Eilonwy stared at the two maids, uncomfortable, remembering the fuss that had been made over her at Caer Dathyl, the complete lack of privacy. "I know it's the usual thing," she said, "to have bath attendants. But I'm not used to it."
The ladies exchanged glances. They were not really very much older than she, and she sensed their uncertainty about what to do with her. "If it pleases you, milady," Seren answered, dropping a quick curtsy, "we could wait in the antechamber there, and you can call to us if you need assistance."
Eilonwy nodded. "Yes, that will do."
The ladies laid out several implements on a small table and discreetly disappeared. Eilonwy kindled the fire in the hearth with a snap of her fingers, undressed before it, and climbed into the tub, sighing as the steaming water enveloped her. Oh, this was nice…a pleasure she had not experienced in years, whose intensity she had forgotten.
She lowered herself until her tangled hair swirled about her shoulders. The salt seeped out of it, collecting on her lips. Its magic tingled on her tongue, closer and clearer than she usually experienced: an instant flood of power, pulsing at her fingertips. On an impulse she took a breath and sank all the way beneath the surface, eyes shut, senses turned inward.
In her mind she sensed movement, a soft swaying back and forth, and darkness, cold and heavy and full, and then a soft, glowing light, silver-white. She did not know what any of it meant, but somehow the sense of it seeped past her consciousness, and unlocked what even Teleria's comforting assurances could not: she wept into the water, tears released like breath into the space around her.
Rising to breathe, submerging again: she felt a stirring as though voices whispered in her ears, too low to decipher words. As the tears ebbed, a slow and unexpected peace seeped into her, slowing her heartbeat, soothing her frayed nerves, cooling that tight heat at her temples and behind her eyes. The mingled sweet and salt taste of water-magic pooled in her mouth, complex and compelling.
Again and again she rose to breathe and sank again, remaining there until her aching lungs demanded relief. Surfacing for good at last with a gasp, she examined her surroundings with some return of spirit.
The fire popped and hissed in the big hearth, its homey glow and sense of kinship both comforting and familiar; the sea wind breezing through the room carried a tang that quickened her blood and brought back visions of that wild black coast they had sailed past. If only she could go exploring there! The rugged beauty of the cliffs, filled with their innumerable crevices and nooks, their towering secrets, had drawn her eye and filled her with longing. There was a place where she might follow her feet, make discoveries, find her own sacred spaces. Such a chance just might make her sojourn here tolerable.
And Fflewddur was here! Not to stay for long, most likely, but while he was, perhaps he and Taran, Gurgi and she might find a way to leave the castle and have a good lark. For a few days, it might be just like old times; a jaunt whose memory could carry her through whatever lonely, dull months undoubtedly lay ahead.
She turned her attention to the small table next to the tub and poked curiously at the small clay pots and carved soapstone jars laid out there, each filled with a different mysterious substance, none of it resembling the soft soap they used at Caer Dallben. These were powders and crystals and ointments; they smelled like roses and lavender, like honeycomb and elderflower. Surely they were not all meant to be used by one person in one bath. Nobody could be as filthy as all that.
Eilonwy yelped indignantly, as a knock at her chamber door was immediately followed by that door opening and a figure bustling in—Gladys, the woman who had been sent out after spare clothing, now stood before her, arms full of rich fabrics.
"Really!" Eilonwy crossed her own arms over her chest in embarrassment. "What's the point of knocking if you're just going to come right in anyway?"
"Oh, beg pardon, milady." Gladys dropped a curtsy and laid her stack of clothing on the couch. "The Queen did say you might not be used to our ways, here. Where did…? Oh! There you are," she exclaimed, as the other two women, drawn by the commotion, appeared in the doorway of the antechamber.
"For goodness' sake," Eilonwy sputtered. "I suppose I may as well get used to this. Since my bath is a public spectacle, will one of you tell me what I'm to do with all these?" She motioned to the collection of cosmetics.
There followed a bewildering flurry of unfamiliar rituals, as the women exclaimed indulgently over her ignorance and sprang into action. They poured scented salts into the water, and, when she shrugged at having her permission asked, scrubbed her with a rough sponge and something that lathered until her skin shone pink. They massaged one of the perfumed concoctions into her hair, rinsed it out, and followed it up with another. In spite of her discomfort at such unfamiliar intimacies, she found herself lulled by the sensation. Well, even the most standoffish cats always came back for more when one scratched their heads, didn't they; perhaps she was experiencing a similar impulse.
There was much tsking over her callouses and the state of her nails on both fingers and toes. Tiny files appeared and reamed them into acceptable shape; tiny sticks scraped the dirt from beneath. When she rose from the water they wrapped her in a large bath sheet and bade her sit upon the couch before the fire, where ointment smelling of roses and mint was rubbed into her skin. Seren wrapped her hair in another swath of linen and wrung it out, combing its tangles free. Once they were all satisfied with its state, her hair was coiled in sections, long strands twisted and draped like golden cords.
It was an experience not unpleasant—or at least, Eilonwy could imagine it being pleasant if one were used to such things. She had no memory of being touched with hands that nurtured in these ways. Surely her mother must have done so, must have bathed her and combed her hair, balmed her scrapes with ointment, held her and kissed her. For even in her years in Spiral Castle, Eilonwy had known, vaguely, that such ministrations existed, though certainly not from Achren's example. That latent knowledge had set her free…free to embrace and be embraced, within her new circle of friends and family. Perhaps now, if she could only bear her own self-consciousness at first, this lavish attention would also become a thing that felt…normal. Welcome, even.
The women talked the entire time, both to her and about her, often not waiting for a response before chattering on, leaping from one subject to the next as quickly as Teleria did. They traded opinions upon what colors would suit Eilonwy best, what sort of jewelry should be paired with her gowns, what else might be done with her hair if only they had the time and tools. They talked of the feast that night, of the Queen's expert planning and organizing of the event. But without doubt their favorite topic was men; Seren was married and the others were not, and which of them was the more dissatisfied with her lot was difficult to decipher. The laments of Aerona and Gladys over the lack of decent men to court them seemed sincere. But Seren's complaints about her husband were often subtlety boastful, the way one might complain about the trials of training a particularly adored but obstinate stallion, and often accompanied by rounds of giggles from all of them.
They pulled successive layers of clothing onto her: a linen shift tightly laced up the front, a kirtle of silk that fell to her ankles, sleeves fastening at her wrists, and then another, heavier, with sleeves that trailed from her elbows in amounts of fabric destined to get endlessly in her way. How did one accomplish anything useful in such a get-up? Perhaps that was the point. And it laced at the back; she would never have been able to don it herself, nor would she be able to remove it without help.
Blast! This experience was no anomaly, then, but the ordinary way of things: to require assistance at something so basic as getting dressed! It had been the same at Caer Dathyl, but she'd been a child then, and would have assumed, had she thought about it at all, that no grown woman would be put in a position that left her so dependent. She thought despairingly of the Rovers, their colorful, simple garments and their wild freedom, and wondered in desperation if they ever crossed the sea to Mona. Perhaps she could escape with a passing caravan rather than endure this nonsense for years.
The ladies fastened an embroidered girdle about her waist and slid silk slippers onto her feet, Seren carrying her worn sandals away at arm's length and flinging them into a chest. Now, milady!" Aerona cooed, "have a look in the mirror."
Eilonwy turned, half unwilling and half curious, to the wall where hung the sheet of burnished silver. For a moment she blinked confusedly. In its shining surface stood a vision unlike anything she associated with herself. She and her reflection stared at one another: two strangers, unacquainted.
The girl…the young woman…in that space, looked like someone stepped from a tapestry or the illuminated pages of the Book of Three. She was tall and slim, gowned in layers of deep blue and turquoise, garments cut and draped to accentuate every line of her figure with merciless elegance. Her bared neck and collarbones gleamed pale as polished marble. Gold-threaded embroidery glittered from her neckline, her girdle, and the hems of her long sleeves. Her meticulously-coiled hair draped from her shoulders and dangled in gleaming golden ropes over the blue silk gown. The silver crescent of Llyr winked and flashed from the shadowed hollow of her throat.
Eilonwy's heart pounded oddly. Her very expression was unfamiliar —wide-eyed and flushed, a combination of bewilderment, annoyance, and strange, contradictory excitement. She had expected to despise being dressed up like a doll, and indeed she felt dismayed at the stiff and alien wrongness of her own body bound in such finery. And yet…somewhere beneath it, trying to push itself out, there was a thrill of nascent pleasure, which was even more confusing.
But it could not be denied. The girl in the mirror looked like someone who would be taken seriously…someone who would be noticed, and attended to, simply by virtue of appearances. That very fact made her cringe a little. Was she ridiculous, to feel a little glad that what she saw in the mirror was lovely? I won't be one of these simpering, vain geese, she thought viciously, going on endlessly about clothes and jewelry and catching young men's eyes. I won't.
But speaking of…what would Taran think of her?
Oh, Belin. There it was again. Every thought seemed to turn back toward him, like debris circling a whirlpool. Why did she go all hot at the thought of his seeing her like this? He never said anything about her appearance unless prompted. Likely the silly mole wouldn't notice whether she appeared in a royal gown or a hempen sack. Why trouble herself with hoping—no, not hoping, just…wondering.
Her reflection was scowling slightly now, a fine line creasing between her brows, the flush deepening on her cheeks and even faintly staining her throat. "Are you not pleased, milady?" Gladys murmured, and Eilonwy started, and tried to think of something both honest and tactful to say. At that moment the door opened again upon a breathless entity in fluttering white, trailed by attendants and a flow of commands.
"…and then the roast for this evening; tell Cook we'll need to add more meat to the pie; who knew so many extras would be coming? Sit the delegate from Narffon well away from Lord Glynn; they've a family feud going back decades, and put that boy to the left of the…oh! Blessed Rhiannon; the child is the image of Angharad!"
Eilonwy froze, and stared into the mirror at Teleria's reflection, which stared wide-eyed back from over her shoulder. For once, the Queen seemed stunned into forgetting her train of thought, and the chattering in the room melted into a thick silence. Within that silence Eilowny heard her own heart, pounding out an anxious cadence over her held breath.
It was another, older woman who broke the spell. She stepped forward and took Eilonwy by the shoulders, gently but inexorably turning her around to face both women. "Very like, indeed," she murmured appraisingly, "and yet there are subtle things different. Same height, or close enough. Hair's lighter; Angharad's tended more to red than gold. Rounder nose. The Llyrian chin and mouth; by the tides, I'd know them anywhere! Angharad's eyes were green, were they not?"
Teleria seemed to shake herself back to coherency. "Yes, yes, of course, from her father Owen. I only saw him once, but he was striking, those brilliant eyes with that black hair. Eilwen favored him more. Both girls had such dramatic complexions."
She clucked her tongue, as though dramatic complexions belonged to the category of Things to be Distrusted on Principle, and continued. "Regat was dark-eyed, just like Mererid. Arianrhod's were clear, but grey. None of them had blue; these must be from…"
She hesitated, frowning, then veered off like a gull dodging a hawk. "Well, no matter — mercy, child, you gave me a turn! It wasn't so obvious, before —you were so unkempt, you might have been a fishmonger's girl— but now, like this…"
Her eyes welling, she reached out to Eilonwy and touched her face, her shoulders, took her by the hands. "Good Llyr, it's her essence, really. You stand like her. Doesn't she, Olwen!"
The other woman smiled approval. "She does have that same trick of holding her head up and chin out."
Teleria chuckled and sighed. "Oh, my, but your mother did have such an air. How she could command a whole room just by walking into it! I always envied her for it. She was only a bit older than you the last time I saw her, but I remember as though it was yesterday. Rhun had just been born. Seventeen years ago now! It's hard to believe—oh, dear, no, don't scrunch up the silk and wrinkle it—that it's been so long…"
"You knew her well, then?" Eilonwy burst out, finding her voice at last. She had stood in silent shock during the exchange, feeling as pummeled as one must feel when facing an archery assault. One after another, the arrows struck, with no time to recover from one blow before the next landed. Eyes, chin, nose, names…names she had never heard, names that dangled like the keys from that steward's master ring, each a jingling insinuation of a door locked upon mysteries. Questions slammed themselves into her chest and throat, strangling her with their crowding; she struggled to breathe.
Teleria blinked in surprise; for a moment Eilonwy saw Rhun's affable bewilderment painted upon his mother's face. "Well, naturally, love, we were family. Didn't Dallben tell you anything? Distant—oh, fix her lacing, Cerys, it's uneven here —but still. She visited often. These were her chambers when she stayed with us." She nodded toward the room. "It's why I put you here."
Eilonwy looked about her, at the high curtained bed and the worn window seat. So her mother had sat here —slept there. Had looked into this very mirror, perhaps. She reached out to touch the shining surface, wondering.
Oh, if only they'd all leave her alone for a few minutes so she could sort out her thoughts! But Teleria was talking again, pivoting into the evening's plans, barreling on about feuds and bards and the annoying young courtiers who thought every feast was a festival.
"You've done well," she assured the attendants as she sailed toward the door. "What a transformation! Give her a moment to catch her breath and then bring her down to the Hall—walk slowly, love, until you're used to that hemline, and watch your step; we've got some floors that need repair—when she's ready. Don't be too long, now; we've so many introductions to make!"
The door closed upon the steady stream of her voice, shutting it off, and Eilonwy could have sworn she heard a collective sigh of relief rise from throats around the room. But perhaps it was only her own.
Catch her breath, indeed! There could be no catching of breath when being repeatedly dunked beneath a waterfall. She felt dizzy with the onslaught, and there was no time to recover; the ladies were beckoning her to the doorway, telling her she looked beautiful, that she would feel at home in no time.
"It's just this way, milady." Aerona led her down a hallway, up short flights of steps and down others, around corners, the light from the courtyard streaming in at intervals through the long windows. Glimpses from these began to give her a better sense of the layout; Dinas Rhydnant seemed to be structured in an orderly fashion, exhibiting neither the labyrinthine insanity of Spiral Castle nor the sprawling, organic opulence of Caer Dathyl as she remembered them. It was not long before Aerona approached an open doorway and stood to the side, motioning for her to enter first. From within came a noise of the chatter of many voices. Eilonwy swallowed hard.
How she could command a whole room just by walking into it!
She threw her head back, scrunched each trembling hand into the silken folds of her skirt, and stepped through the door.
The Great Hall of Dinas Rhydnant opened before her, an arched ceiling soaring upward, light slanting in like a row of at-rest spears from tall windows that faced the sea. It was full of people—dozens and dozens of faces that turned toward her and ceased chattering as she entered, and over the sudden lull, she heard Queen Teleria's voice. "Ah! Here we are!"
The white-gowned figure fluttered over to her, took her hand, led her to the dais where two thrones stood, and turned her to face the gathering, holding her hand high. "Lords and ladies!" the Queen called out, "and all good people of Mona! I give you splendid tidings."
Great Belin, the woman was going to make a speech. She was glowing, practically levitating with the pleasure of delivering an important announcement. Eilonwy stared helplessly forward, and tried to imagine all the faces before her were a field of dandelions or a hive of bees. Anything rather than acknowledge herself the center of so much attention! Llyr, if she were anyone else but the one in this predicament, she'd want to laugh at the nonsense of it.
"As you all know," Teleria went on eagerly, "long had we believed that our royal kin of the House of Llyr were perished, lost in the mysterious tragedy that claimed their island, their magnificent line broken. Great has been our grief for the loss of Llyr and its people."
She turned to Eilonwy, beaming. "But now blessed be Rhiannon, who has seen fit to return to us one of their number. The last of her line, her very existence unknown until two years past, her identity yet verified by the wise, by all those who knew her mother and her house! I present to you the Princess Eilonwy—daughter of Angharad—Daughter of Llyr!"
The Hall erupted. There were shouts of Llyr, the House of Llyr, and Blessed Rhiannon, and Eilonwy saw several women in the crowd cup their hands to their breasts, in the same manner as the Rover woman had.
She did not know what she felt…only that she wished she saw the faces of any of her friends among this crowd. Perhaps if she had friendly gazes to focus upon, she would feel less conscious of the dozens and dozens of pairs of eyes on her. "What am I supposed to do?" she whispered to Teleria, who seemed in no hurry to move along to whatever was happening next.
"Just smile graciously," the Queen murmured. "When anyone approaches you, give them your hand. I'll make the—oh good Llyr, child, not like that! They'll want to bow over it, not shake hands like a man— introductions."
There followed an exhausting half-hour, wherein Eilonwy found herself smiling until her cheeks felt like cracking, and extending her hand to noblemen and ladies of every possible age and rank. They bowed and curtsied to her as Teleria announced their names. Some of them actually kissed her hand and clutched it, murmuring benedictions. There were many more exclamations on the theme of her resemblance to Angharad, and several curious questions about her mother's fate and the fall of Llyr, and where she had been all these years. Teleria deftly steered her past these before she could make any answer, remarking that the past was past and they must all look forward to the future, with a glance upon her so proprietary that Eilonwy became annoyed.
Really. They were all just people—hadn't she said so to Taran just a day or two ago? Why should she be so intimidated by all this—to the point of allowing this woman, well-meaning though she might be, to answer for her? Intolerable.
"I've been living at Caer Dallben," she declared, loudly and clearly, the next time the question was posed. Teleria gave a little start, next to her, and the elderly woman who had asked it cocked a wiry eyebrow, eyes widening in surprise. "You know who Dallben is, I expect. The most powerful enchanter in Prydain? Though of course he doesn't do much actual enchanting these days, if he ever did."
White sleeves fluttered in the corner of her eye, like nervous butterflies. "Yes," Queen Teleria began, "she's been taken care of very—"
"That's where I've lived since the battle of the Southern Cantrevs at Caer Dathyl, at least," Eilonwy interrupted, a little louder. "I was there after I escaped living with Achren at Spiral Castle. Perhaps you've heard of her as well. She did lots of enchanting, but it wasn't very nice. I've noticed that those most prone to flinging magic about everywhere tend to be the ones you'd least like to do it, have you?"
The circle of faces around her was changing—the ambient chatter fading away as expressions became interested, younger people squirming forward with bright faces while the middle-aged glanced at each other warily. She sensed curiosity, amusement, mild disapproval. The old woman before her, still holding her hand, squeezed it with a laugh before releasing it, her gaze snapping.
"There speaks a Daughter of Llyr," she said. "And what say you for your own ancestors, Princess? Was their magic that which they ought to have been less prone to flinging about?"
"I don't know anything about them," Eilonwy answered honestly. "I only know what I've seen, and that's that whenever there's something powerfully magic about, all the worst sorts seem to want to get their hands on it instantly. And the ones who might do some good with it tiptoe about as though they're walking on ice until no one can do any good with it at all. Just look at what happened with the Black Crochan."
"What's the Black Crochan?" a young voice piped up, from somewhere to her right.
Eilonwy turned, saw a cluster of girls near her own age…coiffed, coiled, laced into rainbow-hued gowns. "Arawn's cauldron," she answered, "where he made cauldron-born before the witches of Morva took it back."
Blank stares. Open mouths. "What are cauldron-born?" the same voice queried.
"Don't you hear anything of what goes on in Prydain?" Eilonwy demanded. Teleria, who had sunk into her nearby throne in dazed amazement, waved a hand.
"Not everything is fit for the ears of young ladies," she said. "We do not entertain them with talk of the profane doings of the Lord of Annuvin."
Eilonwy frowned. "But it's everyone's concern what he's doing. Do you think if he ever defeats the Sons of Don, he'll stop at that? He'll come after this island as well."
"Be that as it may," the Queen said firmly, "some things do not bear being spoken of in mixed company. It is one thing for you, a princess—don't scowl like that, it's unbecoming—to be informed about conflicts and political maneuverings upon the mainland. Such things are relevant to your rank, and, perhaps, your future. But these our girls are educated—no, Gwenllian, no more questions—as befits their station, and none of them need to know about cauldron-born. It would give them all nightmares."
Eilonwy sniffed. But then, she knew what it was to have nightmares, and wouldn't wish it on anyone. Perhaps Teleria was right, on this particular topic. "Well," she said, shrugging, "I won't discuss them. Only that they are Arawn's warriors and guards, and he was always making more of them. So Gwydion put together and led a quest to steal the cauldron—"
"Prince Gwydion," the Queen interjected.
"Yes, of course, Prince Gwydion," Eilonwy returned irritably. "What other Gwydion would it be?"
"Good Llyr," Teleria muttered, gripping the arm of her throne.
"Anyway, he invited Taran and Coll on it, and I went along, although I wasn't invited exactly."
"Who are they?" The girl Gwenllian, forgetting the Queen's edict, bounced on her toes. All around Eilonwy, eyes shone and cheeks flushed, and a strange thrill was warming her heart. Was this how a bard felt, when an audience hung upon his every word?
"Coll farms the land at Caer Dallben," she explained, "but he was a great warrior in his youth. And Taran is the Assistant Pig-Keeper there, and my…my friend. He's here, somewhere, in the castle." She hesitated, sweeping a quick gaze around the Hall, but there was still no sign of him. What could be keeping him? Where was Fflewddur?
"When he comes he'll help tell the whole story," she went on, "but for now, I can tell you—what we went through to find that horrid cauldron! I don't know what was worse—bargaining with the witches in the Marshes of Morva, or trying to wring information out of a wretch of a Fair Folk, or having some of our own side betray us, or being attacked over and over by the Huntsmen of Annuvin and having to bury one of our own companions."
"All that happened on one quest?" Another girl spoke up, her prim mouth pursed skeptically.
"If you think that's too much," Eilonwy retorted, "you've never been on a quest."
"Certainly not," the girl said, dismissing this with a wave of a very white hand. "I've never been out of Dinas Rhydnant."
Eilonwy stared at her, and then at the rest. None looked surprised, and several were nodding their heads in agreement. "Is that true for all of you?" she demanded. "You've really never left?"
"Most of us," Gwenllian answered. "We've no reason to leave the citadel. What are Huntsmen of Annuvin?"
Eilonwy, seeing Teleria twitch, shook off her shock hastily. "Dreadful creatures. Men who've made a blood pact with Arawn and one another. When you kill one of them, the rest get stronger. They came upon us just outside of Black Gate, and we spent all night running from them. We did shake them off, but they caught us up again and again, and finally we had to face them." She shifted on her feet, body tensing as she remembered the pulsing fear, her white-knuckled clutch upon Melynlas's bridle, Taran's anxious panting clouding mist into the air. "We were in the middle of the forest of Idris—Taran and Gurgi and I, and Fflewddur Fflam, and Doli, and Adaon. And there we stood, back to back, sword in hand! The Huntsmen of Annuvin burst from the forest! They were upon us in a moment!"
The long bell sleeves of her gown whirled as she acted out the drama in her memory, barely conscious of the excited gasps of her young listeners or the disapproving clucking of her elders, until she was startled out of her storytelling trance by a hand on her arm. Teleria stood there, having sprung up from her throne. "Good Llyr. I'm beginning to think you haven't had a—my dear child, don't be so gleeful when you talk about hacking at people with swords—safe moment in your life. What a relief that Dallben has finally decided to be sensible and send you to us. If nothing else, you'll be out of harm's way. Ah!" She let go of Eilonwy's arm, attention diverted. "There you are!"
Eilonwy followed her gaze. There stood Taran and Gurgi, facing them.
The girls around her murmured approvingly, and she heard several giggles. For an instant her heart fluttered, remembering her transformation. What did he think of it; what would he say? But though he was staring at her, it was not with the surprise and admiration she might have hoped for. He looked stricken, his face pale, and when Teleria approached to speak with him he seemed barely to attend to her, even while she motioned Magg forward to hand him a stack of neatly-folded clothing.
He stared distractedly while the Queen talked, and the moment Teleria turned, Eilonwy broke away from her audience and ran to him. He was still rising from a bow when she seized his arm, hissing, "Come! I've got to get out of here before I scream." She pulled him behind as she marched through the Great Hall, seeking any private spot. Good Llyr, the place was simply seething with people! How did one ever get a moment alone?
Finally, she found an alcove in a deep window in a less-populated corner, and pulled him into it. "You know Fflewddur's here?" she said breathlessly, and Taran nodded.
"I've seen him," he murmured, "but…"
"Now it's getting to be more like old times!" she exclaimed, cutting him off. "What a blessing to have him here! I've never met such silly women. I don't think there's one of them that's ever drawn a sword."
A hint of mild exasperation crept into his expression—objectionable, but still better than the abject dismay, when what she wanted was a compliment, an acknowledgement of the change over her, a word of sympathy, anything. "Eilonwy," he said, "why would any of them ever need to—"
"All they want to talk about is sewing and embroidery and weaving," she interrupted hotly, "and how to run a castle. The ones who have husbands are always complaining about them and the ones who haven't are always complaining about the lack of them."
He fell silent, looking at her with that expression that meant he was simply waiting for her to finish whatever it was she needed to say. It irritated her; if he couldn't make himself be interested, he could at least try to understand, for her sake.
"They've never been out of Dinas Rhydnant in their lives!" she went on indignantly. "Imagine it—to live in this place your whole life! I told them a thing or two about our adventures. Not the best ones—I'm saving those for later, when you can be there to tell your part in them."
Still he said nothing, a stubborn refusal to support her indignation. Something in his silence made her desperate and impulsive; her wistful thoughts from earlier came spilling out. "Look, I've been thinking, and what we'll do—tonight there's to be a feast. Afterwards, when no one's watching, we'll get hold of Fflewddur and go exploring for a few days." The vision of those towering black cliffs, their wheeling gulls, the tall grass waving upon their shoulders, rose in her mind. "They'll never miss us until we're long gone; there's so many people coming and going around here. And we'll come back before anyone gets too worried."
Warming to the idea, impossible as it was, she continued. "There's bound to be a few adventures on Mona, but we certainly won't find them in this stupid castle. You must look out a sword for me—I wish I'd brought one from Caer Dallben. Not that I think we'll need swords, but it's better to have them just in case. Gurgi has his wallet of food, of course, so we don't need—"
"Eilonwy," Taran interrupted, "this cannot be."
Her chain of thought cut, she shook herself. "How's that? Oh, very well, you needn't bother about swords, then. We'll just go as we are."
As we are. As I am? In a blue silk gown and slippers! What was wrong with her, to speak such nonsense? Of course it wouldn't work, but why didn't he say something, instead of just staring at her with that white-faced silence?
"What is the matter with you?" She demanded desperately. "I must say you have the strangest expressions on your face. You look as if a mountain were about to fall on your head. I'm only saying…"
"Eilonwy," he burst out, in a voice hollow but stern, "you are not to leave Dinas Rhydnant."
She should, perhaps, have expected this. She knew well enough, after that elaborate introduction, that throng of people who all would recognize her wherever she went, that what she was proposing was madness. And yet for him to say it so…with that expression…out of all the things he could have said just then…
"What did you say?" she cried. "Not leave the castle? Taran of Caer Dallben, I believe the salt air must have pickled your wits!"
"Listen to me," he pleaded, ignoring her outburst. "Dinas Rhydnant is unfamiliar to us. We know nothing of Mona. There may be dangers that we…"
"Dangers!" she sputtered, whirling around and throwing up her hands to grip the stone frame that arched the window. The wild outside shone through, blue upon blue, unreachable. "You can be sure of that—and the biggest one is that I'll be bored to tears! Don't think for an instant I'm going to wear out my days in this castle. You, of all people, tell me I'm not to go adventuring!"
She whirled back to him again, merciless in the face of his terrified eyes and his grim-set mouth. Was this the same boy who had looked at her with such devotion, such longing, mere hours ago? What, in the name of everything, did he want from her? Why did he not just tell her? "What, really, is the matter with you?" she demanded angrily, forcing out the words over the heat gathering in her throat. "I'm ready to believe you dropped your courage over the side of Rhun's ship along with the anchor stone!"
"This is not a question of courage," Taran protested. "It is the better part of wisdom to…"
Oh, gods, his endless pontificating! "Now you're talking about wisdom!" she retorted. "That's the last thing you've ever thought about!"
"This is different. Can you not understand?" His desperate gaze swept her again, incomprehensible. He reached out suddenly, gripped her shoulders with both hands and pulled her a little toward him; she choked on her own breath, heart racing. But his face, so close to hers, had hardened into iron.
"You are not to set foot outside this place," he ordered. "And if I think you have any idea of doing so, I shall ask King Rhuddlum to set a guard over you."
She wrenched herself away from his grasp in rage, grief at this betrayal spilling over, welling in her throat, her eyes. Had he been anyone else, she might have struck him. Had he been anyone else, she would not have wanted to so badly.
"How dare you?" she spat. "Understand? Yes, I understand. You're glad I've been sent to this wretched island and these clucking hens! You couldn't wait for the chance to be rid of me."
His mouth opened in protest, and she knew none of it was true, but it was too late; the arrows struck, wounding as only words can, every one of them rending her own heart as much as his. "You actually want me to stay here and be lost in this dreadful castle. It's worse than putting someone's head in a sack of feathers!"
The sobs came, finally, uncontrollable. "Taran of Caer Dallben, I'm not speaking to you!" And she shoved past him, veered through the throng in the Great Hall, and out through the first door she saw.