all the cantrev kings new to them? Their minds raced, thinking back, trying to recall anything that might have hinted at his disloyalty, any clue they had missed. They found none. From the moment Rhodri had pledged his fealty after the Great Council, he'd been nothing but helpful and seemed naught but genuine—gruff and taciturn, to be sure, but never with any air of deception. If anything, his readiness to voice dissent had seemed a reassurance that he could be taken at his word. Yet, there he was, bearing down on Caer Dathyl with the threat of several hundred glinting blades.

Taran and Eilonwy watched in horror as his army marched closer and closer to Caer Dathyl. They waited, each moment seeming to stretch for an hour while simultaneously shrinking to an instant. They gave direction to the multitude of frantically gathering warriors. They passed among their frightened servitors, offering reassurance and encouragement while choking their own uncertainty and fear down into the pits of their stomachs. They girded on their swords, Dyrnwyn and Arianmor, feeling both reassurance and the burden of duty in the heft of the steel at their hips. Then, they returned to the gatehouse to wait again, and watch the dark tide sweeping in.

Onward it came, steadily, inexorably, step by step and hoofbeat by hoofbeat. Individual bodies became recognizable, then individual faces. Suddenly, three men on horseback broke rank and began riding swiftly toward the gates. As they drew near, the gatehouse archers raised their bows and took aim, breath held and muscles as taught as their bowstrings.

A moment later, it became clear that one of the riders was Rhodri himself—and one of the men beside him held aloft a flag of truce.

"Hold your fire! Stand ready, but hold your fire!" Taran commanded, as a tentative spark of hope flickered through the storm of despair that enveloped him. Rhodri and his companions halted just before the gate. "King Rhodri!" Taran shouted down to them over the parapet. "Your banner speaks of peace but your army heralds war. Why have you come to Caer Dathyl?"

"In peace, to defend against the war that will soon be at your door!" Rhodri called back. "King Meilyr has raised an army and prepares to march on Caer Dathyl! Give me leave to enter and I shall tell you all I know!"

Relief flooded Taran, but that soon gave way to another press of muted anxiety—the death sentence had been forestalled, but they'd not yet escaped it. "Agreed!" he called out to Rhodri, then gave the order to open the gates. Beside him, barely audible above the creak of the rising portcullis, he heard Eilonwy exhale a long-held breath.

"Iscawin spoke truth? He really did mean to help us?" she murmured in stunned disbelief.

"So it seems…"

Hastily, they descended from the gatehouse and went to meet Rhodri in the outer courtyard, neither saying a word more although a thousand thoughts crowded their minds.

"Well-met and ill-met!" the King of Rheged called out in greeting as he dismounted from his steed and strode toward him. Firmly, he clasped Taran's hand, then bowed to Eilonwy. "The carrion crows are circling, flying alongside the warriors of Madoc, but with luck and skill, together we shall rob them of their meal," he said.

Taran nodded affirmation, but Eilonwy frowned. "I must say, you gave us quite a fright, turning up with an army in full battle garb like this," she chastised Rhodri. "We thought it was you who had turned traitor. You might have sent a messenger in advance, you know."

"Deepest apologies," he answered, nodding in deference, "but it did not occur to me that my loyalty was in question," he added with a faint note of indignation.

"Indeed, it was not in question until the moment your warriors arrived," Taran assured him. "But I am afraid we must be wary of everyone; we have seen before how quickly friends can become foes."

"Understood—treachery is a tale as old as Mount Eagle," Rhodri replied. "But to business. I have information to share if you have ears to hear it."

"In our private chambers—they offer a good deal more privacy than the Great Hall or Council Chamber can provide," Taran said. He gestured for the guards to close the gates fast once again, and summoned Llassar. Then, together, the four of them made their way to the Middle Tower, stopping along the way for Taran and Eilonwy to spread the word that an attack was no longer imminent, but to stand ready nonetheless. At last, only when the heavy door of the royal chambers had been shut behind them and Llassar stood watch beyond, did the three speak again.

"So," Eilonwy began, crossing her arms and looking sternly at the cantrev king, "what exactly do you know of Meilyr's plans, and how is it you came by that knowledge?"

"I know that he has amassed a great army, and that he plans to attack within the month. As for how I came by that information…" Rhodri paused, looking rather uncomfortable, and cleared his throat, "…you have Lady Ffion to thank for that."

Taran and Eilonwy's stunned expressions spoke for them. Eilonwy then raised an eyebrow. "Do explain, please," she said. "We did not realize you were on speaking terms with her. Indeed, she specifically did not attend the Great Council because she knew you would be there."

Rhodri's brow furrowed. "No, we are not on the best of terms. Nevertheless, we exchange correspondence when the occasion warrants it. In this case, she saw fit to do so. Knowing of Meilyr's treasonous plans, she sent word to me, urging me to come to your defense."

"She betrayed her own cousin?" Taran asked, incredulous.

"Not directly, no. Whatever she may think of him, she would not risk her own head thus."

"How, then?"

Rhodri answered first with a wry and reproving twist of the lips. "Through subterfuge and intimation, of course. One does not fare well in the House of Madoc without such talents; Ffion is as adept at intrigue as a magician is at sleight-of-hand. Regardless, it happened in this way: A fortnight ago, my daughter arrived unexpectedly at my gates. When I inquired about the reason for her return, she explained that she had come at her mother's behest. Meilyr, it seems, has been gathering his warriors for months, and Ffion feared for Briallen's safety should Cantrev Madoc become embroiled in war—a possibility that appeared to be fast approaching. She discussed the matter with Meilyr, and he agreed to her request that our daughter move to Rheged until the danger had passed. Briallen also conveyed Ffion's apologies for the sudden imposition—initially, she had wanted the princess to join your court, but that no longer seemed wise given all that was at hand. It was Ffion's hope, however, that brave hearts and bold action would bring an end to the trouble quickly."

Rhodri halted then, looking as though he'd said all he intended to, and thought that all now ought to be clear. Eilonwy glanced at Taran and saw that he still looked every bit as puzzled as she. "And from that you gathered that Lady Ffion wished you to rally your forces in our defense? Forgive me for saying so—we certainly do appreciate your readiness to come to our aid—but that does seem a rather free interpretation of the message."

"To be more explicit would be treason against her cousin, putting both she and Briallen in peril," Rhodri replied brusquely. "Letters may be opened before they arrive. Conversations may be overheard. Messengers can have their tongues loosened. It would not surprise me if Briallen herself did not understand the full import of the words she conveyed, to shield her from blame or discovery. Ffion's intent was plain enough to me for all that the spoken message was vague. That she wished to send our daughter to your court implies her support for you. That she would not do so at this time suggests it is you Meilyr seeks to attack. She knows I have no great fondness for her cousin, and that my loyalties would favor you instead. Since she has no warriors of her own, it thus falls to me to muster the brave hearts and ignite the bold action that will put an end to Meilyr's treachery." His chin tilted upward with a stern pride. "Lady Ffion and I know each other well, for all the discord between us, and she knew I would both understand and be unafraid to act. And so, I am here. The warriors of Cantrev Rheged are fewer in number than those of Madoc, but twice as fierce, and ready to fight for their High King and Queen."

Taran gave a single, sharp nod of thanks. "We sorely need them," he admitted. "Even with your warriors, and those of King Iscawin, we may fall short of the number under Meilyr's command. Were Caer Dathyl whole and sound, we could easily throw back a siege. As things stand, though…" he shook his head ruefully. "We have three forces of men and three kings to lead them, and still, it may not be enough."

A puzzled expression flashed across Rhodri's countenance. "Three kings to lead them?" he asked. An instant later, understanding set in. "Ah. Fflewddur will have a hand in it, then?" he asked.

Taran's jaw tightened. "Alas, no, he departed months ago on business of his own. Iscawin himself is here."

"Truly? I knew he had pledged warriors to your command, but I did not expect he, himself, to be with them now."

Eilonwy jumped in to explain. "Well, as it happens—or as Iscawin claims, that is—he caught hints from Meilyr himself that a plot to overthrow us was brewing. He arrived just this morning with another host of warriors to bolster our ranks."

"Hmn," Rhodri grunted as his dark brows knit together.

"You take issue with that? Do you know of some reason we ought to turn him away?" Eilonwy asked hopefully.

"No. I do not know him well," Rhodri answered with a shake of his head. "Always rubbed me the wrong way—a bit too smooth and slippery to pin down—but I never saw anything amiss with him first-hand."

"Precisely our problem," Eilonwy responded with a sigh.

"And we can no longer afford to spend our time on solving it," Taran cut in. "Meilyr is the most pressing threat, and we must take swift action to thwart him. Bring your warriors into the stronghold, Rhodri, and we will speak with both you and Iscawin soon thereafter to plan a defense."

"Happily," Rhodri agreed. He bowed again to each of them and then strode from the room, his broad shoulders evincing a vigor and determination unearthed from beneath years of world-weariness.

After he left, Taran paced for a bit, then went to gaze out the casement into the gathering twilight, turning everything over in his mind, worrying it like a stone in his palm. Behind him, Eilonwy leaned against their hefty work table, doing the same.

Suddenly, realization bloomed in her eyes. "Ohhh… Ffion is cunning…" she breathed, "…even more than Rhodri realized, I think." Taran looked over at her sharply, curious. "Don't you see?" she continued. "Nearly every outcome serves her ends: If we defeat Meilyr, she would inherit Cantrev Madoc outright—or, at the very least, it would pass to her son, over whom she'd have great influence. On the other hand, if Meilyr succeeds, she would gain status as the cousin of the new High King; she might even persuade him to put Madoc under her control, if her intervention pushed Rhodri to side with him. After all, no matter whose side Rhodri took, her message was hazy enough that she could choose to claim or deny that she swayed him depending on who ends up victorious."

"And if Rhodri sided with the victor—either victor—at her urging, it would be grounds to reconcile with him. Then she would be Queen Consort of Rheged again, too. Yes, I do see…" Taran remarked, seeing the web of possibilities stretch outward in his mind. "It could be that she herself goaded Meilyr into treachery… But how could she be certain Rhodri would involve himself at all? That seems like such a gamble."

"It was, and yet it wasn't," Eilonwy replied. "She must know he wishes to regain her favor; if we could see that, it can't have escaped her notice. Think of that empty throne sitting beside his in his Great Hall. He wouldn't keep it there, torturing himself with the memory of her, for no reason. He either wants to remind himself of his mistakes, or bears some hope that she might return one day—or both. Ffion also knows how much Rheged is struggling; Rhodri needs to gain power and resources somehow. If taking action now could win both for him—and possibly a throne in Madoc into the bargain—that would certainly spur him to action. She is tugging hard on the strings of his desires, and that is no mere gamble."

A deep, biting cynicism gripped Taran, and his face filled with pain. "So, she did not truly care whom he helped? And Rhodri is merely choosing the side that stands to benefit him most? Have we no true allies?" he asked bitterly.

"You know we do," Eilonwy answered quietly. "Gurgi, and Fflewddur, and Telyn, and King Smoit, and Hevydd, and Llassar… Even Tegwyn and Cedrych, I'd wager. Need I go on? Granted, many of them are too far away to help us at the moment, but they are true allies nonetheless. And it seems Rhodri is an ally for the moment, too, regardless of whether his motives are partially selfish." She paused, continuing to mull the situation over. "For what it is worth, I do think Ffion wanted him to side with us. If Meilyr took it into his head to attack us of his own accord, she could have allowed everything to simply play out as it might, and would still have benefited. Yet, she stepped in."

A long silence settled between them, prickling with invisible needles of unsettled energy.

"And what of Iscawin?" Taran asked. "What are we to think of his game?"

Eilonwy's expression darkened. "Oh, you know my thoughts on him," she grumbled. "Granted, his warning has been borne out now by Rhodri's news, but I still don't trust him. He keeps reminding me of a tapestry—a handsome image on the surface, but concealing who knows what behind it." She huffed and crossed her arms. "I suppose we must work with him, though. There simply isn't time to send for King Smoit instead."

"No, there is not—not if Meilyr will be here in a week or two." Taran released a heavy sigh. "We should have time to send out scouts, though. At the very least, we could get a better sense of how just how quickly Meilyr's army is approaching, and by which route."

"Hmmm." Eilonwy's lips pursed. "That's a sound enough idea, save for one thing: do we have any experienced scouts? Sending out poor ones could be as useless as shooting arrows blindfolded."

"I… do not know," Taran admitted, running a hand agitatedly across the back of his neck. Belin, he could feel the tension in it, like tough cords beneath his skin. What wouldn't he give to be back at Caer Dallben, worrying about horseshoes and Hen Wen instead of this… "We shall have to ask Cadfan which of the warriors might be capable," he said. "Just… grant me another few moments to collect my thoughts, then we will call everyone together to discuss our next moves."

Wordlessly, Eilonwy pushed away from the table, crossed the room to meet Taran, and embraced him tightly. The warmth of her palms on his back, the press of her cheek against his shoulder, the soft waves of her hair threaded through his fingers—it was nearly enough to make him weep for the simple joy of having her there, with her arms encircling him like a safe harbor in tumultuous seas. He breathed deeply, pulling every drop of solace and strength he could from the moment, wishing he could draw it out for a lifetime.

"All will turn out well in the end," she murmured, a warm thrum in his ear. "I don't quite know how yet, but I know that it will. I cannot imagine the Book of Three would bother foretelling a king who only reigned for a year."

Despite himself, Taran smiled and gave a single, sighing laugh. "I hope you are right…" he replied.

"Choose to believe I am right," she asserted.

He squeezed her more firmly before pulling away at last. "I shall."


Within the hour, they assembled their companions and allies: Gurgi, Llassar, Hevydd, Rhodri, Iscawin, and Cadfan. They stood before their king and queen in a half-circle, an arc of expressions ranging from flinty and determined to wary but earnest, awaiting the pronouncements and orders to come.

Taran gazed back at them, wrestling his fear and doubt into grudging submission, freeing his mind and shaping his resolve into solid words. As they crossed his lips and expanded into the Council Chamber beyond, he heard them ring out strangely, as though they came from a tongue not his own, but rather from one long accustomed to this place, this position, this authority. The spirit of Caer Dathyl itself—of every king that had walked its halls before—seemed to permeate his skin and take hold of his heart, strong, and steady, and assured. Action. For good or ill, he would take action. He was High King, and Prydain was in his charge, and he would not surrender it until he had fulfilled his every promise and seen its people thrive, though uncertainty and self-doubt snapped at his heels every step of the way.

"It is grave news I must deliver today," he began, looking to each of his allies as he spoke. "As some of you know already, King Meilyr of Madoc has betrayed his sworn oath of allegiance and seeks to take the high throne of Prydain for himself. We do not yet know exactly when that attack will come, nor how many warriors will wage it, but we have reason to believe it will be both soon and powerful. With my own eyes, I have witnessed the depth of Meilyr's forces, and they can only have grown since then. Yet, I also know how stout are the hearts of the warriors here, and how clever are their leaders. Together, we can turn back the assault."

He paused to draw in another fortifying breath. "But first, we must know more about Meilyr's movements—whether he has already set out from Cantrev Madoc, and how he means to direct his attack. For that, we must send forth scouts, as swiftly and as stealthily as possible. Cadfan?" he asked, turning to the Captain of the Guard, "are there any men among the ranks who possess such skill?"

Although the stern warrior did not release his stiff, formal stance by hair, Taran saw his jaw tighten while he sifted through the possibilities in his mind. "I can think of one or two who might serve," he replied at last, his gravelly voice tight with constrained dismay, "but none are as skilled as the very least of the scouts lost in the war against Arawn. That sort of prowess takes years to build. While these men have promise, they are still young."

Taran stood tall against the blow, but his heart faltered. Two pairs of inexpert eyes would leave them nearly as blind as having none at all. Yet, what alternative was at hand? Llassar had tracking skill beyond his years, but if he failed to return in time, it would mean the loss of a trusted friend who could lead warriors in the field.

"Send out one of my own scouts, then," Iscawin proposed. "Powel is so keen-eyed that he could track a mouse across a horizon of barren stone, and is as cool-headed as a hawk in winter besides. He knows the lands between here and Madoc well, so he will be able to move quickly. If you seek an able scout, you will find none better than he."

A warning flag swept across Taran's inner field of perception. However badly they needed information, it would never do to have one of Iscawin's men be the only source of it. Without even glancing at Eilonwy, he knew she felt the same; he heard it in her faint, sharp, indrawn breath. He nodded his acknowledgement to Iscawin, but did not accept the offer outright. Instead, he turned to Rhodri. "And you, Rhodri—have you a suitable scout among your men as well?" he asked.

The older king nodded brusquely. "Aye. Erim. My very best."

"Very well. Erim and Powel shall depart tomorrow morning, bearing as swiftly toward Cantrev Madoc as they are able. While we await their return, the rest of us must devote every waking moment and measure of energy to readying Caer Dathyl for battle. We cannot close every remaining gap in the walls with stone, but we can bar them with timber and fortify them with warriors so that they become as dangerous to pass through as any gatehouse." Pulling in a deep breath and spreading his shoulders wide, he turned to his allies one by one and set out their tasks. "Cadfan and Llassar," he said first, "see to it that all of the laborers in Caer Dathyl receive what weapons training you can give them in the brief time we have. Hevydd will assist you in arming them. Eilonwy, do what you can to see that the women who wish to remain at Caer Dathyl receive the same—I will not have them be utterly defenseless if the walls are breached. As for those who would do better to flee, please arrange for their travel to Fflewddur's realm; I trust that his Chief Steward will grant them safe haven in this time of need. Rhodri and Iscawin, devise two plans for how you shall divide your men into smaller bands and lead them: one strategy for defending Caer Dathyl against a siege, and another should we need to confront Meilyr in the field. I shall work with Cadfan to do the same. I will also speak with Medyr about bolstering our stores of provisions—Gurgi, you shall assist him in that effort. I will meet nightly with all of you to discuss what progress has been made." He fell silent at last, and was met with a round of approving nods.

Before he had a chance to dismiss everyone, however, Gurgi took a tentative step forward. "May humble, faithful Gurgi beg a favor?" he asked, clasping his paws together.

"Of course," Eilonwy said immediately. "You may always ask, Gurgi—you ought to know that by now. What favor do you seek?"

"Please, allow Gurgi to serve as a scout, too. Capable Chief Steward can gather crunchings and munchings on his own—he does not need help. It would be so much better for Gurgi to go with seekings and peekings, to spy on wily, wicked traitors."

Taran's brow furrowed, as did Eilonwy's. "But you are not an experienced scout, Gurgi. You have keen senses, it is true, but are not practiced in the ways of secretly tracking men who are already on guard for spies. Moreover, I would not have you wade so deeply into danger before it is absolutely necessary."

Gurgi's shoulders slumped and his large eyes pleaded silently.

"He is right," Eilonwy added. "You haven't the experience. I know you wish to be of use, but it will be better for you to assist us here. There will be ample chances for you to serve—and danger enough for any would-be hero."

"Ah, but clear-eyed, sharp-nosed Gurgi does have experience searching, noble queen!" he argued plaintively. "He found wise piggy in the realm of the Fair Folk, and evil cauldron in the Marshes of Morva, and enchanted finger bone that kept wicked wizard Morda alive! He even found long-lost wisdom in the land of the dead! He knows the woods, and the fields, and the hills and mountains, too. He can run swiftly, and creep quietly, and sniff out trouble long before it reaches mighty fortress. Please, allow helpful, loyal Gurgi to do this."

The earnest look in Gurgi's eyes tugged at Taran's heart. He could see how fiercely the creature longed to be treated fully as one of their number—not as a half-beast relegated to side tasks, but as a fellow man in all ways save raw form. He likely could serve as well as he claimed, too, having dwelled in the wilderness for nearly all of his life. Yet, to send one of his precious few, most trusted, companions away from his side and into the very bosom of his foe's domain… the very thought sent a tremor of cold dread shuddering up the back of Taran's neck. Briefly, he tore his eyes away from Gurgi's pleading gaze, glancing first to Iscawin and then to Rhodri. Neither of them bore even a tenth of the loyalty his friend possessed, and their underlings would have still less. As much as Taran needed his faithful companions near, he also needed an unimpeachable report on Meilyr's actions. Gurgi was clever in his own way, and a survivor; he would not easily fall victim, even if he were spotted by Meilyr's forces. The two experienced scouts would be with him as well, and surely lessen the peril. Forcefully, Taran shoved his misgivings away.

"All right, Gurgi… you may go," he pronounced reluctantly.

Gurgi beamed from ear to ear, his sharp canines flashing brightly. It was evident that he wanted to jump up and down with happiness, too, but had finally learned enough restraint to refrain. "Joy and gladness!" he exclaimed instead, nearly panting with excitement. "Wise and kindly master will not be disappointed with Gurgi, oh no, never! He will go with stealthy spyings and return with great secrets!"

"Go as safely as you can, old friend. We will be anxious for your return," Taran replied. He returned his gaze to the assembled men. "The first tasks are set, and further plans will be made soon enough. But now, the hour is very late. Return to your lodgings, claim what sleep you can tonight, and we shall begin with a will at the first light of dawn."

With a murmuring of wishes for a good night, all turned to file out of the chamber. As they did, Taran surreptitiously caught Hevydd's shoulder, motioning for him to hold back with a quick, wordless tilt of his head. After everyone save for Eilonwy had departed, he spoke to the smith in low tones. "Hevydd, how many of the new steel swords have you and you apprentices managed to produce?"

"The wave-pattern steel? A handful shy of a hundred. Not as many as I'd wish for at a time like this, that's for certain, but our trip to Arvon cost us time at the forge. You wish me to dole them out now, I gather?"

"Yes, it is time," Taran agreed. Behind Hevydd, he saw a look of both surprise and satisfaction enter Eilonwy's countenance. "But do so discreetly," he added, "and only give them to the warriors of myself and Eilonwy. None must be in the hands of Iscawin's men, nor even Rhodri's."

"Oho—you believe the poison of treachery has seeped beyond King Meilyr's veins, then?"

"I do not entirely believe so, but I fear it nonetheless—and should it be true, I want our men to have whatever advantage they may."

Hevydd smiled—a grim gesture, but not without a spark of pleasure. "A wise decision, King Wanderer. Consider it done. They shall have steel that ripples like water, and the blood of your foes will flow likewise."

Taran smiled wearily in return. "Thank you Hevydd—for the skill of your hands, but even more so for your steadfast heart."

"Indeed," Eilonwy added. "It rings as true as the blades you craft."

Hevydd's cheeks flushed above his bristly beard. "Well, now," he said with an embarrassed huff. "As I've always said, life is a forge. I'm far from a finished piece yet, myself, but I've done my best to beat out what impurities I could. If that is enough to serve now, then I shall be likewise content with it for now. And you," he added with a wag of his stout finger, "ought to consider doing the same. A blade need not be perfect to be sharp and strong—you learned that lesson well enough before, and would do well to keep it in mind."

Taran nodded, a little sheepishly. "I shall, Master Smith," he said.

"A good night to you, then, Wanderer," Heyvdd replied. Then he turned to Eilonwy and gave her a wink. "And to you as well, my Warrior-Queen."