At that moment there was a loud twang. Fflewddur blinked. One of his harp strings had snapped. "Excuse me," he said, and went to see about his instrument.
"It doesn't say anything at all like that," Eilonwy declared. "I can read some of it now. Here, it starts near the hilt and goes winding around like ivy. I was looking at it the wrong way. It says Dyrnwyn, first. I don't know whether that's the name of the sword or the name of the king. Oh, yes, that's the name of the sword; here it is again:
DRAW DYRNWYN, ONLY THOU OF ROYAL BLOOD,
TO RULE, TO STRIKE THE…
"Something or other," Eilonwy went on. "It's very faint; I can't see it. The letters are worn too smooth. No, that's odd. They aren't worn; they've been scratched out. They must have been cut deeply, because there's still a trace. But I can't read the rest. This word looks as if it might be death…" She shuddered. "That's not very cheerful."
"Let me unsheath it," Taran urged again. "There might be more on the blade."
"Certainly not," said Eilonwy. "I told you it had a symbol of power and I'm bound by it― that's elementary."
"Achren cannot bind you any longer."
"It isn't Achren," Eilonwy answered. "I only said she had things with the same mark. This is a stronger enchantment than any she could make, I'm quite sure. I wouldn't dare to draw it, and I don't intend letting you, either. Besides, it says only royal blood and doesn't mention a word about Assistant Pig-Keepers."
"How can you tell I haven't royal blood?" Taran asked, bristling. "I wasn't born an Assistant Pig-Keeper. For all you know, my father might have been a king. It happens all the time in The Book of Three."
"I never heard of The Book of Three," said Eilonwy. "But in the first place, I don't think it's good enough to be a king's son or even a king himself. Royal blood is just a way of translating; in the Old Writing, it didn't mean only having royal relatives― anybody can have those. It meant― oh, I don't know what you'd' call it. Something very special. And it seems to me that if you have it, you don't need to wonder whether you have it."
"So, of course," said Taran, nettled by the girl's remarks, "you've made up your mind that I'm not― whatever it is."
"I didn't mean to offend you," Eilonwy said quickly. "For an Assistant Pig-Keeper, I think you're quite remarkable. I even think you're the nicest person I've ever met in my life. It's just that I'm forbidden to let you have the sword and that's that."
"What will you do with it, then?"
"Keep it, naturally. I'm not going to drop it down a well, am I?"
Taran snorted. "You'll make a fine sight― a little girl carrying a sword."
"I am not a little girl," said Eilonwy, tossing her hair in exasperation. "Among my people in the olden days, the Sword-Maidens did battle beside the men."
"It's not the olden days now," Taran said. "Instead of a sword, you should be carrying a doll."
Eilonwy, with a squeal of vexation, raised a hand to slap at Taran, when Fflewddur Fflam returned.
"Here now," said the bard, "no squabbling; there's not a bit of use to it." With a large key he tightened the wooden peg holding the newly repaired harp string.
Eilonwy turned her irritation on Fflewddur. "That inscription was a very important one. It didn't say anything about bewaring anyone's wrath. You didn't read it right at all. You're a fine bard, if you can't make out the writing on an enchanted sword."
"Well, you see, the truth of the matter," said Fflewddur, clearing his throat and speaking with much hesitation, "is this way. I'm not officially a bard."
"I didn't know there were unofficial bards," Eilonwy remarked.
"Oh, yes indeed," said Fflewddur. "At least in my case. I'm also a king."
"A king?" Taran said. "Sire…" He dropped to one knee.
"None of that, none of that," said Fflewddur. "I don't bother with it any more."
"Where is your kingdom?" Eilonwy asked.
"Several days journey east of Caer Dathyl," said Fflewddur. "It is a vast realm…"
At this, Taran heard another jangling.
"Drat the thing," said the bard. "There go two more strings. As I was saying. Yes, well, it is actually a rather small kingdom in the north, very dull and dreary. So I gave it up. I'd always loved barding and wandering― and that's what I decided to do."
"I thought bards had to study a great deal," Eilonwy said. "A person can't just go and decide…"
"Yes, that was one of the problems," said the former king. "I studied; I did quite well in the examinations…" A small string at the upper end of the harp broke with a high-pitched tinkle and curled up like an ivy tendril. "I did quite poorly," he went on, "and the Council of Bards wouldn't admit me. Really, they want you to know so much these days. Volumes and volumes of poetry, and chants and music and calculating the seasons, and history; and all kinds of alphabets you spell out on your fingers, and secret signs― a man couldn't hope to cram it all into his skull.
"The Council were very nice to me," continued Fflewddur. "Taliesin, the Chief Bard himself, presented me with this harp. He said it was exactly what I needed. I sometimes wonder if he was really doing me a favor. It's a very nice harp, but I have such trouble with the strings. I'd throw it away and get another, but it has a beautiful tone; I should never find one as good. If only the beastly strings…"
"They do seem to break frequently," Eilonwy began.
"Yes, that's so," Fflewddur admitted, a little sheepishly. "I've noticed it usually happens when― well, I'm an emotional sort of fellow, and I do get carried away. I might, ah, readjust the facts slightly; purely for dramatic effect, you understand."
"If you'd stop readjusting the facts quite as much," Eilonwy said, "perhaps you wouldn't have that trouble with the harp."
"Yes, I suppose," said the bard with a sigh. "I try, but it's hard, very hard. As a king, you get into the habit. Sometimes I think I pass more time fixing strings than playing. But, there it is. You can't have everything."
"Where were you journeying when Achren captured you?" Taran asked.
"No place in particular," said Fflewddur. "That's one advantage. You don't have to hurry to get somewhere. You keep moving, and next thing you know, there you are. Unfortunately, in this case, it was Achren's dungeon. She didn't care for my playing. That woman has no ear for music," he added, shuddering.
"Sire," Taran said, "I ask a boon."
"Please," said the former king, "Fflewddur will do very well. A boon? Delighted! I haven't done any boon-granting since I gave up my throne."
Fflewddur Fflam and Eilonwy seated themselves on the turf, while Taran recounted his search for Hen Wen and what Gwydion had told him of the Horned King and the rising of the cantrevs. Gurgi, having finished his meal, sidled over and squatted on a hillock to listen.
"There is no doubt in my mind," Taran went on, "the Sons of Don must have news of the uprising before the Horned King strikes. If he triumphs, Arawn will have Prydain by the throat. I have seen with my own eyes what that means." He felt ill at ease, speaking as if he himself were a war leader in a council hall, but soon the words began to come easier. Perhaps, he thought, because he was speaking for Gwydion.
"I see your plan," Fflewddur interrupted. "You shall keep on looking for your pig, and you want me to warn the warriors of Don. Splendid! I shall start off immediately. And if the hosts of the Horned King overtake me…" The bard slashed and thrust at the air. "They shall know the valor of a Fflam!"
Taran shook his head. "No, I shall journey to Caer Dathyl myself. I do not question your valor," he said to the bard, "but the danger is too great. I ask no one else to face it in my stead."
"When do you intend to seek your pig?" asked Fflewddur.
"My own quest," said Taran, looking at the bard, "must be given up. If it is possible, after the first task is done, I mean to return to it. Until then, I serve only Gwydion. It was I who cost him his life, and it is justice for me to do what I believe he would have done."