The Grey King by Susan Cooper Page A

answer,” Will said.
    â€œYou, boy, the first.” The blue mist swirled again. A bony finger was thrust pointing at Bran, and the shadowed hood turned. Will turned too, anxiously; he had half expected this.
    Bran gasped. “Me? But—but I—”
    Will reached out and touched his arm. He said gently, “Try. Only try. We are here only to try. If the answer is asleep in you, it will wake. If it is not, no matter. But try.”
    Bran stared at him unsmiling, and Will saw his throat move as he swallowed. Then the white head turned back again. “All right.”
    The soft, sibilant voice said, “Who are the Three Elders of the world?”
    Will felt Bran’s mind reel in panic, as he tried to find meaning in the words. There was no way to offer help. In this place, the law of the High Magic prevented an Old One from putting the smallest thought or image in another mind: Will was permitted only to overhear. So, tense, he stood overhearing the turmoil of his friend’s thoughts, as they tossed about desperately seeking order.
    Bran struggled. The Three Elders of the World . . . somewhere he knew . . . it was strange and yet familiar, as if somewhere he had seen, or read . . . the three oldest creatures, the three oldest things . . . he had read it at school, and he had read it in Welsh . . . the oldest things. . . .
    He took his glasses from his shirt pocket, as if fiddling with them could clear his mind, and he saw staring up out of them the reflection of his own eyes. Strange eyes . . . creepy eyes, they called them at school. At school. At school. . . . Strange round tawny eyes, like the eyes of an owl. He put the glasses slowly back in his pocket, his mind groping at an echo. At his side, Cafall shifted very slightly, his head moving so that it touched Bran’s hand. The fur brushed his fingers lightly, very lightly, like the flick of feathers. Feathers. Feathers. Feathers . . .
    He had it.
    Will, at his side, felt in his own mind the echoing flood of relief, and struggled to contain his delight.
    Bran stood up straight and cleared his throat. “The Three Elders of the World,” he said, “are the Owl of Cwm Cawlwyd, the Eagle of Gwernabwy, and the Blackbird of Celli Gadarn.”
    Will said softly, “Oh, well done! Well done!”
    â€œThat is right,” said the thin voice above them, unemotionally. Like an early-morning sky the light blue robe swirled before them, and the figure sank back into its throne.
    From the central throne rose the lord in the sea-blue robe; stepping forward, he looked down at Will. Behind its grey beard his face seemed oddly young, though its skin was brown and weathered like the skin of a sailor long at sea.
    â€œWill Stanton,” he said, “who were the three generous men of the Island of Britain?”
    Will stared at him. The riddle was not impossible; he knew that the answer lay somewhere in his memory, stored from the great Book of Gramarye, treasure book of the enchantment of the Light that had been destroyed as soon as he, the last of the Old Ones, had been shown what it held. Will set his mind to work, searching. But at the same time a deeper riddle worried at him. Who was this lord in the sea-blue robe, with his close interest in Bran? He knew about Cafall . . . clearly he was a lord of the High Magic, and yet there was a look about him of . . . a look of . . .
    Will pushed the wondering aside. The answer to the riddle had surfaced in his memory.
    He said clearly, “The three generous men of the Island of Britain. Nudd the Generous, son of Senllyt. Mordaf the Generous, son of Serwan. Rhydderch the Generous, son of Tydwal Tudglyd. And Arthur himself was more generous than the three.”
    Deliberately on the last line his voice rang echoing through the hall like a bell.
    â€œThat is right,” said the bearded