The Foundling by Lloyd Alexander Page B

shall be the greatest warrior in Prydain. Strength and power, dear gosling! When you command, all must obey even your slightest whim.”
    â€œIt is a fine blade,” Dallben replied, “and comes easily to my hand.”
    â€œIt shall be yours,” Orddu said. “At least, as long as you’re able to keep it. Oh, yes,” the enchantress went on, “I should mention it’s already had a number of owners. Somehow, sooner or later, it wanders back to us. The difficulty, you see, isn’t so much getting power as holding on to it. Because so many others want it, too. You’d be astonished, the lengths to which some will go. Be warned, the sword can be lost or stolen. Or bent out of shape—as, indeed, so can you, in a manner of speaking.”
    â€œAnd remember,” put in Orwen, “you must never let it out of your sight, not for an instant.”
    Dallben hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “I think your gift is more burden than blessing.”
    â€œIn that case,” Orddu said, “perhaps this will suit you better.”

    As Dallben laid down the sword, the enchantress handed him a golden harp, so perfectly wrought that he no sooner held it than it seemed to play of itself.
    â€œTake this, my sparrow,” said Orddu, “and be the greatest bard in Prydain, known throughout the land for the beauty of your songs.”
    Dallben’s heart leaped as the instrument thrilled in his arms. He touched the sweeping curve of the glowing harp and ran his fingers over the golden strings. “I have never heard such music,” he murmured. “Who owns this will surely have no lack of fame.”
    â€œYou’ll have fame and admiration a-plenty,” said Orddu, “as long as anyone remembers you.”
    â€œAlas, that’s true,” Orwen said with a sigh. “Memory can be so skimpy. It doesn’t stretch very far; and, next thing you know, there’s your fame gone all crumbly and mildewed.”
    Sadly, Dallben set down the harp. “Beautiful it is,” he said, “but in the end, I fear, little help to me.”
    â€œThere’s nothing else we can offer at the moment,” said Orddu, delving once more into the chest, “unless you’d care to have this book.”
    The enchantress held up a large, heavy tome and blew away the dust and cobwebs from its moldering leather binding. “It’s a bulky thing for a young lamb to carry. Naturally, it would be rather weighty, for it holds everything that was ever known, is known, and will be known.”
    â€œIt’s full of wisdom, thick as oatmeal,” added Orwen. “Quite scarce in the world—wisdom, not oatmeal—but that only makes it the more valuable.”
    â€œWe have so many requests for other items,” Orddu said. “Seven-league boots, cloaks of invisibility, and such great nonsense. For wisdom,
practically none. Yet whoever owns this book shall have all that and more, if he likes. For the odd thing about wisdom is the more you use it the more it grows; and the more you share, the more you gain. You’d be amazed how few understand that. If they did, I suppose, they wouldn’t need the book in the first place.”
    â€œDo you give this to me?” Dallben asked. “A treasure greater than all treasures?”
    Orddu hesitated. “Give? Only in a manner of speaking. If you know us as well as you say you do, then you also know we don’t exactly give anything. Put it this way: We shall let you take that heavy, dusty old book if that’s what you truly want. Again, be warned: The greater the treasure, the greater the cost. Nothing is given for nothing; not in the Marshes of Morva—or anyplace else, for the matter of that.”
    â€œEven so,” Dallben replied, “this book is my choice.”
    â€œVery well,” said Orddu, putting the ancient volume in his hands. “Now you shall be on your way.