Ok, so here's the third chapter! I'm glad people like this so far; I'll try to keep it up – thanks to all my reviewers! First fanfic, I was kinda nervous…

Sakura-chan79 – Thanks again!

CompanionWanderer – I know, it's such a shame that there's so little Prydain fanfiction! Not that all of it would be excellent, but the series deserves to be appreciated online a lot more than it is. Funny, that you think it's a twist to have Arawn be subservient – I always had that impression, as soon as I learned Arawn had betrayed her. It just seemed to make sense in my head, in the way he has to resort to trickery and not brute strength in every encounter the reader has with him. Thanks for your review!

Disclaimer: Not mine. Meh.

Here goes!

Black Shadow, Golden Sun

Chapter 3: The Price of Knowledge

The three horses made their way quietly through the bracken dotting the meadow, their hooves making hardly a sound in the soft ground, the summer grass whispering as it swished against their flanks. Overhead, the sun hung low in the sky, turning the horizon into a myriad of orange and red hues. One of the horses nickered, tossing its head slightly, and its rider leaned forward smoothly to calm him.

The first rider rode quickly and confidently, his golden head and blue eyes held high and proudly. Although the group had been riding from Caer Dathyl for several days, and the young men were obviously headed into deeper wildernesses, his clothing was rich and embroidered with gold. At his side hung a long sword, encased in silver and girded to a belt of golden links. His chestnut stallion was strong and carried itself proudly as well, stretching its foreleg out far away from its body with every step of its canter.

The second rider leaned back up from where he had patted his skittish stallion's neck, shaking his hair out of his eyes. His raven locks were the same color as his steed, and his clothing was also black, though not as rich as the first young man's. Everything about him seemed dark – his attire, his eyes; even his long sword, with one of his hands resting lightly on the hilt as he controlled his steed with the other, was sheathed in black metal. Delicate silver links held a warm dark green cloak across his shoulders, and cold, ruthless intelligence burned from his pale face.

The third rider, seated on a tall white mare with a golden mane and tail, seemed to be one with his steed, so fluid were his movements. Unlike his companions, his clothing was simple, practical, and unadorned. He bore no ornament or any symbol of rank but for a slender gold chain hanging around his neck, on the end of which dangled a small golden sun-shaped disk, thin rays of gold reaching out from a perfect circle. His long brown hair was tied back in a ponytail at the base of his skull, and a sword in a dull red sheath was girded to his belt, lines of muted silver winding around the hilt. He guided his mare with a firm but gentle hand, and his green eyes darted smoothly about him, taking in all his surroundings. His whole bearing radiated a quiet, calm strength.

The three young men rode south in the falling dusk, their war horses neither slowing nor stopping. The two horses in front were bathed in sweat, but the white mare seemed to revel in the cooling nighttime air, tossing her mane and tail and slightly picking up her pace. Soon she passed the black stallion, as the raven-haired young man pressed his lips together in a thin smile. As the mare gained on the chestnut stallion in the lead, the golden-haired rider looked back and shouted a quick, bellowing laugh. "Oh no you don't, Gwydion!" he yelled. "Your wild filly cannot beat me!"

The green-eyed young man grinned. "Try it then!" and with that, he let slip a few inches of his reins and the white mare charged ahead of the chestnut stallion, head lowered as if in a deadly race. The green-eyed one laughed heartily as he swept by the golden-haired man, amused by the stream of curses emitting from his friend's mouth. Behind the two competitors, the silent black-haired youth also spurred his stallion to a greater speed.

The trio rushed through the remainder of the meadow, then plunged into a section of woods. The forest underneath the trees was dark and gloomy, with only small shafts of soft golden light breaking through the canopy of leaves. A few moments later, the companions emerged from the woods, and the rider on the white mare slowed her to a gentle trot, for now they traveled across a pebbly river bank. In front of the slowing riders lay a wide river, its deep waters running grey in the dusk. Across the waters lay a wide expanse of forest, looming close to the bank.

The black-haired young man pulled his mount to a halt and dismounted with a grunt, pulling down his cloak after him, as it had snagged on his saddle. The other two travelers turned their horses back and also dismounted. "Had enough already, Morgant?" the golden-haired youth said, seeming in good humor.

"Aye," the young Morgant said. "Enough of you two and your foolish games. You should know better, Pryderi."

"Oh, come now," the golden-haired Pryderi said jovially. "What is the harm in it? Besides, I seem to recall I did not start the race. That would have been you, Gwydion," he said, turning and waving a gloved hand carelessly in the green-eyed youth's direction.

Gwydion chuckled quietly, patting Melyngar's steaming flanks. "Aye, that it was. And you are probably right, Morgant," he said, nodding in the dark man's direction, "But if any being wanted to attack us, they would have done so long ago, with all the racket we've been making."

Morgant only grunted and did not answer as Pryderi pulled a bundle of blankets down from where they had rested behind his saddle. "Ah, well – we cannot make it to Caer Dallben this night anyway, even if we wanted to," Pryderi sighed, his voice holding a tinge of disappointment. "Come, let us rest."

Gwydion paused, a slight frown on his face. "No, we should cross now. It will save us the possibility of a high tide tomorrow morning – the river is at its lowest point at this moment."

"Certainly not," Pryderi huffed good-naturedly. "Go to sleep sopping wet, as well as on hard tree roots? Spare me the torture."

"Then at least let us return to the forest's edge on this side. That way we will not be seen by any spying gwythaints."

Unable to dispute that logic, Pryderi grabbed his stallion's reins and marched back towards the trees, his mount following, its proud head drooped in exhaustion. Morgant followed silently, his cloak flowing about him. Gwydion took one more, look at the opposite bank, his gaze not hiding a great excitement and longing. Turning away with a restless sigh, he led Melyngar towards the safety of the trees. The mare followed docilely, no trace of her wild violence left in her except her unusual stamina and strength.

The next morning, the three young men rose early and crossed the luckily calm river, taking off most of their garments and holding them above their heads, away from the neck-deep waters. Melyngar followed Gwydion instantly, plunging into the water and emerging dripping on the other side, but the other steeds needed some cajoling to get them into the stream. Once safely on the other side, the companions spent a while drying themselves and their saddles in the warm sun, then set off south through the woods, excitement evident even on Morgant's usually cold face – for ever since they had been young boys, they had longed to meet the famous enchanter Dallben, of which so much had been sung in the bards' tales back in the distant Caer Dathyl.

The woods were warm and welcoming in the summer heat, and the youths could hear the twittering of birds and the calls of small animals in the trees as the rode. Gwydion, whose eyes and hearing were sharper than most, picked out a herd of deer grazing off leaves in a sheltered grove. Shortly before noon, they rounded a turn in the forest path, the horses' hooves rustling quietly in the leaves beneath them, and saw the forest melting away to reveal a beautiful orchard, the trees' branches heavy with fruit of all kinds. There was a homely-looking barn also, from which an ox called softly – it was echoed a moment later by a large white pig in a wooden enclosure not far away. To the right of the orchard was a thatched hut, a tendril of smoke rising from an earthen chimney. A stout middle-aged man, his head as smooth and bald as an egg, stood in the doorway.

Recognizing the importance of the moment, Pryderi and Morgant drew their steeds back behind Gwydion and Melyngar, allowing the Prince of Don to ride forward first. They remained in that triangular formation as they exited the forest and bore down on the homestead. The bald man stepped out of the doorway, a broad grin creasing his face until his crinkled eyes were lost in his cheeks, as the companions halted in front of the hut and dismounted.

Pryderi gazed at the beautiful tranquility of the farm in wonder, and a twinkle of appreciation could also be seen in Morgant's dark eyes. Gwydion, however, did not need to look again – he had already taken in the scene in exacting detail as soon as he had seen it from the forest. Instead, he brought the reins over Melyngar's head and turned to bow deeply to the old farmer – a gesture which the other two quickly copied. "Greetings, Coll son of Collfrewr," Gwydion said respectfully, straightening again and looking the farmer in the eye. "We have journeyed far to meet with the enchanter Dallben, and beg his favor."

Coll laughed heartily, sounding like a cheerful bear. "Well, now," he said happily, "There's politeness for you. I've never seen you before in my life, and here you know my name and treat me like a king." Coll stuck out a sturdy hand from Gwydion to grasp. "Though, in truth," he continued more seriously, "There is no need to bow to me, Prince of Don. I am the one who should be bowing to you."

"I doubt that is true, from what I have heard of your deeds," Gwydion said, grinning and clasping the hand the farmer offered. "May I introduce my companions," he said, turning to gesture behind him. "Pryderi son of Pwyll from the Northern Domains, and Morgant Prince of Madoc."

"Aye – welcome, welcome to you all," Coll grinned. "Come, please enter: you can leave your steeds here, I shall take them to the stable in good time." As the young men thanked him, Coll nudged Gwydion with an elbow as he was about to enter the dwelling. "By the way," Coll whispered, "Don't expect much of the old boy – not even wakefulness. I'm afraid you caught him right in the middle of his morning 'meditation'." Chuckling, Coll trudged off towards the stables, leading the three horses along in his wake.

However, the young men did not even have to enter to see what he meant – suddenly from within the hut came the thudding of a walking staff against the ground, and an old robed man, his back hunched over and his face lost in clouds of white beard, tottered out of the doorway. Gwydion looked into the old man's eyes, and the sharp, clear blue of the sky peered back at him through wrinkled of folded brown skin. Dallben halted just outside the door, blinking as the three travelers hastily bowed again.

"Enough of that," he said kindly, waving his arm flippantly to show they could rise. "I've seen too many bows in my years." His eyes seemed to pierce Gwydion through – he could not look away from the eyes, for indeed the enchanter was so old they seemed to be the only living parts of him. Dallben stared at each of them in turn, making Pryderi sweat slightly with the intensity of his gaze. He lingered a long time on Morgant, then looked back at Gwydion, lids flickering at the sight of the golden sun resting against the prince's chest between the folds of his shirt. Dallben lifted his arm then, and beckoned to Gwydion. The Prince followed him into the hut without hesitation, leaving the other two behind in the sun.

It was dark and cool in the hut, and Gwydion blinked until his eyes adjusted as Dallben seated himself on a bench behind a wooden table. Gwydion saw with a brief flash of excitement that a huge book lay close by the enchanter's right hand – the ornate lettering on its cover said The Book of Three.

Dallben noticed the direction of the prince's gaze. "Yes, that is the famous Book of Three," he whispered. "Do you know what is inside of it, Prince of Don?"

Gwydion averted his gaze, instead looking at the enchanter. "It probably isn't my business to know."

"On the contrary," Dallben said gruffly. "You are the only one who has a right to know." He stared at Gwydion, his gaze searching the young man's face and green eyes. "Do you know who you are?" he suddenly asked.

Gwydion frowned slightly at the seemingly random question. "I am Gwydion, son of Math…"

"Yes," Dallben interrupted, not unkindly. "But you are more than that."

He waved a hand towards the wall of the hut, where Gwydion saw a large piece of parchment hung. It was entitled The House of Don, and thin curved lines of black ink crisscrossed its surface, connecting names and dates, births, deaths, and marriages. He was, Gwydion realized, staring at the entire history of his House. Squinting in the gloom, the prince thought he could almost make out his own name at the bottom of the parchment. His name stood alone. He looked back at Dallben, confusion filling his gaze. "I do not understand."

"You are the Prince of Don," Dallben said softly. "Do you understand what that means?"

"I thought I did," Gwydion replied, just as quietly. "But the way you say this…" he frowned. "I now realize there is something more."

Dallben's eyes gleamed with pride. "Yes. You see before you," he said, waving his stick at the parchment, "The whole history of the most powerful family in all Prydain. They were the ones who saved this country from destruction, and they are the guardians of every single person in Prydain." The old man's voice was filled with a strange reverence and power. "They are the keepers of all the ancient knowledge, and they came from over the sea from a magical country which no mortal man has seen. They are the ones who determine the survival or destruction of this land, and all the beings in it." Dallben's eyes were bright. "So," he said quietly. "What does that make you, Prince of Don?"

Gwydion stared, and the importance of what the old man had said suddenly seemed to weigh upon him as if the entire world had just fallen upon his shoulders – which in a way, it had. He felt heavy, as though it would need all of his formidable strength to move. He bowed his head, letting his hair fall over his eyes. The glint of the symbol around his neck seemed to mock him, saying Can you do this? Can you do it?

Dallben's eyes seemed to soften at the sight of the young man who had just barely left boyhood, remembering a time when he, too, had left the world of youth. "Come," he said kindly, gesturing to the bench beside him, "Sit with me, and we shall talk." As he said this, he drew The Book of Three towards him and opened it to the middle. Gwydion raised his head, steeled himself, and then walked quickly over to seat himself next to the enchanter, staring unabashedly at the pages of the huge book.

"This book contains the knowledge of the past, the present…and the future," Dallben murmured, running a bony hand over a page as if the book were an old friend in need of comfort. He turned to look Gwydion in the eye. "Knowledge," he said quietly. "Incredible knowledge." He paused. "And terrible. This state you see me in," he said, gesturing with a shaking hand to his wrinkled face, "Was brought about by the knowledge this book holds."

The enchanter stared into the depths of the boy's green eyes, seeing the fate of the world resting in their swirling depths. "Always remember," the old man whispered, entranced in the thought of the future of a remarkable prince – "Knowledge always has a price. And you must weigh what you shall gain against what you will have to give up from yourself to learn it."

Gah! That was long! R&R! Reviews are… well, crack. Maybe chocolate is more appropriate, since that's my crack. Yep.