Of Magic Swords and Unofficial Bards

Returning to her tree, Eilonwy leaned against the knobbly bark, and her shin knocked into the sword propped at her side. She looked down at it in surprise, realizing for the first time how quiet it was being. The potent presence of the previous evening was now only a brooding whisper, pooling in the back of her mind. But it still drew her eye magnetically once she'd glanced at it, and she picked it up to examine it in full daylight, sitting down cross-legged at the foot of the tree.

It was old, that much was certain; the scabbard, though polished metal, was mottled and black, etched with intricate designs. The disk-shaped pommel was set with a garnet-red jewel, around which interlaced carved hounds bit each other's tails; the long grip was ridged and the crossguard was adorned with twisting vines, studded with blue and green jewels as flowers. It was a treasure of skilled workmanship, masterfully crafted. She traced one twisting vine with a finger, following it around the crossguard to the edge of the blade, where...

Llyr. With a small hiss of pain she jerked her hand back and shook it. The sword had stung her; not a vicious sting like a wasp's, but a warning jab, like when you'd touched a hot coal unwittingly. She stuck her fingertip in her mouth and stared searchingly at the weapon...oh. There it was. A warding glyph, smack in the middle of the scabbard at the hilt where any fool should have been able to spot it; it was lucky she'd gotten the point before trying to draw the blade, which would have been her next move.

Well, really, she thought in annoyance. All that trouble to drag you from underneath the castle, and now you can't even be used? That was a dirty trick to play. The magic in her head moved a little, amusement and satisfaction the primary impressions. She frowned at it, half-minded to bury it where she stood, or toss it up into the branches overhead, there to hang by its belt until doomsday. But no, of course not - it was much too powerful to be left lying around, so now she must be burdened with it until who knew when. Blast the thing.

There were stirrings among her companions now; it was full morning and the brightness of the light would no longer allow sleep. Gurgi sat up first, showering leaves; he yawned, showing a ring of very white, sharp teeth, and scratched one ear with a gangly hind foot before noticing her, whereupon he came bounding over, immediately energetic. "Noble lady wakes first in the brightness and lightness! She has crunchings and munchings to share with Gurgi for his breakfast?"

She giggled. "No, not yet. There's munchings in the saddlebag, but you'll have to wait for everyone. We're all hungry," she added warningly, as he instantly looked in the direction of the bags, a crafty expression flattening his ears to his head.

"Gurgi will wait," he said, slinking toward Melyngar with sly purpose. "He will wait by the bags with guardings and hoardings so that nothing happens to them, and the great fearsome warriors will be pleased."

She wasn't so sure about that, but he appeared to be controlling himself; at any rate he only sniffed eagerly at the bags, exclaiming over whatever he smelled. His noise, however, finally woke Taran, who scrambled up hastily when he noticed the creature's proximity to their food.

"Get away from there, you." He shooed Gurgi away, frowning like a thundercloud. Eilonwy could see that he had made some attempt to wipe the evidence of their underground travels from his face, but since he'd apparently used his own shirt, the effect was ghastly. Probably she didn't look much better. Hopefully they'd come upon a spring or stream soon and could all have a proper wash. But all the water in the world wouldn't wash that fretful look from his face...she sighed, thinking he'd looked better asleep, and returned her attention to the sword.

There were runes running diagonally across the scabbard, but she couldn't read them; they were oddly shaped, or even malformed - it couldn't be possible, though, for a weapon of otherwise flawless craftsmanship to have a botched inscription, could it? The shapes twisted in front of her eyes mockingly, bringing a vivid memory of the shifting trick passageways of Spiral Castle, and she scowled at the sword. Stop it.

A scuffling of leaves nearby caught her attention; Taran was approaching with food, but it was clear what interested him; his eyes were fixed eagerly on the weapon in her lap. Instinctively she snatched it up and held it away from him. The silly boy was sure to try to draw it, first thing.

He made an uneasy attempt at a laugh. "You needn't act as if I were going to steal it from you." Crouching next to her, he handed her a portion of their meager provisions; she tore at a strip of dried meat and watched him dubiously as he gazed at the sword. His hands fairly quivered with anticipation. "Come, let me see the blade."

"I dare not." Gripping the sword tightly under one arm, she held the scabbard under his nose and pointed to the glyph. "You see this? That's a symbol of power, and it means 'forbidden'. "

He frowned doubtfully. "How do you know that?"

"Because I've seen it before, on some of Achren's things," she retorted, annoyed at his tone. "Of course, all her things are like that, but some are more forbidden than others. And this mark's the strongest of the lot." She turned the scabbard in her hands and tapped at the black metal. "There's another inscription, too, but it's in the Old Writing, and Achren never finished teaching me that." Actually she'd balked at learning it, mainly because the things Achren had made her read in it were so ugly. If she'd known it would ever actually be useful for anything else she'd have paid better attention. "I can almost make it out, but not quite, and there's nothing more irritating. It's like not finishing what you started out to say."

Fflewddur was up by now also, stretching his long limbs and looking refreshed. Attracted by their conversation, he strode over and squinted down at the sword. "Comes from a barrow, eh? I suggest getting rid of it immediately. Never had much confidence in things from barrows. You can't be sure where else they've been and who all's had them; it's a bad business to get mixed up in."

"But if it's an enchanted weapon shouldn't we keep it..." Taran began, and Eilonwy clapped her hands over her ears.

"Oh, be quiet, both of you; I can't hear myself think." She glared at the two of them in outrage. "I don't see what you're talking about, getting rid of it or not getting rid of it. It's mine, isn't it? I found it and carried it out, and almost got stuck in a dirty old tunnel because of it." Taran's hand was creeping toward the sword again and she slapped it away. "Besides, it is a magic sword, and I count one person here who knows a thing about magic."

Taran scowled back at her. "And can't read the inscription. What about you, Fflewddur? Bards are supposed to understand these things."

Fflewddur smiled and bent over the sword with great ceremony. "Naturally. These inscriptions are all pretty much the same. I see this one's on the scabbard rather than the blade." He glanced over it quickly. "It says, oh, something like 'Beware My Wrath' - the usual sentiments."

Another metallic ping sounded from somewhere beyond him, and he straightened up, smile fading. Eilonwy peered in the direction of the noise and saw that he'd removed his harp from its case. It was sitting a few feet away, a lovely instrument with an elegant curve; one string had apparently just snapped and the loose end trailed in the sunlight like an airy strand of spider silk. Fflewddur cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he mumbled, and turned away with the attitude of a dog caught thieving from the kitchens. She watched him, puzzled, until an impatient movement from Taran returned her attention to the sword.

Some trick of the light or change in angle pulled at her eye and at once the nonsense characters straightened themselves. "Wait, I can read it. Some of it anyway. It starts near the hilt and goes winding around like ivy; I was looking at it the wrong way." She flipped the weapon around and settled it in a more convenient orientation. "First it says Dyrnwyn. I don't know whether that's the name of the sword or the name of the king." She scanned the next line eagerly. "Oh, yes, it's the sword; here it is again. Draw Dyrnwyn, only thou of royal blood, to rule, to strike the...something or other. I can't see it; the letters are worn smooth." She squinted, and held the scabbard closer until her nose almost touched it; it was no illusion; the characters faded again, and not from any trick of her eyes or the sword. "No, that's odd. They've been scratched out and there's only a trace left, not enough to read. This word might be 'death', how very cheerful." She shuddered distastefully, but what could you expect of a sword, after all?

"Let me unsheathe it," Taran pressed, practically bouncing on his knees. "There might be more on the blade."

Did he ever listen? She cast him a look of longsuffering annoyance. "I told you I can't. I'm bound by this symbol - it's elementary."

"Achren cannot bind you any longer," he argued. Good Llyr, there was no angle he wasn't going to try, was there? Assistant pig-keepers were a stubborn lot.

"It isn't Achren," she huffed, patience growing thin. "I only said she had things with the same mark, but this is stronger enchantment than anything she could do." She could tell, by the gleam in his eye, that this only made him more interested, and added, "I wouldn't dare draw it myself, and I'm not about to let you do it. It says only royal blood - not a word about assistant pig-keepers."

His eyes finally left the sword and focused on her face; miffed, but at least his attention was diverted. "How can you tell I don't have royal blood? I wasn't born an assistant pig-keeper. For all you know my father might have been a king. It happens all the time in The Book of Three."

She pressed her lips into a thin line, remembering his ignorance of her own lineage as she'd rattled it off in the dungeon. Whatever The Book of Three was, reading it apparently didn't make daft boys any wiser. "I never heard of The Book of Three, but in the first place, it's not good enough to be a king's son, or even a king. Royal Blood is just a way of translating it; it's more than just being royal or having royal relatives - anybody can have those. It means..." She shrugged, sighing. "Oh, I don't know what you'd call it. Something very special. And I think if you have it, you don't need to wonder whether you do."

Taran sat back on his heels and crossed his arms, eyes flashing resentfully. "So of course you've made up your mind that I'm not - whatever it is."

Somewhere under his annoyance she picked up a glimmer of wounded pride, and immediately - if inexplicably - felt her own anger ebb like low tide. "I didn't mean to offend you." He looked away, brows furrowed; she bit her lip and added, "For an assistant pig-keeper, I think you're quite remarkable."

Taran snorted at this, but it was half-hearted, and she saw a flush creeping up his neck. "Really. I even...I think you may be the nicest person I've ever met in my life." His eyes darted back to her at this, glittering green, astonishment in them, and...and what had she meant to say? What was...oh yes. "It's just...I'm forbidden to let you have the sword. And that's that."

He was silent for a moment, during which she tried to make sense of her emotions and couldn't. What had possessed her to say that? Fflewddur, in fact, was nicer in many ways, but somehow, of the two of them, she felt...

"What will you do with it, then?"

Oh, Belin, could he never stop thinking about the wretched sword? Peeved at the interruption of her thoughts, she sniffed. "Keep it, naturally. I'm not going to drop it down a well, am I?"

His mouth twisted. "You'll make a fine sight - a little girl carrying a sword."

There it was again - and after what she'd said, too, the ungrateful twit. "I am not a little girl," she growled through clenched teeth, tempted to shove him. "Among my people in the olden days, the Sword-Maidens did battle beside the men."

His chin was jutting out stubbornly. "It's not the olden days now. Instead of a sword, you should be carrying a doll."

How dare he...she felt the sting of his scorn for only a moment before fury bubbled up like the contents of a cauldron, scalding, pushing a wordless squeal of anger before it; without thought her hand reared to strike him...

...and stopped, caught in midair, and she found herself staring at the mild face of Fflewddur Fflam, who had grabbed her sleeve. "Here now, no squabbling." He shook his head reproachfully. "There's not a bit of use to it."

She yanked her arm from his grasp, irritation battling with an unwelcome pang of remorse at his expression. "That inscription was a very important one. It didn't say anything about bewaring anyone's wrath. You didn't read it right at all." He shifted uncomfortably, reddening when she added, "You're a fine bard, if you can't make out the writing on an enchanted sword."

Fflewddur sucked in his breath and blew it back out loudly, puffing his cheeks. He cleared his throat. "Well, you see, the truth of the matter is...I'm not an official bard."

He looked so embarrassed that she was sorry for him, and forgot her annoyance. "I didn't know there were unofficial bards."

He grinned as he pulled a large key from one of his patchwork pockets and applied it to a peg of his instrument. "Oh, yes. At least in my case. I'm also a king."

Of course, Eilonwy thought, remembering his courtly bow of the evening before with a flash of understanding.

Taran was gaping, and immediately fell to one knee; she almost snorted, stopping herself when Fflewddur humbly shooed him back up. She gazed at the tall man with new respect. "Where is your kingdom?"

"Ah," he said, eyes lighting, and hands spread wide, "it's a vast realm..." The harp suddenly jangled like a set of windchimes, drawing all their attention. Two more strings had snapped.

"Drat the thing," Fflewddur muttered. "As I was saying, it is actually a very small kingdom in the north, very dull and dreary. So I gave it up. I've always loved barding and wandering, so that's what I decided to do."

Eilonwy cocked her head quizzically, mulling over appropriate passages from related books. "I thought bards had to study for ages. You can't just go and decide..."

"Ah, yes, well, that was one of the problems," Fflewddur sighed, plucking a few harp strings absently; soft notes like raindrops plunking into a puddle sang around them. "I studied, and did quite well in the examinations..." Another string popped, its ping discordant against the golden tones, and he muffled all the strings hurriedly. "I, uh, did quite poorly, and the Council wouldn't admit me."

Suspicion building, she felt an urge to laugh as Fflewddur complained about the insurmountable challenge of mastering bardic lore, and, around his shoulder, caught Taran's eye unexpectedly. He looked amused, glancing at the harp and then back at her, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and she instantly forgot her irritation with him.

"Taliesin, the Chief Bard himself, presented me with this harp; said it was exactly what I needed," Fflewddur went on, "but I sometimes wonder if he was really doing me a favor. It has a lovely tone, but I have such trouble with the strings, you see."

Eilonwy covered her mouth and coughed to disguise the laugh that would, in spite of her efforts, burst out. "They do seem to break frequently."

"Yes, so they do." He stroked the neck of the instrument cautiously, as one might stroke a pet bird prone to biting, and cleared his throat. "It usually happens when-well, I'm an emotional sort of fellow - you may have noticed - and I do get carried away. I might...readjust the facts from time to time...purely for dramatic effect, you understand."

Readjusting the facts, she'd have to remember that next time Achren caught her in a bald-faced lie...except no, she'd never have to do that again. Eilonwy grinned openly at the bard. "If you'd stop readjusting the facts quite so much, perhaps you wouldn't have that trouble with the harp."

"I suppose," he owned sheepishly. "But it's hard, very hard. As a king, you get into the habit. Sometimes I think I spend more time fixing strings than playing. But, there it is. You can't have everything." He ran a fingertip along the strings again, and a cascade of sweet tones rippled out.

"Where were you journeying when Achren caught you?" Taran asked, when the last chime had faded.

"Oh," Fflewddur shrugged, gathering up his leather case and sliding the instrument gently inside, "no place in particular. That's one advantage of wandering; you're never in a hurry. You keep moving, and next thing you know, there you are. Unfortunately, in this case, it was Achren's dungeon. She didn't care for my playing." He slung the straps over his shoulders and shook his head. "That woman had no ear for music."

Eilonwy frowned, remembering a few times in her early childhood when Achren had reprimanded her for singing something, snatches of verse about swans and seals and sea foam like white horses...where had she learned it? There was never music at Spiral Castle. Strange that she had never before wondered where her meager memories of it began...