The Castle of Llyr: Chapters 3–5

His head still whirled at seeing the Prince of Don in the guise of a shoemaker, and Gwydion’s words left him all the more confused.

“What I have learned is this. After Spiral Castle fell, Achren vanished. At first I believed she had sought refuge in the realm of Annuvin, for she had lived long as a consort of Arawn. Indeed, it was Achren who gave Arawn his power in the days when she herself ruled Prydain...."

“Wittingly or not, by taking Dyrnwyn from Spiral Castle, Eilonwy gave Achren her most grievous defeat,” Gwydion said.

“Dallben’s ways are deep,” said Gwydion, “and not always given to me to fathom. He knows much, but he foresenses more than he chooses to tell.”

Magg, standing near the Queen’s throne, watched impassively.
“...and there we stood,” Eilonwy was saying, her eyes flashing, “back to back, sword in hand! The Huntsmen of Annuvin burst from the forest! They were upon us in a moment!”

Behind the long table, crowded with Queen Teleria’s ladies of the court, Magg flitted back and forth, snapping his fingers and whispering commands to servitors bearing endless dishes of food and flagons of drink.

Behind the long table, crowded with Queen Teleria’s ladies of the court, Magg flitted back and forth, snapping his fingers and whispering commands to servitors bearing endless dishes of food and flagons of drink.

For Taran it was a waking nightmare; he sat silent and uneasy, his repast untouched.

He felt as though he were shouting a voiceless warning, while Eilonwy, all unwitting, raced gaily toward the brink of a cliff.

“Stay close to Eilonwy’s chamber,” he went on. “I’ll join you soon. Keep Kaw with you and send him to me if anything seems amiss.”

Stars filled the clear night sky and a bright moon hung above the crags of Mona.

Prince Rhun burst from around a corner at such a rate he nearly sent Taran sprawling.

The figure, Taran suddenly realized, was not Eilonwy—too tall, the gait different.

He caught his breath as the cloaked shape turned once for a furtive glance at the castle and the moonlight glittered for a moment over its features.

Magg had come to level ground well ahead of Taran, and was scuttling along the sea wall until, at the far end, he reached a huge pile of rocks.

Below, the water churned in glittering eddies and foamed among the stones.

He could hear Magg scrabbling up the far side and let himself fall among the rocks.

A hand was clapped over his mouth, stifling his shout, and he was dragged rapidly toward the foaming wavelets, to be flung silently down amid the stones.

From a day long past he recalled her livid face, her voice that had spoken so softly of torment and death.

Magg clutched a long dagger which he brandished in the air, all the while making fierce grimaces.

Kaw, as tousled as Gurgi himself, popped his head from under his wing.

Befuddled, Taran could only stammer that he found the hallway more comfortable than his chamber.

"Where is Eilonwy?” Taran cried, as King Rhuddlum and Queen Teleria stared at him in astonishment. “Where is Magg? He’s made off with her! Sire, I beg you. Turn out your guard. Help me find them. Eilonwy is in danger of her life!”

Frantic with anxiety, knowing that time was fleeting and delay could cost Eilonwy’s life, Taran was nearly beside himself when the servitor at last returned with tidings that Magg appeared to be nowhere in the castle, nor could Eilonwy be found.

Frantic with anxiety, knowing that time was fleeting and delay could cost Eilonwy’s life, Taran was nearly beside himself when the servitor at last returned with tidings that Magg appeared to be nowhere in the castle, nor could Eilonwy be found.

“My war-leader, sorry to say, is none other than Magg himself,” the King answered. “As we’ve never had a war on Mona, we never needed a war-leader, and it seemed quite in order to give Magg the honorary title. I shall form up the searching party myself. As for you—yes—by all means help with any tasks that need doing.”

While King Rhuddlum saw to the ordering of the warriors, Taran and the companions labored with all speed, tightening saddle girths and handing out weapons from the armory.

Prince Rhun, Taran saw, had clambered astride a swaybacked, piebald mare that persisted in turning in circles despite the efforts of the Prince to control her.

A glance at the animals filled Taran with despair, for they seemed unspirited, of no great mettle, and he wished for the swift-footed Melynlas now grazing peacefully at Caer Dallben.

From the courtyard Taran could hear the clamor of warriors and the voice of Fflewddur calling his name.

“Can you find her? Seek her carefully, my friend,” he murmured, while the crow cocked his head and looked at Taran with shrewd eyes.

“You would do well to make it a chant of betrothal,” Taran said bitterly, “and sing of the wedding of the Prince of Mona.”

The warriors, widely separated, moved in long, wavering lines, often out of each other’s sight, painstakingly scouting every possible hiding place.

Taran’s heart sank; in his mind chafed the fear that he was following a false hope and that Eilonwy had been taken in an altogether different direction.

The horses had turned more skittish than before, and Taran’s mount laid back his ears and voiced a frightened whinny.