The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) Read Online Free

chance to make that known.”
    “You boast of your name,” Taran replied. “I take pride in my comrades.”
    “Your friendship with Gwydion is no shield to me,” said Ellidyr. “Let him favor you all he chooses. But hear me well, in my company you will take your own part.”
    “I shall take my own part,” Taran said, his anger rising. “See that you take yours as boldly as you speak.”
    Adaon had come up beside them. “Gently, friends,” he laughed. “I had thought the battle was against Arawn, not among ourselves.” He spoke quietly, but his voice held a tone of command as he turned his glance from Taran to Ellidyr. “We hold each other’s lives in our open hands, not in clenched fists.”
    Taran bowed his head. Ellidyr, drawing his mended cloak about him, stalked from the chamber without a word. As Taran was about to follow Adaon, Dallben called him back.
    “You are an excellent pair of hotbloods,” the enchanter remarked. “I have been trying to decide which of you is the more muddled. It is not easy,” he yawned. “I shall have to meditate on it.”
    “Ellidyr spoke the truth,” Taran said bitterly. “Whose son am I? I have no name but the one you gave me. Ellidyr is a prince—”
    “Prince he may be,” said Dallben, “yet perhaps not so fortunate as you. He is the youngest son of old Pen-Llarcau in the northern lands; his elder brothers have inherited what little there was of family fortune, and even that is gone. Ellidyr has only his name and his sword, though I admit he uses them both with something less than wisdom.
    “However,” Dallben went on, “these things have a way of righting themselves. Oh, before I forget …”
    His robe flapping around his spindly legs, Dallben made his way to a huge chest, unlocked it with an ancient key, and raised the lid. He bent and rummaged inside. “I confess to a certain number of regrets and misgivings,” he said, “which could not possibly interest you, so I shall not burden you with them. On the other hand, here is something I am sure will interest you. And burden you, too, for the matter of that.”
    Dallben straightened and turned. In his hands he held a sword.
    Taran’s heart leaped. He grasped the weapon eagerly, his hands trembling so that he nearly dropped it. Scabbard and hilt bore no ornament; the craftsmanship lay in its proportion and balance. Though of great age, its metal shone clear and untarnished, and its very plainness had the beauty of true nobility. Taran bowed low before Dallben and stammered thanks.
    Dallben shook his head. “Whether you should thank me or not,” he said, “remains to be seen. Use it wisely,” he added. “I only hope you will have cause to use it not at all.”
    “What are its powers?” Taran asked, his eyes sparkling. “Tell me now, so that …”
    “Its powers?” Dallben answered with a sad smile. “My dear boy, this is a bit of metal hammered into a rather unattractive shape; it could better have been a pruning hook or a plow iron. Its powers? Like all weapons, only those held by him who wields it. What yours may be, I can in no wise say.
    “We shall make our farewells now,” Dallben said, putting a hand on Taran’s shoulder.
    Taran saw, for the first time, how ancient was the enchanter’s face, and how careworn.
    “I prefer to see none of you before you leave,” Dallben went on. “Such partings are one thing I would spare myself. Besides, later your head will be filled with other concerns and you will forget anything I might tell you. Be off and see if you can persuade the Princess Eilonwy to gird you with that sword. Now that you have it,” he sighed, “I suppose you might just as well observe the formalities.”
     
     
    Eilonwy was putting away earthen bowls and dishes when Taran hurried into the scullery. “Look!” he cried. “Dallben gave me this!
Gird it on me—I mean, if you please. Say you will. I want you to be the one to do it.”
    Eilonwy turned to him in surprise.