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Authors: Lloyd Alexander

BOOK: The Castle of Llyr
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The Ladder
“W
hy—they're gone!” Taran quickly flashed the golden light about the chamber. “Every one of them!”
“Yes, yes,” Gurgi cried. “No more shriekings and squeakings!”
“I can't say I'm unhappy about it,” added the bard. “I get along well enough with mice, and I've always been found of birds, but when you put the two together I'd just as soon avoid them.”
“The bats may prove our best friends and surest guides,” Taran said. “Rhun has struck on something. The bats have found a way out. If we can only discover it, we can follow them.”
“Quite so,” answered the bard, making a wry face. “First thing would be to turn into bats ourselves. Then, I daresay, we should have no difficulties.”
Taran strode hurriedly from one end of the chamber to the other. He played the bauble's light over the walls, sending the beams upward to the sloping ceiling of rock, scanning each crevice and outcropping, but saw only a few shallow niches from which some ancient stone had fallen.
Again and again he swept the golden light around the cave. A faint, shadowy line seemed traced amid the stones high above
him. He stepped back and studied it carefully. The shadow deepened, and Taran realized it marked a narrow ledge, a flaw in the rock. “There it is!” he called, holding the bauble as steadily as his trembling hands allowed. “There—you can barely make it out, the wall curves and hides it. But see where the rock seems to dip and break …”
“Amazing!” cried Rhun. “Astonishing! It's a passage, rightly enough. The bats have gone through it. Do you think we can?”
Setting the golden sphere on the ground, Taran strode to the rock face and sought to raise himself by grasping the slight ripples of stone; but the wall was too sheer, his hands slipped, clutched vainly for support, and he fell back before he had been able to climb his own height. Gurgi, too, attempted to scale the smooth surface. For all his agility, he did little better than Taran and he sank down, puffing and moaning.
“Just as I said,” glumly remarked Fflewddur. “All we need is a few pairs of wings.”
Taran had not ceased to stare at the high passageway taunting him with the promise of freedom beyond his reach. “We cannot climb the wall,” he said, frowning, “but there may still be hope.” His eyes turned from the distant ledge to the companions, then back again. “A rope would not help us, even if we had one. There is no means of securing it. But a ladder …”
“Exactly what we need,” said Fflewddur. “But unless you're prepared to build one on the spot, we shouldn't waste our time grieving over something we don't have.”
“We can build a ladder,” Taran said quietly. “Yes. I should have seen it at once.”
“What, what?” cried the bard. “A Fflam is clever, but you're going far beyond me.”
“We can do it,” replied Taran, “and need seek no further. We ourselves are the ladder.”
“Great Belin!” shouted Fflewddur, clapping his hands. “Of course! Yes, we shall climb on each other's shoulders.” He ran to the wall and measured it with a glance. “Still too high,” he said, shaking his head. “Even the topmost man would reach it with little to spare.”
“But he would reach it, nevertheless,” insisted Taran. “It is our only escape.”
“His
only escape,” corrected the bard. “Whoever climbs out will shorten our ladder by that much. Our choice is hardly better than what Glew gave us,” he added. “Only one of us can save himself.”
Taran nodded. “It may be that he can drop a vine down to the others,” he said. “In that way …” He stopped.
Glew's voice filtered into the chamber. “Is all well in there?” called the giant. “It's going splendidly out here. I've made everything ready. I hope you're not too upset. Would one of you mind stepping forward? Don't tell me which; I don't want to know. I'm as sorry as you are.”
Taran turned quickly to the Prince of Mona. “I know their hearts and I speak for my companions. Our choice is taken. It is too late to hope to save us. Try to make your way to Caer Colur. Should Kaw find you, he will guide you there.”
“I don't intend leaving anyone behind,” replied Rhun. “If this is your choice, it is not mine. I shall not …”
“Prince Rhun,” Taran said firmly. “Did you not put yourself under my orders?” The stone had begun to grate in the passageway and Taran could hear Glew's frantic snuffling. “This, too, you must take,” he said, pressing the bauble into Rhun's reluctant hand. “It is rightfully Eilonwy's and it is you who shall give it back to her.” He turned his eyes away. “May it shine brightly on your wedding day.”
Gurgi had clambered to the shoulders of the bard, who braced himself against the wall. Rhun still hesitated. Taran seized him by the collar of his jacket and dragged him forward.
Taran climbed onto Fflewddur's back, then to Gurgi's. The human ladder swayed dangerously. Under the weight of the companions, the bard cried for Rhun to hurry. Taran felt Rhun's hands grasp at him, then slip. From below came Gurgi's labored breathing. Taran clutched Rhun's belt and heaved upward, as one knee then the other was thrust upon his shoulders.
“The passage is too far,” gasped Rhun.
“Stand up,” Taran cried. “Steady. You're nearly there.”
With a last effort, he forced himself to rise as high as he could. Rhun scrabbled at the ledge. Suddenly Taran's burden was lifted.
“Farewell, Prince of Mona,” he called, as Rhun swung himself to the narrow outcropping and plunged into the passage.
Fflewddur cried a warning and Taran felt himself falling. Dazed and breathless on the stones, he tried to regain his feet. It was utterly dark. He staggered against the bard who pulled him from what Taran realized was the entry to the chamber. A rush of chill air told Taran that Glew had pushed the rock aside, and he sensed, rather than saw, a darker shadow thrust into the opening.
Taran unsheathed his blade and swung it wildly. It struck something solid.
“Ah! Ow!” cried Glew. “You mustn't do that!”
The arm pulled back suddenly. Taran heard Fflewddur draw his blade. Gurgi had scuttled to Taran's side and was throwing stones as fast as he could pick them up.
“We must stand against him now!” Taran cried. “We shall see whether he's as great a coward as he is a liar. Hurry! Give him no chance to shut us in again!”
Swords raised, the companions flung themselves out of the chamber. Somewhere, Taran knew, Glew towered above them; but in the blackness he dared not strike with his weapon, fearful of harming Gurgi or Fflewddur stumbling along next to him.
“You're spoiling it all!” wailed Glew. “I shall have to catch one of you myself. Why are you making me do this? I thought you understood! I thought you wanted to help me!”
Wind whistled over Taran's head as Glew snatched at him. He threw himself down among the sharp rocks. To one side he heard Fflewddur shout, “Great Belin, the little monster can see better in the dark than we can!” Until now the companions had clung together, but Taran's sudden movement had torn him away from the others. He groped to rejoin them and, at the same time, to escape Glew's frantic lunges.
He tumbled against a pile of stones that gave way with a clatter, and went sliding into a stream of noisome liquid.
Glew wailed in resounding despair. “Now you've done it! You've upset my potions! Stop it, stop it, you're making a mess of everything!”
What must have been Glew's foot came stamping down nearly on top of him, as Taran lashed out with his sword. The blade rebounded in his hand, but Glew yelled horribly. Above Taran an almost invisible shadow seemed to be hopping on one leg. The bard was right, Taran thought in terror; the greatest risk from Glew lay in being trampled. The ground shook under the giant's feet and Taran leaped blindly from the sound.
Next thing he knew, he fell with a splash into one of the pools dotting the cavern. He thrashed wildly and flung out his arms, seeking a handhold on the rocky edge. The water glittered with a cold, pale light. As Taran scrambled out, bright, luminous droplets clung to his drenched garments, his face, hands, and hair. Escape for him was hopeless now; the glow would betray him wherever he sought refuge.
“Run!” Taran shouted to the companions. “Let Glew follow me!”
In one stride the giant was at the pool. By the light of his own dripping body, Taran could make out the huge shape. He thrust forward with his blade. The eager hand of Glew brushed it aside.
“Please, please, I beg you,” cried Glew, “don't make things worse than they are! Even now I shall have to boil my potion again. Have you no consideration? No thought for anyone else?”
The giant reached to seize him. Taran raised his sword high above his head in a last futile gesture of defense.
Golden rays burst around him, brilliant as noonday.
With a scream of pain, Glew clapped his hands to his eyes. “The light!” he shrieked. “Stop the light!”
Screaming and roaring, the giant covered his head with his arms.
His earsplitting bellows rang through the cave. The stone icicles trembled and crashed to earth; the crystals split and showered Taran with fragments. Suddenly Glew was no longer standing but stretched full length, half covered by the shards, lying motionless where a falling crystal had glanced off his head. Taran, still dazzled, leaped to his feet.
At the entrance to the chamber stood Prince Rhun, the bauble blazing in his hand.
The Empty Book
“H
ullo, hullo!” called Rhun, hastening to the companions. “I've never been so surprised in my life. I didn't mean to disobey orders, but after I'd crawled out the passage, I—I just couldn't leave you there to be cooked up; I simply couldn't do it. I kept thinking to myself that none of you would have gone running off …” He hesitated and looked anxiously at Taran. “You aren't angry, are you?”
“You saved our lives,” replied Taran. He clasped Rhun's hand. “I only reproach you for risking your own.”
“Joy and happiness!” cried Gurgi. “Poor tender head is spared from stampings and trampings! And kind master is safe from brewings and stewings!”
“But the most amazing thing was the bauble,” Prince Rhun went on, beaming proudly. “The light didn't go out, even after I'd got hold of it. Astonishing!” He stared curiously at the golden sphere, whose rays had already begun to dim, and handed it back to Taran. “I don't know what happened. It suddenly started getting brighter and brighter, all of itself. Unbelievable!”
“It's the one thing that stopped him,” said Fflewddur. Hands on
hips, the bard was looking down at the prostrate form of Glew. “He'd been here so long he couldn't stand the brightness, the repulsive little grub. There, I'm calling him little again,” he added. “But I still say for a giant he's remarkably small-natured.” He knelt and peered at Glew's face. “He's had a good crack on the head, but he's still alive.” Fflewddur put a hand to his sword. “We might be wise to—ah—make sure he doesn't wake up.”
“Leave him,” said Taran, staying Fflewddur's arm. “I know he tried to do us ill, but I still pity the wretched creature and mean to ask Dallben if he can help him.”
“Very well,” said Fflewddur with some reluctance. “He wouldn't have done as much for us. But, a Fflam is merciful! Quick, now, let's be off.”
“How did you climb down?” Taran asked Rhun. “Did you find vines long enough to reach us?”
Prince Rhun's jaw dropped and he blinked with alarm. “I—I'm afraid I've done it again,” he murmured. “I didn't climb. I jumped. I somehow never thought of getting out again. Surprising, it simply never occurred to me. I'm sorry, I've put us right back where we were.”
“Not quite,” replied Taran to the despondent Prince. “We can hoist you up as we did before, and this time you can lower something for the rest of us. But we must make haste.”
“There's no need for us to stand on each other's heads,” Fflewddur suddenly cried. “I see an easier way. Look there!” He pointed upward to where a large crack yawned in the cavern wall. A shaft of sunlight fell over the stones and fresh air whistled through the crevice. “We can thank Glew for that. With all his
roaring and screaming he's shaken the rocks loose. We shall be out in no time! Bless the repulsive little monster! He said he wanted to make Mona tremble,” he added, “and, Great Belin, so he did—after a fashion!”
The companions hurried to the wall of the cave and began picking their way through the rubble of broken stones. Prince Rhun, however, halted abruptly and began fumbling with his jacket.
“I say, that's surprising,” he cried. “I know I put it there.” With an anxious frown he began searching his garments once again.
“Hurry,” Taran called. “We dare not be here when Glew comes to his senses. What are you looking for?”
“My book,” answered Rhun. “Where can it be? It must have fallen out while I was crawling through that hole. Or perhaps …”
“Leave it!” Taran urged. “It is worthless. You've risked your life once. Don't risk it again for a book of empty pages!”
“It was a handsome keepsake,” said Rhun, “and would be useful. It can't be far. Go ahead, I'll join you. I shan't be a moment.” He turned and trotted back toward the tunnel.
“Rhun!” Taran shouted, racing after him. The Prince of Mona disappeared into the chamber. Taran found him on hands and knees groping over the rough floor.
“Splendid!” cried Rhun, glancing over his shoulder. “A little light is what I needed. Now, surely, it's bound to be here. Let me see, first, where I was climbing up. If it dropped out then, by all rights it should be close to the wall.”
Taran was determined, if need be, to lay hold of the Prince and drag him bodily from the cell which had so nearly become a tomb. He strode forward just as Rhun gave a cry of triumph.
“And there it is!” shouted the Prince. He picked up the book and carefully examined it. “I hope it isn't damaged,” he remarked. “All that scrambling about might have torn the pages. No, it seems …” He stopped and shook his head in dismay. “I say, that is a shame! It's ruined. All covered with scratchings and markings. Whatever could have happened?”
He put the leather-bound volume into Taran's hand. “Look,” he said. “What a pity. Every page is marred. It's really useless now.”
Taran was about to cast the book aside and carry out his first intention of collaring the Prince, but his eyes widened at the sight of the pages. “Rhun,” he whispered, “these are more than scratchings. It is carefully written. I had thought the pages empty.”
“So had I,” said Rhun. “What could …”
Fflewddur called out, urging them to hasten. Taran and Prince Rhun left the chamber. Gurgi had already reached the opening in the cavern ceiling and was beckoning to them.
“The book we found in Glew's hut,” Taran began.
“Don't worry about Glew's property, worry about Glew,” said Fflewddur. “He's beginning to stir. Move along or we'll still end up in one of his potions.”
The sun had just risen, but it was bright and warming after the dank cavern. The companions gratefully breathed the fresh springtime air. Gurgi shouted joyfully and raced on ahead. He soon returned with good tidings: the river lay not too far away. The companions set out for it with all speed.
As they strode along Taran held up the volume to Fflewddur. “There is deep mystery in this. I cannot read the writing; the script is ancient. But how it came there …”
“After what we've been through,” replied the bard, glancing at the pages, “I can understand your wanting to jest. But this is hardly the moment for it.”
“Jest? I do not jest!” Taran started as he pointed at the volume again. The pages were empty as they had always been. “The writing,” he stammered. “It's gone!”
“My friend,” said the bard gently, “your eyes have played you false. At the river we'll put cool cloths on your head and you'll feel much better. It's quite understandable, considering the darkness, the shock of nearly being boiled …”
“I know what I have seen,” Taran protested. “Even in the cavern, even in the dim light of the bauble …”
“It's true,” put in Rhun, who had been following their talk. “I saw it myself. There's no mistake. The bauble was shining straight on the pages.”
“The bauble!” Taran cried. “Wait! Can it be?” Hurriedly he drew out the sphere, while the companions halted and watched him silently. As the light blossomed in his hand, Taran held it so that its rays bathed the pages in a golden glow.
The writing sprang into sight, sharp and clear.
“Astonishing!” cried Rhun. “The most amazing thing I've seen in my life!”
Taran crouched on the turf, held the bauble close to the book, and with trembling fingers turned leaf after leaf. The curious tracing crowded every page. The bard gave a long, low whistle.
“What does this mean, Fflewddur?” Taran asked. He raised his head and looked with concern at the bard.
The bard's face had paled. “What it means, in my opinion,” said
Fflewddur, “is that we should get rid of the book instantly. Drop it in the river. I regret to say I can't read it. I could never manage to learn all these secret scripts and ancient letters. But I recognize enchantment when I see it.” He shuddered and turned away. “I'd rather not even look at it, if you don't mind. Not that it frightens me. Yes, it makes me feel acutely uneasy; and you know my views on meddling.”
“If Glew spoke the truth, it comes from a place of enchantments,” Taran said. “But what can it tell us? I shall not destroy it,” he added, returning the book to his jacket. “I can't explain; I feel as though I'd touched a secret. It's strange, like a moth that brushes your hand and flutters away again.”
“Ahem,” said Fflewddur, casting a nervous glance at Taran. “If you insist on carrying the thing with you, would you oblige me—nothing personal, you understand—but I would appreciate it if you'd stay a few paces away.”
 
Midday was long past when the companions reached the riverbank, but they rejoiced at their good fortune. The remains of the raft were still there. They set to work hastily to repair it. Prince Rhun, in better spirits than ever, labored unstintingly. For a time Taran had forgotten the Prince of Mona was to be Eilonwy's betrothed. Now the sad thought returned to him as he helped Rhun knot new vines around the raft.
“You should be proud of yourself,” Taran said quietly. “Did you seek to prove yourself a true Prince? You have done so, Rhun Son of Rhuddlum.”
“Why, perhaps that's so,” replied Rhun, as though the idea had
never occurred to him. “But it's a curious thing. It doesn't seem one bit as important as it did. Astonishing, but true!”
The sun had begun to dip by the time the raft was ready. Taran, who had grown more and more restless as the day waned, urged the companions to press on rather than wait the night on shore, and they clambered aboard.
Twilight soon fell over the valley, and the Alaw ran in swift silver ripples under the rising moon. The shore lay silent, flanked by brooding hills. In the middle of the raft Gurgi curled up like a muddy ball of leaves; beside him, the Prince of Mona slept and snored peacefully, a smile of contentment on his round face. Taking the first watch, Taran and Fflewddur guided the awkward craft as it rapidly floated seaward.
They spoke little. Fflewddur had not entirely lost his disquiet over the strange book. Taran's thoughts were for the morrow, which he hoped would bring the companions closer to the end of their search. Once again, fear and doubt made him wonder if he had chosen wisely. Even if Eilonwy had been taken to Caer Colur, he had no cause to believe Magg—or Achren—still held her there. So little was known for certain. The book and its meaning, even the nature of Eilonwy's bauble, were more riddles added to so many others.
“Why?” he murmured. “Why is the writing clear only when the bauble shines on it? And why did it light for Rhun, when it had never done so before? Why did it light for me, for that matter?”
“As a bard,” answered Fflewddur, “I know a great deal about these enchanted devices, and I can tell you …” At the narrow end of the harp, a string tinkled as it snapped in two. “Ah, yes,” said
Fflewddur, “the fact is: I know very little about them. Eilonwy, of course, has the gift of making it light when she pleases. She's half an enchantress, you know, and the bauble does belong to her. For someone else, I wonder—and I'm only guessing, mind you—I wonder if it might have to do with—how shall I put it—not even thinking about it. Or about yourself.
“What I mean,” Fflewddur went on, “in the cavern, when I tried to make it light, I was saying to myself: If
I
can do this, if
I
can find the way for us …”
“Perhaps,” Taran said quietly, watching the moon-white riverbank slip past them, “perhaps you have the truth of it. At first I felt as you did. Then I remember thinking of Eilonwy, only of her; and the bauble showed its light. Prince Rhun was ready to lay down his life; his thoughts were for our safety, not at all for his own. And because he offered the greatest sacrifice, the bauble glowed brightest for him. Can that be its secret? To think more for others than ourselves?”
“That would seem to be one of its secrets, at least,” replied Fflewddur. “Once you've discovered that, you've discovered a great secret indeed—with or without the bauble.”
 
The hills had flattened and given way to low fields of sedge. A scent of brine and brackish water reached Taran's nostrils. Ahead, the river widened, flowing into a bay, and beyond that to an even greater expanse of water. To his right, on the far side of towering rocks, Taran heard the rush of surf. Reluctantly he decided they dared go no farther until dawn. While Fflewddur roused Gurgi and Prince Rhun, Taran poled the raft to shore.
The companions settled themselves amid a tall clump of reeds and Gurgi opened his wallet of food. Taran, still restless, walked to a hillock and peered toward the sea.
“Keep to the shadows,” said the voice of Gwydion. “Achren's eyes are sharp.”

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