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from the potter's hut," the shepherd murmured. "It is harsh enough for each
man to bear his own wound. But he who leads bears the wounds of all who follow
him."
Coll nodded. "Leave him where he chooses to be. In the morning he
will be well," he added, "though likely never healed."
BY MIDWINTER, the last of the war bands had been gathered and the
Commot warriors dispatched to Caer Dathyl. In addition to a troop of horsemen,
Llassar, Hevydd, and Llonio still remained with Taran, who now led the
companions northwestward through the Llawgadarn Mountains. The force was
strong enough to safeguard their progress without slowing their journey.
Twice, marauders attacked them, and twice Taran's followers beat
them off, inflicting heavy losses. The raiders, having learned a bitter lesson
from the war leader who rode under the ensign of the White Pig, slunk away and
dared harass the columns no further. The companions passed swiftly and
unhindered through the foothills of the Eagle Mountains. Gurgi still proudly
carried the banner which snapped and fluttered in the sharp winds lashing from
the distant heights. In his cloak Taran bore one talisman: a shard of broken,
fire-blackened pottery from Commot Merin.
At the approaches to Caer Dathyl outriders brought word of still
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another host: Taran galloped ahead. In a vanguard of spearmen rode Fflewddur
Fflam.
"Great Belin!" shouted the bard, urging Llyan to Taran's side,
"Gwydion shall rejoice! The northern lords arm in all their strength. When a
Fflam commands--- yes, well, I did rally them in the name of Gwydion,
otherwise they might not have been so willing. But no matter, they're on the
way. I've heard King Pryderi, too, has raised his armies. Then you'll see a
battle host! I daresay half the western cantrevs are under his command.
"Oh, yes," Fflewddur added, as Taran caught sight of Glew perched
atop a swaybacked, heavy-hoofed, gray horse, "the little fellow is still with
us."
The former giant, busily gnawing a bone, gave Taran only a scant
sign of recognition.
"I didn't know what to do with him," said Fflewddur in a low voice.
"I hadn't the heart to send him packing, not in the midst of all the armies
gathering. So, here he is. He's not stopped whining and complaining; his feet
hurt one day, his head the next, and little by little all the rest of him.
Then, in between meals, he goes on with his endless tales of when he was a
giant.
"The worst of it is," Fflewddur went on in some dismay, "he's given
my ears such a drubbing that he's made me almost feel sorry for him. He's a
small-hearted weasel, always was and always will be.
But as you stop and think on it--- he has been considerably
mistreated and put upon. Now, when Clew was a giant..." The bard interrupted
himself and clapped a hand to his forehead. "Enough! Any more of his chatter,
and I'll end by believing it! Come, join us," he cried, unslinging his harp
from the tangle of bows, quivers of arrows, bucklers and leather strapping he
bore on his back. "All friends are met again. I'll play you a tune to
celebrate and keep us warm at the same time!"
Cheered by the bard's music, the companions journeyed on together.
Soon the high fortress of Caer Dathyl rose golden in the winter sunlight. Its
mighty bastions sprang up like eagles impatient for the sky. Beyond the walls
and circling the fortress stood the camps and flag-decked pavilions of lords
come in allegiance to the Royal House of Don. Yet it was not the sight of the
banners or the wind-tossed emblems of the Golden Sunburst that made Taran's
heart leap, but rather the knowledge that the companions and Commot warriors
had come safe to the end of one journey, to warmth and rest for a little time
at least. Safe--- Taran halted in his own thoughts, and the memories returned:
of Rhun King of Mona who slept silent before the gates of Caer Cadarn; of
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Annlaw Clay-Shaper. And his fingers clenched around the fragment of pottery.
Chapter 10
The Coming of Pryderi
CAER DATHYL WAS an armed camp, where sparks like blazing snowflakes
whirled from the armorers' forges. Its widespreading courtyards rang with the
iron-shod hooves of war horses and the sharp notes of signal horns. Although
the companions were now safe within its walls, the Princess Eilonwy declined
to exchange her warrior's rough garb for more befitting attire. The most she
agreed to do--- and that reluctantly--- was to wash her hair. A few ladies of
the court remained, the rest having been sent to the protection of the eastern
strongholds, but Eilonwy flatly refused to join them in their spinning and
weaving chambers.
"Caer Dathyl may be the most glorious castle in Prydain," she
declared, "but court ladies are court ladies wherever you find them, and I've
had more than my share with Queen Teleria's hen flock. Listening to their
giggling and gossiping--- why, it's worse than having your ears tickled with
feathers. For the sake of being a Princess, I've been half-drowned with soapy
water and that's quite enough. My hair still feels clammy as seaweed. As for
skirts, I'm comfortable just as I am. I've lost all my robes, anyway, and I
certainly shan't bother to be measured for others. The clothes I'm wearing
will do very nicely."
"No one has considered asking me whether my clothing is suitable,"
Glew testily remarked, although the former giant's garments, as far as Taran
could judge, were in better repair than those of the companions. "But shabby
treatment is something I've grown used to. In my cavern, when I was a giant,
things were much different. Generosity! Alas, gone forever. Now, I recall when
the bats and I..."
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Taran had neither strength to dispute Eilonwy's words nor time to
listen to Glew's. Gwydion, hearing of the companion's arrival, had summoned
Taran to the Hall of Thrones. While Coll, Fflewddur, and Gurgi secured gear
and provisions for the warriors who had journeyed with them, Taran followed a
guard to the Hall. Finding Gwydion in council with Math Son of Mathonwy, Taran
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