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"Yes, my friend," the Chief Bard said to Fflewddur, "I have thought
often of that gift. Indeed, it has been a little on my conscience." He gave
the bard a glance that was shrewd but filled with kindness and good humor.
Taran at first had seen Taliesin as a man of many years; now he could not
guess the Chief Bard's age. Taliesin's features, though heavily lined, seemed
filled with a strange mixing of ancient wisdom and youthfulness. He wore
nothing to betoken his rank; and Taran realized there was no need for such
adornment. Like Adaon, his son and Taran's companion of long ago, his eyes
were gray, deep-set, seeming to look beyond what they saw, and there was, in
the Chief Bard's face and voice, a sense of authority far greater than a war
leader's and more commanding than a king's.
"I knew the nature of the harp when I gave it to you," the Chief
Bard continued. "And, knowing your own nature, suspected that you would always
have some small trouble with the strings."
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"Trouble?" cried Fflewddur. "Why, not a bit of it! Never for a
moment..." Two strings broke with such a twang that Gurgi started in alarm.
Fflewddur's face turned bright red to the tip of his nose. "The fact of the
matter is, as I stop and think on it, the old pot's forced me to tell the
truth--- ah, shall we say a little more than I normally would. But it does
occur to me, telling the truth has harmed no one, least of all myself."
Taliesin smiled. "Then you have learned no small lesson. Nonetheless,
my gift was in jest, yet not entirely in jest. Say, perhaps, the laughter of
one heart to another. But you have borne it willingly. Now I offer you any of
your choosing," he said.
Taliesin pointed to a shelf where stood a number of harps, some
newer, some older, and a few even more gracefully curved than the instrument
Fflewddur carried. With a joyful cry Fflewddur hastened to them, lovingly
touching the strings of each, admiring the workmanship, turning from one to
the next and back again."
He hesitated some while, looking dolefully at the newly broken
strings of his own instrument, at the scratches and chips scarring the frame.
"Ah--- yes, well, you honor me," he murmured in some confusion, "but this old
pot is quite good enough for me. There are times, I swear, when it seems to
play of itself. None has a better tone; when the strings are fixed, that is.
It sits well against my shoulder. Not to belittle these, but what I mean is
that somehow we're used to each other. Yes, I'm most grateful. But I would not
change it."
"So be it, then," replied Taliesin. "And you others," the Chief Bard
added to the companions, "you have seen many of the treasures of Caer Dathyl.
But have you seen its true pride and priceless treasure? It is here," he said
quietly, gesturing around the chamber. "Stored in this Hall of Lore is much of
Prydain's ancient learning. Though Arawn Death-Lord robbed men of their craft
secrets, he could not gain the songs and sayings of our bards. Here they have
been carefully gathered. Of your songs, my gallant friend," he said to
Fflewddur, "there are not a few.
"Memory lives longer than what it remembers," Taliesin said. "And
all men share the memories and wisdom of all others. Below this chamber lie
even richer troves." He smiled. "Like poetry itself, the greater part is the
more deeply hidden. There, too, is the Hall of Bards. Alas, Fflewddur Fflam,"
he said regretfully, "none but a true bard may enter it. Though one day,
perhaps, you shall join our company."
"Oh, wisdom of noble bards!" cried Gurgi, his eyes popping in
wonderment. "It makes humble Gurgi's poor tender head spin with whirlings and
twirlings! Alas, alas, for he has no wisdom! But he would go without
crunchings and munchings to gain it!"
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Taliesin put a hand on the creature's shoulder. "Do you believe you
have none?" he asked. "That is not true. Of wisdom there are as many patterns
as a loom can weave. Yours is the wisdom of a good and kindly heart. Scarce it
is, and its worth all the greater.
"Such is that of Coll Son of Collfrewr," said the Chief Bard, "and
added thereto the wisdom of the earth, the gift of waking barren ground and
causing the soil to flourish in a rich harvest."
"My garden does that labor, not I," said Coll, his bald crown
turning pink from both pleasure and modesty. "And as I recall the state I left
it in, I shall wait long for another harvest, whatever."
"I was to gain wisdom on the Isle of Mona," I put in Eilonwy.
"That's why Dallben sent me there. All I learned was needlework, cooking, and
curtsying."
"Learning is not the same as wisdom," Taliesin interrupted with a
kindly laugh. "In your veins, Princess, flows the blood of the enchantresses
of Llyr. Your wisdom may be the most secret of all, for you know without
knowing; even as the heart itself knows how to beat."
"Alas for my own wisdom," said Taran. "I has with your son when he
met his death. He gave me a brooch of great power, and while I wore it there
was much I understood and much that was hidden grew dear to me. The brooch is
no longer mine, if indeed it ever truly was. What I knew then I remember only
as a dream lingering beyond my power to grasp it."
A shade of sorrow passed over Taliesin's face. "There are those," he
said gently, "who must first learn loss, despair, and grief. Of all paths to
wisdom, this is the cruelest and longest. Are you one who must follow such a
way? This even I cannot know. If you are, take heart nonetheless. Those who
reach the end do more than gain wisdom. As rough wool becomes cloth, and crude
clay a vessel, so do they change and fashion wisdom for others, and what they
give back is greater than what they won."
Taran was about to speak, but the notes of a signal horn rang from
the Middle Tower and shouts rose from the guardians at the turrets. Watchers
cried out the sighting of King Pryderi's battle host. Taliesin led the
companions up a broad flight of stone steps where, from atop the Hall of Lore,
they could see beyond the walls of the fortress. Taran could only glimpse the
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