The Book Of Three by Lloyd Alexander Read Free Book Online

captives. Taran dared once again to speak to Gwydion, but the lash cut his words short. Taran's throat was parched, waves of dizziness threatened to drown him. He could not be sure how long they had ridden, for he lapsed often into feverish dreams. The sun was still high and he was dimly aware of a hill with a tall, gray fortress looming at its crest. Melyngar's hoofs rang on stones as a courtyard opened before him. Rough hands pulled him from Melyngar's back and drove him, stumbling, down an arching corridor. Gwydion was half-dragged, half-carried before him. Taran tried to catch up with his companion, but the lash of the Cauldron-Born beat him to his knees. A guard hauled him upright again and kicked him forward. At length, the captives were led into a spacious council chamber. Torches flickered from walls hung with scarlet tapestries. Outside, it had been full daylight; here in the great, windowless hall, the chill and dampness of night rose from the cold flagstones like mist. At the far end of the hall, on a throne carved of black wood, sat a woman. Her long hair glittered silver in the torchlight. Her face was young and beautiful; her pale skin seemed paler still above her crimson robe. Jeweled necklaces hung at her throat, gem-studded bracelets circled her wrists, and heavy rings threw back the flickering torches. Gwydion's sword lay at her feet.
    The woman rose quickly. “What shame to my household is this?” she cried at the warriors. “The wounds of these men are fresh and untended. Someone shall answer for this neglect!” She stopped in front of Taran. “And this lad can barely keep his feet.” She clapped her hands. “Bring food and wine and medicine for their injuries.”
    She turned again to Taran. “Poor boy,” she said, with a pitying smile, “there has been grievous mischief done today.” She touched his wound with a soft, pale hand. At the pressure of her fingers, a comforting warmth filled Taran's aching body. Instead of pain, a delicious sensation of repose came over him, repose as he remembered it from days long forgotten in Caer Dallben, the warm bed of his childhood, drowsy summer afternoons. “How do you come here?” she asked quietly.
    “We crossed Great Avren,” Taran began. “You see, what had happened...”
    “Silence!” Gwydion's voice rang out. “She is Achren! She sets a trap for you!”
    Taran gasped. For an instant he could not believe such beauty concealed the evil of which he had been warned. Had Gwydion mistaken her? Nevertheless, he shut his lips tightly.
    The woman, in surprise, turned to Gwydion. “This is not courtesy to accuse me thus. Your wound excuses your conduct, but there is no need for anger. Who are you? Why do you...”
    Gwydion's eyes flashed. “You know me as well as I know you, Achren!” He spat the name through his bleeding lips.
    “I have heard Lord Gwydion was traveling in my realm. Beyond that...”
    “Arawn sent his warriors to slay us,” cried Gwydion, “and here they stand in your council hall. Do you say that you know nothing more?”
    “Arawn sent warriors to find, not slay you,” answered Achren, “or you would not be alive at this moment. Now that I see you face to face,” she said, her eyes on Gwydion, “I am glad such a man is not bleeding out his life in a ditch. For there is much we have to discuss, and much that you can profit from.”
    “If you would treat with me,” said Gwydion, “unbind me and return my sword.”
    “You make demands?” Achren asked gently. “Perhaps you do not understand. I offer you something you cannot have even if I loosened your hands and gave back your weapon. By that, Lord Gwydion, I mean--- your life.”
    “In exchange for what?”
    “I had thought to bargain with another life,” said Achren, glancing at Taran. “But I see he is of no consequence, alive or dead. No,” she said, “there are other, pleasanter ways to bargain. You do not know me as well as you think, Gwydion. There is no