Eilonwy returned to the cottage late that evening, after supper was done and the table cleared, well after she knew Dallben would have retired. She did not want to see him. Not that she was angry with him—at least, no angrier than she was at everything else—but she dreaded any reference to her outburst at his news. Coll jumped up from his chair when she came through the door, and he made a move toward her, but she ran to her ladder without looking at anyone, without answering his gentle enquiries. She could not bear being questioned, embraced, comforted. She scrambled up the steps and jerked the loft curtain shut behind her, threw herself upon her straw pallet and buried her face in the bedclothes.
They all knew. The silence from below testified to that, but she had already guessed, had realized the truth the moment she recalled Taran's strange sadness beneath the apple tree. If there were any space in her to feel anything good, she might have been gratified by how sorry he was. As it was she could hardly bear to think of him at all.
She thought she'd done all the crying she could, out in the woods and fields. But the tears kept coming, endlessly, until she slept, and everything in her dreams tasted like salt.
The next day seemed the same as all others, unchanged on its surface, the sun rising, somehow, outrageously indifferent to human tragedy. She rose, ate, and did her chores as always, in the usual rhythms of springtime: young livestock to be tended, earth prepared and seeds planted, all things that looked forward, in hope and expectation.
That very looking forward hurt her. She turned away when Taran and Coll spoke of the harvest, and how the apples would ripen in late summer, or whether Lluagor's foal next year would be filly or colt—things she would not be there to witness. She snapped when Taran tried to speak with her. He kept trying, opening with optimistic phrases like once you've come back or it'll feel like no time. But his cheerfulness was hollow, and the stumbling attempts at solemnity that had previously made her heart flutter now only made her angry. Anger was uncomfortable but it hurt less than fear, and sadness, and confusion. It had always been her shield; now it was sword as well. Taran's patient, apologetic responses made her feel worse. It would be so much better if he'd give her reasons to snap.
But the days passed, and the sharpness of the first grief dulled to an ache, and then somehow they were all pretending that everything was fine, and not speaking of her departure at all, as though if it were not mentioned it would not come. Sometimes they pretended so hard that she forgot, for the briefest of moments, and caught herself laughing. Reality stalked her like a predator, waiting to eat her joy the moment it was birthed, leaving her empty again.
The rain fell, sun shone, and then it was late spring, and summer on the horizon. There were tiny green apples in the orchard, milk rich as cream, golden new honey, the first strawberries peeping green heads from their leaves. They moved the cookfire outside as the days grew long and warm. There was weeding and hoeing, weaving new willow fences, exercising the horses, cleaning and repairing tools and buildings, escaping to the spring in the woods for a swim, late in the afternoon before getting supper on, and she began to hope against hope that perhaps Kaw had forgotten his mission, or that her Mona kin had decided not to have her after all.
And then one clear evening as they sat at table, in through the open window swooped a black arrow, lighting upon the sill with a silken rustle of wings, and fixing them all with his glossy ink-drop of an eye. He laid down something he was carrying, straightened up, and announced, "Home," in a satisfied squawk.
Eilonwy sat back, staring, her heart dropping into her toes. Across from her, Taran had paused with a hunk of bread halfway to his mouth. Coll glanced at both of them uneasily before turning to the crow and holding out his arm.
"So you are, you rascal," he said, with forced cheerfulness, as Kaw flapped to his wrist. "And what have you to tell us?"
Kaw bobbed, cocked his head from one side to another, shifted his feet, and ruffled his neck feathers—delay tactics indicating an unusual reluctance to speak. Eilonwy held her breath.
"Mona," the crow croaked at last. "Ship. Coming." He hopped to the table, made a series of skips between the bowls and cutlery, and stopped in front of Eilonwy, bowing and flirting his tail. "Princess," he said. "Ready? Soon."
"How soon?" Dallben murmured.
Kaw looked at him sideways, in a manner that seemed rather petulant. "Tomorrow," he squawked.
Eilonwy breathed again. A quiet sound, like a small and forlorn sob, escaped from her lips before she could stop it, and fell into the silence. The crow flew back to the windowsill, retrieved the small object he had dropped there, and returned, placing it gently upon the table before her and then hopping back. She picked it up with trembling fingers: a chip of something smooth and slightly curved, dark on one side, the other a sheen of silvery, iridescent colors, rose and turquoise, lavender and gold. Somehow it seemed to sing when she touched it, glow with a vibration beyond the reach of her ears.
"What is it?" Taran asked, low and hoarse.
The muted colors ran together in a liquid haze, and she blinked it away. "It's a bit of ormer shell," she said. "I haven't seen ormer in…well…not since…actually, I can't remember." And yet she knew what it was —naming it without thought as she might have named a spoon or a nail or any other commonplace object. Kaw, with his crow's penchant for shining things, had brought her a treasure from the sea, and she had known it at once. Her thumb fit into its curve and pressed its cool surface. It was comforting, somehow—a tiny sliver of beauty to cling to, amidst this flood of numbing sadness.
"Well, well," said Dallben gently. "We knew the day would come. If there is anything in particular you want to take with you, now is the time to gather it up. Taran and Gurgi, make ready for the journey, and for a stay on Mona until you make passage back home."
"Taran and Gurgi," Eilonwy repeated blankly, looking at each of them in turn. Taran looked a bit embarrassed.
"Dallben said we could journey with you there," he explained, "and stay just until you're settled. He thought it might, erm…make it… make it easier for you."
She couldn't speak, felt as though words might push her heart over the edge of the precipice on which it tottered, and instead only nodded at him, in mute appreciation.
Coll waved her away as she stood and moved to collect his platter. "Don't, cariad."
She hovered uncertainly. "But it's my turn to wash up."
"'Twould be poor sport to spend your last hours here doing scullery work," he grunted. "Run out and enjoy the evening. I'll wash."
Eilonwy looked toward the door, where the golden rays of the westering sun lay upon the garden. The brightness of them was an insult, a mocking dismissal of her sadness. She felt slow and dull, and would have preferred to work, to distract herself with manual tasks until she was too exhausted to think. "I think I'd rather just go up to bed early," she murmured, and crossed to her ladder. Her limbs felt heavy, dragging up its steep-set steps.
When she had ascended and dropped her curtain behind her, she crossed to the window and sat, looking out at the gardens and the trees and the eastern sky turning dusky. For two years she had gazed upon this view, loved it as she had never loved any place, though there was nothing particularly wondrous about it. Trees and grass, rows of vegetables, stone walls and willow fences, that was all…yet her heart had woven so many threads of happiness within them that they made a tapestry as lovely as any hung in the halls of the High King.
Tears tracked her face and spotted the windowsill; gods, she was tired of crying, what good did it do? No amount of tears, pleading, or even dispassionate argument could change a decree from Dallben, once made, and it was too late now, anyhow, with a ship arriving. She could run away, but that would still mean leaving. No, the thing was happening, barring a miracle; she must go, and had been given no choice in the matter, as she had never in her life been given any choice about where she would live or what she would do, not really. The freedom she had enjoyed here was illusory, only extending as far as Dallben's good graces. Perhaps she ought to be grateful it had lasted as long as it had, but gratitude was out of her reach, just now, with anger and grief sparking at her fingertips and hot in her throat.
In a flutter of black wings, Kaw lit upon her sill and surveyed her quizzically. "Princess," he cackled, "present!"
A small, wry laugh twisted itself between her tears. "You mean this?" She held up the shard of ormer shell, still clutched between thumb and finger. "Thank you, it's lovely. And appropriate, too, I suppose. Though I don't know how you knew that."
He cocked his head and pecked at the bright shell. "From sea," he croaked, "far away!" The black beak pinched her fingertip affectionately. "Like princess."
She could not help smiling, though it was wistful. "If I am, I don't remember it, Kaw. And you can't miss what you don't remember." But she turned the shell thoughtfully in her fingers, conscious again of the thrill it gave her — a tiny, ephemeral thing, like touching the edge of a moonbeam, barely brushing against something just out of reach. The heat of her anger banked against curiosity as she smoothed her thumb over the muted colors. Would there be more of such things on Mona? Perhaps enough to follow this elusive trail of tugging, tempting sensation? It was an island, after all. Perhaps she would be near enough to the sea to get a glimpse of it…to smell it, to taste it on the air, to hear it…
A little wave of…something… rippled from her fingertips and swept her from head to foot, leaving sweetness in her mouth, warmth in her inmost being, and she caught her breath and tried to grasp it. It was already gone, but she reached semi-consciously for her pendant, and pressed the silver crescent between her fingers. It seemed to hum with the same inaudible chime as the ormer shell.
A compelling thing. Yet the last time she had followed such a compulsion it had turned out to be dangerous, to herself and to others. Magic was a double-edged sword in her hands. How would she manage it, without the safe haven of Dallben's protection, without the boundaries of his guidance? What was it he had said? Something about magic only other women could teach her. The only woman who had ever taught her magic was Achren, and it had never been anything good.
Kaw fluttered off into the dusk. Eilonwy sat and watched the night fall. A glowing round moon, ripe sister to the slender crescent at her throat, rose from the treetops—a beacon of light in a vast, endless darkness.
By midnight she slept, clutching the shell in her palm, and dreamed of dark waters, the gentle pull of tide, the rush and crash of breakers that breathed out her name.
Eilonwy. Come.
Her hand slipped into another, soft and warm. Someone held her close, sang of the rolling sea and safe harbor. She was cradled in an embrace, gentle and safe, rocked like a boat on the waves. It was lovely, and yet she wept as though her heart had shattered.
Eilonwy.
A shriek on the wind, a scream of desperation. Someone held her, still, but now the arms were like shackles, gripping her; there was a hand at her throat, over her mouth. She tried to scream, to answer the frantic call, only choking on her own breath.
Eilonwy. Eilonwy.
"Eilonwy!"
Her eyes flew open, her mind bare and exposed, jerked from sleep by the sound but still stupefied with terror, uncomprehending of what she saw and heard. Something touched her shoulder and she recoiled, lashing out at it with a gasping sob. Pale, mottled light and black shadows mixed confusedly in her vision.
"Eilonwy, wake up. It's just me, you're all right."
A face swam into view, but the shadows turned it unfamiliar and inhuman and she pushed away from it in horror, even as her mind struggled to make sense of the words from its mouth. Everything was moving too fast, too fast...
"Look, it's me. Shhhh. Here, take my hand."
Warmth and strength engulfed her palm. She fought it for an instant, pulling her hand away, but it was caught again and the voice went on. "It's all right. Just a dream. Come now, wake up, you're safe."
Taran's voice. In an instant she knew him, knew where she was; here, in her loft, the moonlight slanting through the half-open window, dust motes dancing in the beams. Taran knelt by her pallet. She toppled into his arms, shaking and senseless with panic. He stiffened in surprise, patting her back awkwardly as she sobbed into his shoulder.
"What was it this time?" he murmured.
"The sea," she gasped out—nonsensically, but they were the only words that would come. "The sea."
He said nothing. His stiff posture was softening, his arm tightening around her.
"I was there," she stuttered at last, between sobs, "and I was safe and happy, and then…then it turned into something else. Someone was calling, screaming for me, but I…I couldn't get to them. There were hands around my throat. I couldn't make a sound."
"Shhh." He was rocking now, back and forth, an instinctive movement as though he were cradling a newborn animal, breathing out the same gentle sound he made to calm Melynlas. The hypnotic rhythm of it overlaid the ragged surface of her mind, like a balm spread across roughened skin. Her breath slowed as she sank into it, her sobs fading into occasional hiccups, then stillness. She rested against him in a half-trance. The dream-images still drifted in her mind, awful, but without the venomous bite of terror.
"I'm sorry," he murmured at last. "I always hoped your being here would stop your nightmares."
She released a shuddering sigh. "If they didn't stop here, I think they never will. How shall I bear them on Mona?"
Without you? She did not say it aloud. Barely allowed it to herself. But the rhythm of his rocking hitched for just a moment, before continuing on, and she felt his arm tighten even further. "I'm sorry I woke you," she whispered, suddenly self-conscious. "Did I wake Coll, too?"
He let out an amused huff. "Nothing wakes him up. Not even his own snoring. Don't fret. I was awake already, just…thinking. I don't think I'd have heard you crying otherwise."
His voice shivered against her ear, low and quiet. His breath stirred her hair. The curve of his shoulder was firm beneath her cheek, the curl of his arm solid and strong. The frightening images from her nightmare were fading, muddled by other sensations, almost as terrifying in their way, full of incomprehensible yearning. Her heart seemed to beat oddly near her throat, so hard she was sure he would hear it.
The silence grew long and nerve-wracking; she thought of sitting up and pushing him away, but to do so would be to admit that it was a scandalous thing for him to be sitting here, by her bed, with his arms around her. So she sat still, and tried to breath slow, and wondered what to do with her hands. They lay awkwardly in her lap, when what she wanted was to lay one upon that patch of shirt in front of her nose, and find out if his chest beneath it were as warm as his shoulder, and whether she could feel his heart beating through it...
Taran shifted his weight, and instinctively she followed his motion, allowing him to settle her gently back upon her pallet. He straightened up and rested on his heels, looking down on her, his face limned with silver light from the moonbeams slanting through the loft. "All right, then?" he murmured, "Can you sleep, now, do you think?"
She tried to whisper that she could, but nothing came out, so she nodded, and wondered if he even noticed. He was not looking at her face; his gaze was pulled sideways, and she realized that the wide neckline of her nightshift had shifted askew, leaving her shoulder exposed. Her bare skin glowed like white marble in the corner of her vision. She dared not reach over to tug her sleeve back into place, dared not even acknowledge his transfixed eyes upon it. Watching him watching her, she wondered recklessly what he would do if she took his hand and pulled him down next to her. What it would feel like, to wrap herself in his warmth.
Taran looked away suddenly, as if an unseen force had dragged him to it. "I'd better get back to bed." It was a strained whisper. She could only nod again, but he did not look at her as he turned toward the loft ladder. She listened to it creak as he descended, to the muted shuffle of his bare feet upon the slate floor as he returned to the small chamber he shared with Coll, beneath the loft.
Eilonwy reached out and tapped quietly at the floorboard, that old code they had developed over the years to communicate without waking anyone. Two taps, pause, and two more. Good night.
Pause. Then - tapping from beneath, the same pattern. She pictured him, lying there upon his pallet, staring up at the ceiling as she now stared at the rafters.
It was, perhaps, overly optimistic to tap good night. At any rate, she did not sleep again, not haunted by nightmares, but hounded by notions whose novelty made them all the more difficult to set aside. Images of the young Rover couple and their sensuous delight in one another kept pushing themselves to the front of her mind. The temptation to put other faces on them tugged at her irresistibly; she ignored it with every ounce of will, but even the ignoring forced an acknowledgement of empathetic curiosity that made her throw off her blankets, sweltering with the heat of her own thoughts.
Eventually the reality of what awaited her in the morning clouded its way into her mind, cooling it. Taran, all these strange feelings…what did any of it matter, when she was leaving, and wouldn't see him again for years? The ache in her chest was like a swelling wound, throbbing larger every time she thought of parting from him, until she felt it would burst her open, leave her heart to bleed out. Perhaps it would be easier to be away from him. Indeed, perhaps his accompanying her to Mona was only prolonging the pain of the inevitable; a clean break might have been better than this fracturing by degrees. But the thought of riding away from Caer Dallben while he watched from the doorway or the barnyard was a thing too painful to be borne, a clenching fist at her throat that made it difficult to breathe. Had she ever told him what he meant to her? Even told him how she would miss him? No, she had spent the last weeks snapping at him any time he tried to be sentimental. For all he knew she was glad to be leaving. Oh, why did such torments only come upon her in the wee hours of the night? She could bear anything in the daytime, with its bustle and busyness and sunlight. But now there was nothing to distract her.
Shortly after her arrival there, Dallben had discovered that she could read and write. Pleased, he had supplied her with parchment, and told her to write down her thoughts when they seemed overwhelming. She'd been dubious, but had found it surprisingly helpful. Now she rose, lit her bauble, and knelt at the wooden chest she used as a desk for the purpose. She scribbled feverishly for some time, blushing at the first three scraps she produced and reducing them to ashes with a snap of her fingers, before looking with satisfaction upon the last, folding it, and setting it carefully in the bottom of the chest. There. Even if no one ever saw it, a bit of her would remain here, where she belonged.
She dimmed her bauble and saw that there was still light in the room—a glimpse at the window revealed the torturous day breaking upon the horizon. Slowly and mechanically she set her bed in order and wrapped her few belongings in a bundle: her Rover ribbons and bells and scarf, the silver dagger, extra shift, shoes, stockings, brush, comb, and hair thongs. The little copper mirror showed her a pale face and dark-ringed eyes before she wrapped it away. Her bauble slid into a pocket of her cloak, followed by the sliver of ormer shell. She descended the ladder without looking back.
Breakfast was swift and simple, and then Taran and Coll were heading to the stables to saddle the horses while Eilonwy packed up the leavings to take with them. Conscious of the surreptitious glances everyone kept casting at her all morning, she affected a brisk and desperate cheerfulness that made itself the only alternative to bursting into tears.
Dallben was waiting for her on the doorstep, looking careworn, as she stepped outside. She had looked up at him when she had come two years before; now she wondered if she had really grown so much, or if it was the fragile bend of his back that had lowered him until they stood eye-to-eye.
He took her hand and patted it. "I meant all I said. You shall always have a place in Caer Dallben, and a larger one in my heart. But alas, raising a young lady is a mystery beyond even an enchanter's skill. I have had enough difficulty raising an assistant pig-keeper."
He glanced wryly at the approaching horses, and Taran leading them. She saw the quick flash of unguarded affection in his lined, ancient face, and it was this that crumbled her resentment. She threw her arms around him and hugged his frail middle, so fiercely that he grunted uncomfortably, but he patted her back and did not put her off.
"Yes, yes," Dallben rasped. "I wish you fair voyage to the Isle of Mona. King Rhuddlum and Queen Teleria are kindly and gracious, eager to stand in your family's stead and serve as your protectors. From Queen Teleria you shall learn how a princess of Llyr should behave."
"I don't care about being a princess," she growled, into his bristly ear. "And I'm already a young lady, raised or no. How else should I behave? It's like asking a fish to learn to swim."
His ribs jerked in a chuckle, and she released him, stepping back. "I have never seen a fish," he chided, "with skinned knees, torn robe, and unshod feet. They would ill become him, as they ill become you."
She huffed at this, and he shook his head, dropping the jest and growing somber. "But there, such trappings are not what I meant." He laid his hand on her shoulder. "Child, child, do you not see? For each of us comes a time when we must be more than what we are."
She did not see, but his watery grey eyes pierced her heart with their gaze, and she wondered what that time had been for him, and what it had entailed, for him to be so certain of its universality. How could anyone be more than they were?
Taran had come to stand near them. Dallben turned to him with a return of his usual severity. "Watch over her carefully," he commanded. "I have certain…misgivings about letting you and Gurgi go with her, but…if it will ease your parting…" He took a deep breath, as though reassuring himself of his own wisdom. "So be it."
"Don't worry." Taran stood straight, in the posture he always adopted when he wanted to assure Dallben of his competence—succeeding, as usual, mostly in giving the impression that he was trying too hard. "The princess Eilonwy shall go safely to Mona."
He glanced at her swiftly, his eyes uncommonly dark, and she swallowed her irritation with a gulp. In that one look, all the strange emotions of that stolen moment in the night came flooding back, mingled now with the pain of imminent loss. His gaze held hers, even over Dallben's shoulder, as the old man embraced him. "And you return safely," Dallben murmured. "My heart will not be at ease until you do."
He straightened up, looked at both of them and said, "Well, then." And disappeared into the house, shutting the door. Eilonwy stared blankly at the faded wood, feeling dizzy. Movement caught her eye; Taran's hand, held out to her.
"Come," he said gently. "We must be off."
Numbly she followed him to Lluagor, where he steadied the stirrup and handed up the reins as she scrambled onto the mare's back, courtesies he rarely extended her. Gurgi, mounted on his shaggy pony, watched mournfully. Coll, also waiting on horseback, whistled tunelessly through his teeth as Taran, Kaw on his shoulder, swung astride Melynlas and clucked a command.
And thus they rode from Caer Dallben. Eilonwy, tempted to glance behind, instead thrust her hand into her cloak pocket and pinched the ormer shell in a trembling grip. She had no will to endure the brisk trot set by Melynlas, and let Lluagor lag behind in a steady walk as Taran and Coll forged ahead into the hills.
They rode long, into bright mid morning, and then midday. The voices of her companions drifted back to her in low, indistinguishable murmurs, blending into the quiet sounds of the landscape: the swish of the breeze in tall grass, the burble of a nearby brook, the twittering of birds in the furze. Eilonwy thought of quietly wandering off into the hills before anyone noticed, or sliding from Lluagor's back and lying down in the grass and refusing to budge, no matter what threats were offered. Silly…she knew quite well she would do nothing of the kind. Yet there was an odd comfort in imagining it, in thinking of Dallben's face when he was told she had run away, in the idea of Taran sent searching for her, in the fantasy of convincing him to come with her instead of dragging her back.
Not that he seemed terribly keen to stay with her at present! Riding ahead as though he couldn't wait to reach the river, with barely a glance backward to see how she was getting on. What could he need to tell Coll that was so urgent it could not wait until his journey home? Meanwhile he would not see her for years, and might have made use of this time to keep her company, especially after such moments as they had shared. He had not even asked her how she'd slept, whether she was all right; he had made no mention of the previous night at all, in fact. Of course they'd had no chance to converse privately…until now. Yet here she was, riding at the rear, alone. Obviously it had all meant nothing to him. Ludicrous, clueless assistant pig-keeper! Let him do as he pleased, then. She didn't mind…or rather, she could make herself not mind, and set about doing just that, sitting up straight, tossing her hair back and clucking to Lluagor until the mare broke into a trot, catching up with Taran and Coll just as they rounded the edge of a ridge.
There, she reined up with a sudden sharp gasp. Before them, at the bottom of a long slope, broke the view of the Avren, lying like a blue and glistening snake in the hollows of the land, one wide curve forming a serene, hill-ringed harbor. Small, grey cottages dotted the land near the water's edge. A long, slender craft bobbed in the shallows, its square white sail filling with the same breeze that had arrested Eilonwy the moment it had hit her face.
Sea air.
She shut her eyes and inhaled, deep and long and ravenously. Oh, that smell! Barring the distant briny tang on the wind at the Marshes of Morva, she had not breathed sea air in all her living memory…yet she knew it at once as she knew her own name, and the taste of it stretched back past memory, filling the spaces in her mind that should not have been empty, but were. It burned in her lungs, sizzled into her limbs until she tingled from head to foot. Tears of wonder sprang to her eyes.
"Oh," she exclaimed aloud, enraptured. "I can smell the sea, can't you? Look at the water shining! And the ship! Oh, isn't it beautiful!"
Taran and Coll, though not quite as transported as she, had both brightened at the view, throwing their heads up into the wind and sniffing appreciatively. Gurgi waved his woolly arms and whooped. "Yes, oh yes! Bold, valiant Gurgi is glad to follow kindly master and noble Princess with boatings and floatings!"
Kaw cackled in delight, and then they were flowing down the slope like water itself, the horses cantering into the wind with their heads up as though even their blood was quickened by it. Eilonwy leaned back, reveling in the air drifting over her face, lifting her hair, filling every fold of gown and cloak; perhaps she could hold onto it, could soak it in until she herself smelled like sea. When they reached the riverbank she was breathless and windblown and oddly exhilarated, the sadness of their errand blown away, for the moment, by that magic upon the wind.
The ship's crew, seeing their approach, had run a plank from the vessel to the bank, and as they dismounted a single figure clambered onto it and strode toward them. After only a few steps, however, this stranger tripped and toppled with a yelp, hitting the water with a clumsy splash. Taran and Coll rushed forward, but the water was shallow, and the unfortunate figure was already picking himself up with a good-natured laugh, and sloshing toward them. He waved cheerfully as he came, calling out, "Hullo, hullo! Is that Princess Eilonwy I see? Of course, it must be!"
Taran turned to glance back at her with bewildered disbelief, and she shrugged at him, suppressing a giggle. The stranger paused while still ankle-deep in the river, swept a very low and grand bow, and straightened up. He was a youth around Taran's age, garbed in very fine raiment, now sopping wet. But he appeared unconcerned with his sodden state, taking a deep breath and announcing, in the manner of one who had practiced in earnest, "On behalf of Rhuddlum Son of Rhudd and Teleria Daughter of Tannwen, King and Queen of the Isle of Mona, greetings to the Princess Eilonwy of the Royal House of Llyr, and to—well—to all the rest of you." He paused, and blinked a pair of pale blue eyes, adding thoughtfully, "I should have asked your names before I started."
A laugh burst through Eilonwy's clenched teeth and she forced it down with a gulp and a hiccup. Llyr, if she had to make introductions now she'd absolutely howl. Hurriedly she motioned to Taran, who nodded at her somewhat shortly, clearly put off by the odd behavior of this emissary. "You guess rightly, friend," he said. "This is the Princess Eilonwy, daughter of Angharad, and these others are Coll son of Collfrewr, and Gurgi of the forest. I am Taran, Assistant Pig-Keeper of Caer Dallb—"
"Oh yes, splendid!" the other boy interrupted, sloshing forward to grasp Taran's hand and give it a quick, hearty shake. "You must all introduce yourselves again later, one at a time. Otherwise, I might forget…oh! I see the shipmaster's waving at us." He waved back at the ship, where a handful of men were gathered at the railing to watch the encounter. "Something to do with the tides, no doubt," he murmured to them sidelong, as though imparting a great and important secret. "He's always very concerned with them. This is the first time I've commanded a voyage. Amazing how easy it is. All you have to do is tell the sailors—"
"But who are you?" Taran burst out, it being obvious he was not going to get a word in otherwise.
The boy halted his chatter, looking surprised and a little silly, his wheat-straw hair still streaming river water into his eyes. "Oh," he said, pushing it back, with a smile. "Did I forget to mention that? I'm Prince Rhun."