He was a fast runner, faster than she, encumbered as she was by the large sword and exhausted besides, so after a brief trot she gave it up and slowed to a walk...it wasn't as though she didn't know where to find them, and meanwhile she was dubiously mulling over Taran's blurting out of the name Gwydion. What did he mean?

Hoarse cries and sounds of a scuffle interrupted her thoughts, and she rounded a pile of boulders and gaped aghast at the sight before her: Taran, his sword drawn, wildly slashing at the foliage and underbrush. From somewhere behind the leaves, the plaintive and indignant shouts of Fflewddur Fflam were begging him to leave off. Had he gone mad?

She rushed forward, narrowly escaping a backswing off the sword, and grabbed Taran by the wrist and shoulder, throwing off his balance. "Stop it!"she shouted, shaking him frantically. "What's the matter with you? That's no way to treat him — after I went through all the trouble of rescuing him!"

He rounded on her so wildly that she fell back, in real terror for a moment. He was flushed from his exertions, but beneath the unnatural darkness of his face he was horror-stricken, his features contorted with shock and grief. "What treachery is this?"he flung back, his voice shattering like crystal hurled against a wall. "You...you left my companion to die!"

Her mind blanked, automatically, behind a wave of defensive instinct; she scrambled backwards, gasping for breath, grasping for an explanation, but no words came, and he advanced on her like a thunderstorm. "I should have known! You've been in league with Achren all the time. You're...you're no better than she is!"

They were words like axe blows, and her heart was battered by the onslaught; she barely registered that he raised his sword arm toward her; she was already shoving past him, as a deluge might crash into a boulder and tumble it violently away, a mindless destruction bent on nothing more than escaping down the path of least pain. Before she knew she had run, she was gone, out of earshot of his cries, but her own anguish chased her, in a blazing fury, and she did not know that the leaves sizzled as she swept past, wisps of smoke curling from their shriveling tips.

She ran until she had no breath, and dropped to the ground, gasping, fingers clawing painfully into the damp turf and tearing up chunks until the smell of earth and bruised moss welled into her nose and throat and choked out the flames of the fury that filled her up, snuffed it into a smoldering heat, simmering just under her control, and the mind that had been left behind in the blaze came running to catch up.

Animals. Animals. Not to be trusted. Ordinary people do not understand us. They will betray you. Hurt you.

Stories may speak of love. Of friendship. They are weak substitutes for power, the grasping of mortals for that which they cannot have.

She sobbed, gulped, pressed her hands over her ears, but the voice came from within. Even buried under a castle's worth of stone, Achren would haunt her, that relentless voice speaking lies.

Were they lies? She wanted them to be lies. But... she clawed once more at the ground, angrily ripping up chunks of moss and throwing them as hard as she could at a nearby boulder, watching

them leave dirty streaks, like blood, down the rough surface. If that...that assistant pig-keeper were here wouldn't she love to smash some in his face.

The very thought of it made her own face crumple again. He was horrible, unspeakable; he'd actually raised his sword against her and she would never forgive him for it, never, not even if he begged.

It was her own fault. She'd let her guard down, trusted him, even, made herself vulnerable. Trust is a chink in your armor, Achren whispered, from far away; she saw those white teeth and red lips in her mind and rose, growling out loud. If you don't care, no one can hurt you.

It must be true. Look at what had happened, how false he'd turned out to be. After all his pretending to care, protecting her as the castle was falling...she thought again of the safety of his arms at her back, and flopped onto the boulder, sobbing anew.

Where would she go now? The castle was gone, the two people she'd rescued didn't even know each other, and anyway she'd walk over the edge of a cliff before she'd go anywhere with that stupid, stupid boy.

The snap of a twig made her jump, and she looked up to see him marching toward her resolutely. So, he meant to carry on with battle, did he? Very well. That she could handle. All her anguish rose and reddened and turned to anger, powerful and familiar. Next to her, her bauble flared into brilliance.

"You've made me cry!" she flung at him in fury. "I hate crying; my nose feels like a melting icicle. You've hurt my feelings, you stupid assistant pig-keeper, and all for something that's your own fault to begin with."

Taran halted, his demeanor changing to defensive confusion. "My fault?"

"Yes, yours," she cried. "Every bit. You were the one so close-mouthed about who you wanted me to rescue, never told me his name, just kept going on about your friend in the other cell. So that's who I rescued - the man in the other cell."

"You didn't tell me there was anyone else in the dungeon."

"There wasn't. Fflewddur Fflam or whatever he calls himself was the only one." Oooh, if she were on the ground. There was nothing on this boulder to throw at him.

"Where is my companion?" he demanded. "Where is Gwydion?"

"I don't know," she insisted. "He was never in the dungeon." He fell into a moody silence and she felt her fury subsiding into dull, smoldering resentment, both at him and at this Gwydion, whoever he was. He'd caused her a lot of trouble for nothing, apparently.

Taran spoke again."What could she have done with him?" His voice had lost its accusatory tone, and she sniffed.

"I haven't any idea. She could have brought him to her chambers or locked him in a tower. There's a dozen places she could have hidden him. You could have said, 'Go rescue a man named Gwydion' and I would have found him. But no, you had to be so clever about it and keep everything to yourself..."

His shoulders slumped in defeat. "I must go back to the castle and find him. Will you show me where he might have been imprisoned?"

Eilonwy crossed her arms and jutted out her chin. "There's nothing left of the castle, and anyway I'm not sure I want to help you anymore, if all the thanks I'm to get is a lot of name-calling and meanness. That was like putting caterpillars in somebody's hair." She turned away from him, sulking, but from the corner of her eye saw his head bow.

"I am sorry," he murmured. "I accused you falsely. My shame is as deep as my sorrow."

This made her pause. She tried to remember if she'd ever admitted to being ashamed, and couldn't. Her anger fizzled out like foam in the sunshine. Perhaps she would forgive him after all. Maybe. If he continued to be properly repentant. "I should think it would be."

"You're right in refusing to help," he continued, turning away. "It is no concern of yours. I shall seek him alone."

He...what? He was supposed to stay and beg for forgiveness. Oh...blast him. Even humbled in penitence, he was maddening. "Well, you don't have to agree with me so quickly," she cried, scrambling off the boulder to follow him.

They made their way back to Fflewddur Fflam, who was waiting where they'd left him, brushing down Melyngar, and she was mollified at Taran's apologetic recounting of where the mistake had come in. The older man accepted it graciously and consented to help in the search for Gwydion. While Taran turned back toward the castle ruins and left them behind with long-legged strides, Fflewddur, she noticed, measured his pace to hers.

He was so nice. She was silent for a moment, feeling chagrin in her turn as she thought of her harsh words and thoughts about him. If Taran could admit to being wrong, she should be able to as well, shouldn't she? It was an unfamiliar and uncomfortable sensation. "Fflewddur," she began hesitantly, "I...I'm sorry I said those things to you. About abandoning Taran. Of course you knew nothing of any of it."

She let her breath out in a relieved whoosh at the end. There. Not so terrible.

His glance upon her was mild. "Tut, my girl," he said gently. "I'll admit to a few minutes of confusion. But no harm done. If I really had been who you'd thought I was, you'd have been absolutely right, and honorable about it, too." He rubbed his bristled chin. "Where'd you learn that kind of loyalty? Don't tell me that Achren-woman taught it to you. I wouldn't trust her with a pet rat."

Eilonwy chuckled and then screwed up her face. "I don't know exactly. Books, I suppose." She really had no idea where she'd gotten any of her notions that opposed Achren, who put it all up to rebellion and pig-headedness just for their own sake. Perhaps that was all it was.

"Well," said Fflewddur, "at any rate, confused as I was, saved is saved, and I owe you a great debt. When that castle came down all I could think was that you were still inside it. You've no idea how glad I was to see the two of you coming down that hill. A Fflam is optimistic! But that was quite..." He broke off, gesturing wordlessly at the sight before them. The ruins of Spiral Castle lay silent in the moonlight, a broken, gloomy landscape of despair. Taran was climbing about on the fallen stones. He called to them, and they spent many fruitless minutes trying to move the giant boulders - more than she wanted to, but he was insistent, and, seeing his grief, she had not the heart to point out how useless it was. This he acknowledged, finally, himself.

"This shall stand as Gwydion's burial mound," Taran said, gazing around at the rubble in defeat. Beside her, Fflewddur sighed and shook his head.

There was a company of dead guards lying in the rubble just within the gates, and though Fflewddur's suggestion that they arm themselves with the weapons of the fallen was a sound one, she shuddered as they neared the bodies. To be sure, one saw horrible things frequently around Spiral Castle, but she didn't usually see them so closely. As soon as Taran had handed her a small dagger that fit her hand well, she turned away from the wreckage and walked a few paces away, feeling ill.

They picked their way down the slopes, and after a brief squabble about how far they should separate themselves from the ruins, made for the woods and found a secluded glade, distant enough to satisfy Taran. She watched Fflewddur throw himself on the ground after carefully placing his odd-shaped pouch on a root - a harp, she realized, remembering some mention of his being a bard.

Taran, the first to stand watch, stood beneath a tree. Eilonwy settled down upon a patch of turf nearby, but found it difficult to relax. The grass was thick and afforded some cushion, but the cold of the ground beneath soaked up through it, relentless, and she turned restlessly. Taran had handed her a cloak from Melyngar's saddlebags, and she bunched as much of it underneath her head as she could without sacrificing its warmth. Her empty stomach growled.

Taran was standing beneath a tree nearby, on watch. He still looked sad and anxious; when he noticed her looking at him he turned away, but she did not feel anger there, only pain. "I'm sorry about your friend," she murmured.

His hunched shoulders drooped a little. "Thank you." He was silent a moment, and turned back around and gazed at the sky. "It's strange, you know. I only met him yesterday, but...I'd heard of Gwydion all my life. The greatest hero, the greatest man in Prydain...and now he's dead because of me." His voice broke like a cracked jar on the last word; he dug his hands into his eyes.

She sat up; almost ran over to him, but he had turned his back to her again. "Don't say that," she urged. "It wasn't your fault, anymore than it was Fflewddur's. How could you have known he wasn't in the dungeon? It was a perfectly understandable mistake."

"It's not that," he said gruffly, still not looking at her. "When the cauldron-born came upon us, he fought to protect me. He knew he couldn't slay them, but if I had not been there to hinder him, he might have escaped."

She considered this. "Well. It isn't as though you brought them to you on purpose. And it doesn't seem very helpful to me to think about what might have happened once it's done. I don't know what Gwydion thought, but if he was as great as you say, then I should think he'd be glad to protect you. Isn't that what heroes do?"

Taran made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a bitter laugh. "I suppose." He turned back toward the glade and she could see his face again, tense and drawn. "I'm not sure I know much about heroes, anymore. Gwydion was nothing like I imagined he'd be." He looked down, digging his toe in the dirt. "He was much more."

She leaned back, perched on her elbows. "Well, what was he like?"

Taran shook his head. "Very rough and plain. I didn't even believe him when he told me who he was. You know, you expect royalty to be..."

She raised an eyebrow at his hesitation. "To be what?"

"To be obvious."

"I see." Her dry tone seemed to escape him.

"But he wasn't. He'd been traveling a while, and...well, you know, it showed. But I could tell after a while that he was...different. He spoke very little but everything he said mattered. You could tell he knew so much more, and cared about things that most people wouldn't, and..." Taran fell silent for a moment and then shrugged. "I don't know how to describe him. Maybe it was because he was not like other men. Maybe all the House of Don are like that."

Eilonwy sat up again at the name. "Wait. He was a Son of Don?" Taran stared. "Don't you know who Gwydion is?"

She shook her head. "Achren never talked about the Sons of Don unless she was vowing revenge on all of them, and then she wasn't particular about specific ones." She knew the House of Don was the ruling family of Prydain, the people Achren called usurpers and pretenders. But the name Gwydion had meant nothing to her. He had been important then; too important, indeed, for the dungeon. What had Achren done with him? It could not have been anything good. She shivered.

Taran gave a low whistle. "I thought everyone knew who Gwydion was. It must be terrible to be ignorant."

She glared at him sharply, but that grin was back, disarming even under its veil of weary sadness, and she swallowed the retort that had sprung to her lips, feeling her face grow warm. "Very funny, Taran of Caer Dallben. It's not my fault I've lived in that beastly hole so long."

He chuckled. "You must be glad to see the last of it." She was silent, dreading lest he ask where she intended to go next, but he said nothing more for a time, and then only murmured. "You'd better get some sleep. Who knows if we might have to move before morning."

True enough. She flipped to her back and gazed up at the sky. The shredded clouds were parting, leaving black windows for the stars to wink through. There were so many, brilliant as gems, twinkling as though they were laughing at some celestial joke. How lovely to be able to see them, not just to know they were swinging slowly above while you slept. How delicious to sleep in this air, smelling the damp green of the woods instead of shut in with curtains and who-knew-what roaming through your room. No one making frightening noises. Just the wind and the leaves whispering, and the small rustles of little night-creatures going about their business.

And a tomorrow with no Achren in it.

She sighed contentedly as she dropped off to sleep.

A sudden commotion, an explosion of leaves and pattering footsteps and voices shouting in excitement. Sitting up with a gasp, she turned toward the noise to behold Taran standing stonily, his sword drawn, towering over something crouched upon the ground at his feet. Eilonwy emitted a startled yelp as the thing moved; in the darkness she could make out a ragged, shaggy silhouette that vaguely resembled a head.

"Who is your peculiar friend?" Fflewddur exclaimed, as she dug for her bauble. It flared, illuminating; the thing whirled to look at her, its eyes throwing back the light in a glare of green. She beheld a face that was more animal than human, be-whiskered and black-lipped, before the creature threw a pair of shaggy arms over its eyes and moaned in terror. Vaguely man-shaped, it was covered in hair, and wore nothing. It fell away from the light, crawling on all four limbs in an awkward way, as though they were too long for such a task.

Taran did not seem surprised or frightened, only annoyed, and she took courage from this. "For an assistant pig-keeper," she said, "you do keep strange company. Where on earth did you find that? What is it? I've never seen anything like it in my life."

The boy sheathed his sword again in disgust. "He's no friend of mine. He's a miserable, sneaking wretch, who deserted Gwydion and me as soon as we were attacked."

"No, no!" the creature wailed, and she realized that this had been the voice that had woken her. "Poor humble Gurgi is always faithful to mighty lords—what joy to serve them, even with shakings and breakings!"

"Tell the truth," Taran ordered. "You ran off when we needed you most."

"Slashings and gashings are for noble lords, not for poor, weak Gurgi. Oh, fearsome whistling of blades! Gurgi ran to look for help, mighty lord."

"You didn't succeed in finding any," Taran shot back, and the creature barked anxiously.

"Oh, sadness! There was no help for brave warriors. Gurgi went far, far, with great squeakings and shriekings."

"I'm sure you did."

"What else can unhappy Gurgi do? He is sorry to see great warriors in distress, oh, tears of misery! But in battle, what would there be for poor Gurgi except hurtful guttings and cuttings of his throat?"

Taran snorted, and the creature groveled miserably, fawning at his knees. Eilonwy, beset by the desire to laugh at the strange cadence of its speech, was yet moved to pity. Obviously there was more to this story that she was not privy to, but she could guess enough: this Gurgi had been driven away in the same skirmish that had resulted in Taran's capture by Achren. She could hardly blame him for running.

"It wasn't very brave," she broke in thoughtfully, "but it wasn't altogether stupid, either. I don't see what advantage there was for him to be chopped up, especially if he wasn't any help to you in the first place."

Gurgi's pointed ears shot forward and he bounded toward her; she stepped backwards, startled, realizing that his groveling posture hid how large he actually was. But he fawned at her feet as he had at Taran's, reminding her of nothing so much as one of Achren's hounds, begging for a belly rub. "Oh, wisdom of a noble lady!" he cried, "if Gurgi had not gone seeking help, he would not be here to serve you now. But he is here! Yes, yes, faithful Gurgi returns to beatings and bruisings from the terrifying warrior!"

She could not help giggling, and Taran scowled at her. "Just keep out of my sight," he ordered the creature, "or you really will have something to complain about."

The pointed ears flattened against the shaggy skull. "Gurgi hastens to obey, mighty lord. He will say no more, not even whisperings of what he saw. No, he will not disturb the sleepings of the powerful heroes. See how he leaves, with tearful farewells."

He turned towards the trees, but she saw the crafty glint in his eye and almost laughed again, just as Taran rounded back upon him, shouting "Come back here immediately!"

Sharp white teeth flashed, in a canine smile. "Crunchings and munchings?"

Taran sighed, looking defeated. "Listen. There's hardly enough to go round, but I'll give you a fair share. After that, you'll have to find your own munchings."

She could have sworn the creature grinned at her, sideways. "Many more host march in the valley with sharp spears — oh, many more. Gurgi watches so quietly and cleverly, he does not ask them for help. No, they would only give harmful hurtings."

Fflewddur perked up. "What's this? A great host? I should love to see them. I always enjoy processions and that sort of thing."

Taran slumped wearily onto a fallen log and shook his head. "It's not a procession. The enemies of the House of Don are gathering. Gwydion and I saw them before we were captured. He believes they will march upon Caer Dathyl, under the leadership of Arawn's war captain, the Horned King." He shuddered, and a spasm of horror crossed his face. "He's a monster. And it sounds like he's gathered reinforcements."

Eilonwy squinted quizzically, digesting this, but Fflewddur sprang to his feet, startling her. "Then we should set upon them!" he cried.

She stared at him blankly. "Are you mad? There are three of us. Four, if you count him." She gestured to Gurgi, who rolled his eyes in terror and whimpered.

Fflewddur drew his sword with a flourish, and gestured grandly in the air. "Ha! The greater the foe, the greater the glory! A Fflam never shrinks from danger. The bards will sing our praises forever!"

Taran, his eyes kindling, seized his own sword, and she looked from one to the other of them in disgust. Llyr, had they both lost their minds? But he sobered almost immediately, and muttered, "No. It would be folly to think of attacking them. Even Gwydion said so. The bards might sing about us, but we'd be in no position to appreciate it."

Fflewddur looked crestfallen, and Eilonwy decided she'd had enough. "You two can talk about the bards singing your praises all you want," she snapped, dropping back onto the ground and wrapping her cloak over her head with a snort. "I'm in no mood to do battle. I'm going to sleep."

There were rustlings around her as her companions settled in, no one saying any more, and she frowned into the folds of her cloak. Were all male creatures so ridiculous? What possessed them even to think of such nonsense?

It was a good thing she had decided to come with them, she thought.

Someone on this journey needed sense.