They stayed in the shelter of the dunes through the heat of the day. Eilonwy, clutching her bauble, slept again, and woke in the late afternoon, suddenly and with a gasp, from a dream that immediately slipped away. Taran, sitting beside her, laid a hand on her arm.

"It's all right," he murmured, and she stared at his hand and felt many things that she could not put into words.

"Have you sat here all this time?" she said, knowing quite well that he had, for he was still in the exact same spot he'd been while she had been weeping herself to sleep.

"There isn't much else to do," he answered lightly. "Everyone is just waiting to see how you feel. Rhun wants to head back at once, but Gwydion thinks we ought to stay the night. Either way, it'll mean another night out before we get back to Dinas Rhydnant, but we're also planning to stop by Glew's cavern to see how he fares."

"Didn't he try to harm you? Why would you care?"

"It's a long story," Taran sighed. "But I do pity him, and he needs help, more than our judgement. I think Dallben could do something for him, and I want to try, at least. They've also decided..." He hesitated. "That is, she's agreed...Achren has...to come back to Caer Dallben."

"She's what!" Eilonwy flew upright to stare at him. "Why would...what could...who invited her?"

"Gwydion did."

She was speechless for many seconds. Taran would not meet her eyes. "What is he thinking?" she spluttered at last. "After all this...how can he just...she would have killed me! She would have destroyed all of us! And now she gets to…to be rewarded for it? Gets to hide away at…And I'm being sent away! "

He looked at her unhappily. "It's...it's not quite like that. You haven't seen her as she is, now."

"I don't want to see her," she exclaimed hotly. "I'd be glad enough never to have to think of her again. What does he mean by it?"

"I suppose you'll have to ask him."

She threw her hands in the air with a groan of frustration. "That's it, then. I shall never be rid of her. She'll haunt me everywhere I go, as long as we both live. How am I ever to go back and live in peace, if she's there?"

Taran made no answer. His silence grew so long that she glanced over at him in doubt, and saw that he was scratching fretfully at the sand with a bit of rock, his expression dark.

"Don't let them put her in my loft," she grumbled.

His glance flicked up at her painfully. "I won't. She isn't coming to replace you."

"When I return, I want it all to be as I left it," she insisted.

His eyes dropped again, evasive, and a spasm of pain crossed his face. "Eilonwy..." he said haltingly.

"Ah!" The sound startled them both, and Taran shut his mouth in an instant as Fflewddur came loping over, Llyan close upon his heels. He crouched near her. "Awake again, at last? How do you feel, love?"

Eilonwy almost snapped that she felt furious, but caught herself at the sight of his beloved face, the lines around his hazel eyes crinkled up with concern. "I feel...better," she sighed. "Much better, actually. I can get up."

The two of them anchored her as she rose, and there was a moment where each seemed confused about whose arm she would continue to grip to steady herself. She was slightly jostled from one side to the other and Fflewddur let go first, with a nod and a little lopsided smile at both of them that made her feel fluttering warm with embarrassment, but she made no effort to stop him when he stepped away.

The world seemed a bit shaky, once she was on her feet, and she felt an odd sense of missing time, such that it was more than the pleasure of Taran's arm that made her lean on it as they moved down the beach. Ahead of them, Gwydion, Gurgi, and Rhun sat in discussion.

"...We've let Magg look after things we should have seen to ourselves," Rhun was saying. "There's more to being Prince than I thought. I learned that from an Assistant Pig-Keeper," he added, rising as they approached, and holding out his hand to Taran, who clasped it companionably. "And from all of you, really. There's still most of Mona to be seen, and if I'm ever to be King, I'm sure I should see it all, and the sooner the better." He caught Eilonwy's eye and smiled, and she thought he looked taller, somehow, and older, and could not help returning the smile. But her eye meandered past him, to where a dark figure huddled in a hollow of the rocks, turned away from them all, and her heart sank.

The rest of them had risen, and Gwydion spread his arms in welcome, faltering when she did not run into them. "Princess. It is good to see you on your feet. But what is this cloud I see in your face?"

"Is it true?" Eilonwy nodded toward the huddled figure. "You've asked her to Caer Dallben?"

His expression settled into understanding. "It is true," he said, "and I know it must seem an outrage to you. Please, dear one—come and hear me out."

She was tempted to refuse, but Taran was already handing her over and taking a step back. She scowled at him, even more annoyed at his bewildered look in response, but it was too late—Gwydion was taking her arm and drawing her a few steps away while the others dispersed. Then, they were alone, and he was motioning her to sit, and she was weary enough to do it, though she wanted to pace and shout.

He sat across from her and surveyed her seriously. "Princess, I concede it. You have every right to feel betrayed and angry."

She sat silent, frowning, waiting, and Gwydion sighed. "I know, after all she has done to you, that…"

"It isn't just to me !" Eilonwy burst out. "I'm not a child upset over sharing a toy. She has done such evil to so many! And she's never gotten what she deserved over it."

"You little know," Gwydion said heavily, "both how wrong and right you are." His proud head bowed, and he stared at the ground as though she was not there. "Achren has both borne and committed horrors beyond your imagining, but..."

"Then how …"

"You are young," Gwydion said, halting her interruption with a single glance, "and you have endured things no child should have to endure, but I tell you: for all your sorrows, fate has been kinder to you than it was to her. Paths were laid before her that she had no choice but to walk, long before she made herself into the bent and twisted creature you have known."

May you never have cause to understand what has made me what I am.

Eilonwy shivered, scowling at the ground. "Well, I don't care what paths she was forced down. Eventually she had the power to change whatever she wanted, and she still chose to keep right on destroying things."

Gwydion nodded. "I do not deny it. But you also have not yet seen how often those in evil circumstances become that which they despise. How fear and rage, given a quarter, can turn a heart black, and how easily power and revenge become bedfellows."

She thought of Ellidyr, and the sense of drunken, ecstatic satisfaction she had felt, listening to his screams while he burned, and her mouth went dry.

"As to whether she has ever received her just desserts," Gwydion went on, "of that, also, you know little. But consider whether a life at Caer Dallben will be the prize to her that it would be to you. She has lost her power, not her pride. Living within the boundaries of Dallben's benevolence and protection is the last thing she desires. But it may be, I think, what she needs."

"If you are so concerned about her," Eilonwy retorted bitterly, "why not bring her to Caer Dathyl, where you can keep her as safe as you like? It's easy enough, to consign her to somewhere else , where you'll have no need to live with her."

Gwydion cast her a shrewd look. "I would do so, but I regret to say she would find no welcome at Caer Dathyl. Only Dallben has so little to fear that she will be accepted without condemnation." He looked thoughtfully at his hands, and spoke softly, as if to himself. "Would that my fortress had a house half so healing."

"Healing," Eilonwy repeated angrily. "Why should she receive healing, when she dealt out nothing but pain and death?"

"Because pain and death were not what she was meant for," Gwydion answered, "and I have never lost hope that one day, she may remember it. Perhaps it is foolish. But I would sooner be a fool who holds onto hope, than a sage who embraces despair."

His green-flecked eyes darted up to meet her, bright and sharp as a steel blade. "This anger and grudge-bearing is not what you were meant for, either, Princess…but observe how willingly you let it have a foothold."

" Is it a grudge," she demanded, bristling, "or just a desire for justice?"

"Be careful," Gwydion rejoined, "for the line between justice and vengeance is thin. Justice has been served, by your own hand. Compared to the loss of her power, Achren thinks death is a mercy I have denied her."

Eilonwy slumped back against a rock, staring at him in indignant confusion. Why did he care? She wanted to ask, nay, demand what bizarre sense of obligation made him so invested in Achren's well-being. But without knowing how she knew it, she knew nonetheless: this was a thing untouchable—as forbidden a subject as the wistfulness in his eyes when he spoke of her mother.

There was a long silence, and she wondered if he wanted her to say it was fine, that she agreed, that she hoped Achren would become whatever it was he thought she still could and that they would all live at Caer Dallben in blissful companionship.

He would wait a long time, for that.

"We might as well leave," she said abruptly. "I'm tired, but I can walk if we move slowly. If I'm obliged to be in her company, I should like for it to be as short a time as possible."

Gwydion looked at her levelly, and seemed about to say several things, changing his mind about all of them. "Very well," he said at last. "It shall be as you wish."

Nothing is as I wish, she thought, as he walked away, and called out to the others.

The companions gathered themselves together, and by the time the western sun was sending tendrils of gold and crimson spreading across a turquoise sky, they set their faces inland. Eilonwy watched as Gwydion went to Achren and offered her his arm, watched as she rebuffed him coldly and followed Rhun up a trail toward the bluffs, her head bowed, her footing unsteady. Gwydion followed, after a moment of allowing her distance.

Eilonwy stood still. Fflewddur, Gurgi, and Taran were waiting for her at the foot of the dunes, Llyan standing just behind the bard's left shoulder, her tail twitching and her golden eyes alert.

Her breath caught, looking at them all, remembering what lay ahead. Every step toward Dinas Rhydnant would take her closer to a parting she could not bear to think of. Perhaps she should have insisted they stay the night here, after all, to stretch out whatever time they had just one more day, a few more hours.

She couldn't go, couldn't breathe. "I…" she stammered, gesturing at them, "I'm just going to…to take a moment. Go along, and I'll catch up."

Without waiting to see what they all did, she turned and walked down the beach, back to the edge of the surf, until the cold foam of the wavelets prickled at her bare feet. She looked out to the endless, unbroken horizon, and watched the movement of the breakers rushing toward her, remembering the ecstasy that had coursed through her limbs as she had embraced the magic in that seething mass of water. Was that power still within her, or had she destroyed it along with the book? She was afraid even to try to summon it...afraid to seek within, lest she find nothing.

The murmur of the surf filled her ears, both cacophony and lullaby. You are enough, and you have all you need.

Footsteps crunched the sand behind her. She knew it was Taran without looking; she had wanted him to come. The footsteps stopped, and she sensed his presence at her shoulder, close enough to touch, if she only twitched her hand a little backward. He stood there —full to the brim with things unspoken, ready to overflow.

"I'm all right," she breathed, though it was not quite true. "I thought I'd have a last look at Caer Colur. Just to remember where it is. Or...well, where it isn't."

"I'm sorry," he said, a gentle acknowledgement of the depth of loss. Eilonwy forced down a sob.

"Yes," she said shakily, when she could speak. "So am I, in a way. Not entirely, you know, but...it was my only home, for a while. Outside of Caer Dallben."

"It should have been always," Taran said. "It was where you belonged."

She winced at the bitterness in his voice. "I… don't know," she said slowly, "Perhaps things happen how they are meant to. If I'd not been taken...who would have gotten you out of Achren's dungeon?"

She felt something release in him, like a fallen chink from a wall, letting sunlight through. "You've always been..." he began, cut it off; then, "...I wish..."

Silence. She waited, heart pounding in her throat.

"Once you're safe in Dinas Rhydnant," Taran said at last, stumbling over his words, "I'll...I'll have to leave. To go back home."

The lump in her throat swelled, blocking anything she might have said, futile words that could not push past all the gates erected.

"I had hoped," he continued, "that after all you'd been through, that...that you'd come back with us. But...Gwydion is sure Dallben meant for you to stay. It's not as though he knew all this would happen."

"No," she whispered; the uncaring wind caught the word and carried it off like a dead leaf.

Taran shifted his feet in the sand. "I can just hear him now: being rescued has nothing to do with being educated. "

This was delivered in such an accurate impression of Dallben's acerbic rasp that a hysterical sound bubbled up past her tight throat and burst out, a sob tricked into a laugh. Oh, Llyr. How would she manage, without him?

I can't stay here, she thought, I can't.

Suppose she refused. Insisted on returning home at once. Short of physically restraining her, they had no way of stopping her from doing so. What would Dallben say, if she returned now? Had she learned enough yet to satisfy him?

There, you will have a chance to learn much more about who you are.

But I already know who I am!

Ah. Do you?

I am Eilonwy. Daughter of Angharad. Daughter of Llyr. She had always told herself that the names didn't matter much. But now that both were lost, what did that leave her? Groping blindly, for a mirror that showed no reflection.

"Do you remember," she said, turning a little toward Taran, "what else Dallben said, when I was leaving? That there comes a time when we must be more than what we are."

He was close, so close she could count the lashes fringing over his eyes, and she looked away quickly, her breath hitching, and fixed her gaze on the blue line where sea met sky. "I suppose he means that somehow I'm meant to be more than an enchantress. I don't know what learning to be a...a young lady has to do with it." The words made her nose wrinkle up in distaste at their implied trappings. "Whatever that is that I'm not already. But I suppose I shall have to find out."

His silence hung upon the air, fragile, like a thread of spider silk. "So I'll try hard to find it out quickly," she added, "twice as hard, at least, as all those silly geese in Dinas Rhydnant, so I can be home twice as soon. For Caer Dallben is my only real home, now."

From the corner of her eye Eilonwy saw him move abruptly, as though he were about to speak, and she tensed in anticipation, but something gleamed in the water, distracting. An object tumbled toward her feet, and she splashed to it and picked it up, unwinding a long string of seaweed, and giving a little cry of surprise. "What's this? The sea has given us a present."

It was a battle-horn, smooth and bleached white, rimmed and bound in silver, its mouthpiece etched in intricate spirals. She shook the sand out as Taran bent over to look more closely.

"From Caer Colur?" he asked.

"It must be," she murmured, turning it in her hands thoughtfully, "though I didn't see it there. I can't imagine what use it was. I suppose it's all that's left."

"It's a treasure, then," Taran said reverently, and she swallowed hard, her heart thudding.

"Yes," she whispered, "the last treasure of Llyr." She took a breath and turned to face him fully. "Here. It's yours."

His eyes met hers, wide and shocked. "I...what?"

She raised it up, insistent. "You must take it."

"You can't give me this," he protested, "It's all you have of—"

"Then it's mine to give!" she blurted out, pushing it into his chest. For a moment they stood, staring at one another, and she felt that well within him, churning like the sea under a storm, roiling with all the things he did not know how to say.

"It's mine to give," she repeated, in a half-whisper that would not betray the break in her voice. "as my pledge that I will not forget you. Promise..." her voice shook, and she stopped, swallowing frantically, forcing down that hateful thing trying to choke her, "promise you won't forget me."

His eyes softened, and his hands rose up to the horn, but he did not take it. Instead his fingers curled around hers, enveloping her hands in the warm pressure of his grip. "I promise that," he said, "gladly, but you need not give me anything. I.…I couldn't forget." His voice caught, as though it had stumbled over something in its way, and his eyes were so brilliant she had to look away.

"I want to," she mumbled stubbornly. "I want it to…to be yours. So you'll think of me whenever you see it."

Taran's hands tightened around hers, and the pulse in her middle turned to a wild flutter. "All right, then," he said, "if you're certain. But what shall I pledge in return? I have nothing but my word."

It was the sort of thing he was wont to say with self-deprecation, yet this time there was none, only a grave wistfulness, and she almost laughed, that he still had no idea what his word was worth. "The word of an assistant pig-keeper? That will do very well."

His expression changed to wondering, faint gladness, and she was conscious again of how close he was; close enough that the breeze rolled glittering strands of her hair against the green field of his jacket; close enough to watch his eyes darken when his gaze sank to her smile. Suddenly overwhelmed, she pushed the horn into his chest with a nervous laugh, pulling her hands from his grasp. "Here, take it! Giving gifts is...so much better than saying farewell."

She had meant it lightly, but he clutched the horn until his knuckles went white, and the color drained from his face. "Eilonwy," he breathed, and she went numb at the reluctance in his voice, her heart sinking in a wave of foreboding. "We must say farewell."

Eilonwy took an involuntary step back, and shook her head, but Taran gulped another breath, and blurted out, in an agonized stream, "You know that…King Rhuddlum and Queen Teleria mean to betroth you to Prince Rhun."

The words hit her like a bucket of icy water, so shocking and unfathomable that she only stared at him, incapable of speech. These incredible, nonsensical words: they rattled about her head like gourd-stones, careening absurdly; she had to corral each one in its turn, make it sit still so she could make sense of them in sequence. King…Queen…betroth…prince… "They what ?!" she exclaimed, in astonishment too blank, for the moment, even to be angry.

Taran looked at her miserably. "The king told me, himself. Rhun has known from the start."

She stared longer, and then, out of nowhere, erupted in an incomprehensible laugh. The flagrancy of it, the blatant, brazen presumption… Belin and Llyr! Had everyone known it but she? She flushed hot, blood blooming with indignation and humiliated outrage. Oh, it was ridiculous...ludicrous…infuriating!

"I assure you," she burst out, "they'll do no such thing. Really!" She turned on her heel, throwing her arms out in rage, stalking away, and pacing the sand between Taran and the lapping waves. "There are limits to having people making your mind up for you! Of all the stupid, idiotic, unspeakable —" but here, on the edge of hysterics, she stopped herself, glancing down at the water.

The waves rolling to her feet were crashing there with sudden vigor, smashing against her lower legs and rolling further up the sand, incongruous with the rest of the waterline. She stared at them, feeling the deep pull of the water back toward its fathomless heart, attuned to the prickle in her forearms and fingertips, the salty savor of sea-magic in her mouth.

It was still there, somewhere within her. Slowly, she counted to ten, breathing slow; eased her clenched fists back into open hands, relaxed at her sides. The water ceased its churning, ebbing back, and she was not sure if the sigh she heard came from herself or the sea.

Learn who you are.

She counted again, breathed deep, released the anger. "Rhun has...improved," she said slowly. "I think all this was the best thing to ever happen to him, and in time he might even be a decent sort of king. But as for being betrothed..."

She turned back to face Taran. There he stood, watching her, his face as open a book as it had been in the throne room of Caer Colur, calling her back from wherever she had been.

She shrugged rather helplessly, face blazing, willing him to understand. "Taran, how could you even think that I'd—,"

He didn't let her finish. He made one sound – a sort of joyful, disbelieving whoop - and vaulted over the space between them, flinging his arms around her, catching her up and whirling her around in one swift sudden movement that knocked her off balance. With a shriek of surprise, she clutched at him, breathless, caught in a paradox of pleasure and indignation at being so manhandled. "Taran of Caer Dallben," she gasped, as he set her down again on shaky feet, "I'm...I'm not..."

She trailed off, staring at the strong golden line of his chin in front of her eyes, flushed at such proximity. For the first time she ignored the nervous impulse to pull away from him. Her heart hammered against her ribs as though it wanted to break free to reach his, that pounding rhythm she could almost hear, pressed against his chest. His burning gaze dropped to her mouth again, with unmistakable intent; it was how Oisin had looked at Niamh; how her father had looked at her mother, how she had wanted Taran to look at her, for what now seemed like a long, long time.

"I'm not speaking to you," she sighed, a tentative threshold where her breath tripped and tumbled into his. Their noses bumped together and she smiled a little, searched for the right angle, tilted up until his mouth curved and melted against hers, and found that words were quite unnecessary.

Breathe. Her inhale was a spark that sent blissful heat singing through every nerve. There was salt on his lips, but beneath it he tasted like... oh , like stars, like sunlight, like rain on the garden, like every good thing that had ever happened or would happen to her. Tension trickled away on her exhale; his hand drifted into the small of her back and splayed up against her spine; she let herself sink fluidly against him, a fit as perfect as if she were reunited, at last, with something she had never known was missing.

What was this? She didn't know...she didn't know, but there was an answer somewhere here, within the safe circle of his arms, in the breath that mingled between them, like souls enjoined. Not the whole answer, maybe, not now, but a first glimpse, a curtain blown aside to a view of worlds beyond.

"You were wrong," she whispered, when he took a breath, and felt him tense.

"I usually am. What is it, this time?"

"When you said you had nothing to give me."

His relieved chuckle spilled out like honey, sweet on her lips. "Well. If this is what you like, I have plenty."

"Been saving it up, have you?" She blushed, suddenly self-conscious, and glanced toward the bluffs. "They'll be coming to look for us, soon."

"No, they won't. Fflewddur told me to take as long as we needed, and he'd make sure we weren't disturbed."

"Fflewddur!" Eilonwy repeated, awash with embarrassment, and Taran laughed, but his face turned serious.

"He cares about us. About you. Eilonwy, I..." His eyes closed, and his head dropped, until his brow rested upon hers. "I have never been so afraid as when I thought you were lost. When you stood before me and did not know who I was. I couldn't reach you; I..."

"Don't," she said, and took his face in her hands, pressing as though she could push the memory from his mind. "That was not me; it was not me; it was something else that I couldn't reach through. Taran, it was seeing you that made me brave enough to destroy the book."

His eyes opened, liquid-bright. "I knew," she whispered, "that you wouldn't let me be lost along with it."

He sighed and pulled her in until her face settled at his shoulder, until she was pressed against the solid strength of his chest and the warm beat of his heart, and if there were a sweeter, more perfect assurance of belonging than this, she did not care to know it.

In the long shadows of the bluffs, the water at their feet winked and twinkled with turquoise stars, coalescing and congregating, until they stood in a pool of emerald light, glowing like the full moon, caught within the tide.