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who the prisoners are, only that there are four with Smoit locked up for treachery. Treachery indeed!
They've been made to swallow some kind of tale! The game goes deeper than that. What it is, I couldn't
discover. I think the guards had orders to lay hold of everybody entering the castle. Luckily, those orders
didn't seem to apply to wandering bards. It's so usual for a bard to drift in and sing for his supper that the
warriors never gave it a second thought, though a they did keep an eye on me and wouldn't let me near
Smoit's Great Hall or the larder where they've put the prisoners. But I caught a glimpse of Magg. Oh, the
sneering, smirking spider! If only I could have run him through then and there!
"The warriors kept me harping until I thought my fingers would drop off," he hurriedly concluded.
"Otherwise, I should have been back long ago. I didn't dare stop, or they'd have smelled a rat. And
there's a rat to be smelled!" he cried furiously.
"How shall we rescue them?" Eilonwy demanded. "I don't carewhy they're locked up. Ask later. First
get them out."
"We can't," Fflewddur answered in despair. "Impossible. Not with only four of us. And that's four
counting Glew, who can't be counted at all."
Glew snorted. Usually the little man took no interest in anything not bearing directly on himself; now, his
face was agitated. "When I was a giant I could have torn the walls down."
"Bother when you were a giant," snapped Fflewddur. "You're not one now. Our only hope is to go
farther into the cantrev, tell one of the cantrev lords what's happened, and have him rally an attack force."
"It will take too long," cried Eilonwy. "Oh, do be quiet and let me think!"
The girl strode again to the clearing, and turned her eyes defiantly toward the castle which flung its own
dark defiance against her. Her mind raced, but with no clear plan. With half a sob and half a cry of anger
she was about to turn away. A movement against a nearby tree caught her glance. She halted a moment.
Not daring to turn her head, from a corner of her eye she grew aware of a strange, humped shadow,
motionless now. As if to continue on her path she walked seemingly in the direction of Fflewddur and
Rhun, but edged little by little toward the tree.
Suddenly, quick as Llyan, she leaped upon the humped figure. Part of it went rolling in one direction, and
the rest of it set up a muffled shrieking: Eilonwy pummeled, kicked, and scratched. Fflewddur and King
Rhun were at her side in an instant. The bard seized one end of the flailing shape, King Rhun the other.
Eilonwy drew back and quickly took the bauble from her cloak. As she cupped it in her hand the sphere
began to glow. She held it closer to the struggling form. Her jaw dropped. The golden beams shone on a
pale, wrinkled face with a long, drooping nose and mournful mouth. Wild wisps of cobweb-like hair
floated above a pair of eyes that blinked wretchedly and tearfully.
"Gwystyl!" Eilonwy cried. "Gwystyl of the Fair Folk!"
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The bard loosened his grasp. Gwystyl sat up, rubbed his skinny arms, then climbed to his feet and pulled
his cloak defensively about him.
"How nice to see you again," he mumbled. "A pleasure, believe me. I've thought of you often. Goodbye.
Now I really must be on my way."
"Help us!" Eilonwy pleaded. "Gwystyl, we beg you. Our companions are prisoned in Smoit's castle."
Gwystyl clapped his hands to his head. His face puckered miserably. "Please, please," he moaned,
"don't shout. I'm not well, I'm not up to being shouted at this evening. And would you mind not shining
that light in my eyes? No, no, it's really too much. It's more than enough to be pulled down and sat on,
without people picking at you and bellowing and half-blinding you. As I was saying--- yes, it's been
delightful running into you. Of course I'll be glad to help. But perhaps another time. When we're not
feeling so upset."
"Gwystyl, don't you understand?" Eilonwy cried. "Have you been listening to me at all? Another time?
You must help usnow . Gwydion's sword is stolen. Dyrnwyn is gone! Arawn has it! Don't you see what
that means? This is the most terrible thing that could ever happen. How can Gwydion get the sword back
if he's locked up, with his own life in danger? And Taran--- and Coll and Gurgi..."
"Some days are like that," Gwystyl sighed. "And what's to be done about it? Nothing, alas, but hope
things will brighten, which they very likely won't. But, there you are, it's all one can do. Yes, I know
Dyrnwyn is stolen. A sad misfortune, a disheartening state of affairs."
"You already know?" exclaimed the bard. "Great Belin, speak up! Where is it?"
"No idea whatever," Gwystyl gasped in such desperation that Eilonwy believed the melancholy creature
indeed spoke the truth. "But that's the least of my concerns. What's happening around Annuvin---" He
shuddered and patted his pale forehead with a trembling hand. "The Huntsmen are gathering. The
Cauldron-Born have come -out, whole troops of them. I've never seen so many Cauldron-Born
altogether in my life. It's enough to make a decent person take to his bed.
"And that's not the half of it," Gwystyl choked. "Some of the cantrev lords are rallying their battle hosts,
and their war leaders hold council in Annuvin. The place is thick with warriors, inside, outside, wherever
you look. I was even afraid they'd discover my tunnels and spy holes. These days, I'm the Fair Folk's
only watcher close to Annuvin--- more's the pity, for the work piles up so.
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