hopelessly around for more. 'I think he'd make a miser seem a prodigal in comparison.'
So passed the meal, with Gast loudly urging the companions to stuff themselves, yet all the while grudgingly offering them no more than a few morsels of stringy meat from the heaped platter. Only at the end, when Gast has swallowed all he could and his head nodded sleepily and his beard straggled into his drinking horn, were the companions able to down the meager leavings. At last, disheartened and with bellies still hollow, the three groped their way to a meanly furnished chamber, where they nevertheless dropped into sleep like stones.
In the morning Taran was impatient to start once more for Caer Cadarn, and Fflewddur agreed to ride with him. But Lord Gast would hear none of it until the companions marveled at his storerooms. The cantrev lord flung open chests of goblets, ornaments, weapons, horse trappings, and many things Taran judged of high value, but in such a muddled heap that he could scarcely tell one from another. Among all these goods Taran's eyes lingered on a gracefully fashioned wine bowl, the most beautiful Taran had ever seen. He had, however, little chance to admire it, for the cantrev lord quickly thrust a garishly ornamented horse bridle into Taran's hands and as quickly replaced it with a pair of stirrups which he praised equally.
'That wine bowl is worth all the rest put together,' Fflewddur whispered to Taran, as Lord Gast now led the three companions from the storehouse to a large cow pen just outside the barricade. 'I recognize the work from the hand of Annlaw Clay-Shaper, a master craftsman, the most skilled potter in Prydain. I swear his wheel is enchanted! Poor Gast!' Fflewddur added. 'To count himself rich and know so little of what he owns!'
'But how has he gained such treasure?' Taran said.
'On that score, I should hesitate to ask,' Fflewddur murmured with a grin. 'Very likely the same way Goryon gained your horse.'
'And this,' cried the cantrev lord, halting beside a black cow who stood peacefully grazing amid the rest of the herd, 'and this is Cornillo, the forest cow in all the land!'
Taran could not gainsay the words of the cantrev lord, for Cornillo shone as if she had been polished and her short, curving horns sparkled in the sun.
Lord Gast proudly stroked the animal's sleek flanks. 'Gentle as a lamb! Strong as an ox! Swift as a horse and wise as an owl!' Gast went on, while Cornillo, calmly munching her cud, turned patient eyes to Taran, as though hoping not to be mistaken for anything other than a cow.
'She leads my cattle,' declared Lord Gast, 'better than any herdsman can. She'll pull a plow or turn a grist mill, if need be. Her calves are always twins! As for milk, she gives the sweetest! Cream, every drop! So rich the dairy maids can scarcely churn it!'
Cornillo blew out her breath almost in a sigh, switched her tail, and went back to grazing. From the pasture Lord Gast pressed the companions to the hen roost, and from there to the hawk mews, and the morning was half- spent and Taran had begun to despair of ever leaving the stronghold, when Gast finally ordered their mounts readied.
Fflewddur, Taran saw, still rode Llyan, the huge, golden-tawny cat who had saved the companions' lives on the Isle of Mona. 'Yes, I decided to keep her? rather, she's decided to keep me,' said the bard, as Llyan, recognizing Taran, padded forward and began happily rubbing her head against his shoulder. ''She loves the harp more than ever,' Fflewddur went on. 'Can't hear enough of it.' No sooner did he say this than Llyan flicked her long whiskers and turned to give the bard a forceful nudge; so that Fflewddur then and there had to unsling his instrument and strike a few chords, while Llyan, purring loudly, blinked fondly at him with great yellow eyes.
'Farewell,' called the cantrev lord as the companions mounted. 'At the stronghold of Gast the Generous you'll ever find an openhanded welcome!'
'It's a generosity that could starve us to death,' Taran, laughing, remarked to the bard as they rode eastward again. 'Gust thinks himself openhanded, as Goryon thinks himself valorous; and as far as I can judge, neither one has the truth of it. Yet,' he added, 'they both seem pleased with themselves. Indeed, is a man truly what he sees himself to be?'
'Only if what he sees is true,' answered Fflewddur. 'If there's too great a difference between his own opinion and the facts? ah? then, my friend, I should say that such a man had no more substance to him than Goryon's giants!
'But don't judge them too harshly,' the bard went on. 'These cantrev nobles are much alike, prickly as porcupines one moment and friendly as puppies the next. They all hoard their possessions, yet they can be generous to a fault if the mood strikes them. As for valor, they're no cowards. Death rides in the saddle with them and they count it nothing, and in battle I've seen them gladly lay down their lives for a comrade. At the same time,' he added, 'it's also been my experience, in all my wanderings, that the further from the deed, the greater it grows, and the most glorious battle is the one longest past. So it's hardly surprising how many heroes you run into.
'Had they harps like mine,' said Fflewddur, warily glancing at his instrument, 'what a din you'd hear from every stronghold in Prydain!'
Chapter 4
A Matter of Cows
LATE THAT AFTERNOON the companions sighted the crimson banner of the House of Smoit, its black bear emblem flying bravely above the towers of Caer Cadarn. Unlike the palisaded strongholds of the cantrev lords, Smoit's castle was a fortress with walls of hewn stone and iron-studded gates thick enough to withstand all attack; the chips in the stones and the dents in the portal told Taran the castle had indeed thrown back not a few assaults. For the three travelers, however, the gates were flung open willingly and an honor guard of spearmen hastened to escort the companions.
The red-bearded King sat at the dining table in his Great Hall, and from the array of dishes, platters, and drinking horns both full and empty Taran judged Smoit could scarcely have left off eating since morning. Seeing the companions, the King leaped from his throne of oakwood, fashioned in the shape of a gigantic bear looking much like Smoit himself.
'My body and bones!' Smoit roared so loudly the dishes rattled on the table. 'It's better than a feast to see all of you!' His battle-scarred face beamed with delight and he flung his burly arms around the companions in a joint- cracking hug. 'Scrape out a tune from that old pot of yours,' he cried to Fflewddur. 'A merry tune for a merry meeting! And you, my lad,' he went on, seizing Taran's shoulders with his heavy, red-furred hands, 'when last we met you looked scrawny as a plucked chicken. And your shaggy friend? what, has he rolled in the bushes all the way from Caer Dallben?'
Smoit clapped his hands, shouted for more food and drink, and would hear nothing of Taran's news until the companions had eaten and the King had downed another full meal.
'The Mirror of Llunet?' said Smoit, when Taran at last was able to tell of his quest. 'I've heard of no such thing. As well seek a needle in a haystack as a looking glass in the Llawgadarn Mountains.' The King's heavy brow furrowed and he shook his head. 'The Llawgadarns rise in the land of the Free Commots, and whether the folk there will be of a mind to help you…'
'The Free Commots?' Taran asked. 'I've heard them named, but know little else about them.'
'They're hamlets and small villages,' Fflewddur put in. 'They start to the east of the Hill Cantrevs and spread as far as Great Avren. I've never journeyed there myself; the Free Commots are a bit far even for my ramblings. But the land itself is the pleasantest in Prydain? fair hills and dales, rich soil to farm, and sweet grass for grazing. There's iron for good blades, gold and silver for fine ornaments.
Annlaw Clay-Shaper is said to dwell among the Commot folk, as do many other craftsmen: master weavers, metalsmiths? from time out of mind their skills have been the Commots' pride.'
'A proud folk they are,' said Smoit. 'And a stiff-necked breed. They bow to no cantrev lords, but only to the High King Math himself.'
'No cantrev lords?' asked Taran, puzzled. 'Who, then, rules them?'
'Why, they rule themselves,' answered Smoit. 'Strong and steadfast they are, too. And, by my beard, I'm sure there's more peace and neighborliness in the Free Commots than anywhere else in Prydain. And so what need have they for kings or lords? When you come to the meat of it,' he added, 'a king's strength lies in the will of those he rules.'
