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harper standing in the
     middle of the Hall turned, cried out in surprise, and ran to them. Taran, whose hand was
     being shaken half off his arm, found himself blinking with happy astonishment at the long
     pointed nose and spiky yellow hair of his old companion, Fflewddur Fflam.
    “Well met, the two of you,” cried the bard, pulling them to the high table. “I've missed
     you ever since we parted. Did you not stay at Caer Dallben? When we sailed from Mona,”
     Fflewddur hurriedly explained, “I really meant to leave off wandering and settle down in
     my own realm. Then I said to myself, Fflewddur old fellow, spring's only once a year. And
     here it is. And here am I. But what of yourselves? First, food and drink, and your tidings
     later.”
    Fflewddur had brought the companions to stand before Lord Gast, and Taran saw a
     heavy-featured warrior with a beard the color of muddy flax. A handsome collarpiece
     dangled from his neck; rings glittered on fingers stout enough to crack walnuts; and bands
     of beaten silver circled his arms. The cantrev lord's raiment was costly and well-cut, but
     Taran saw it bore the spots and spatters not only of this feast but of many others long
     past.
    The bard, with a sweep of his harp, named the companions to Lord Gast. “These are two who
     sought the Black Cauldron from Arawn of Annuvin and fought at the side of Gwydion Prince
     of Don. Let your hospitality match their boldness.”
    “And so it shall!” Gast loudly cried. “No wayfarer can fault the hospitality of Gast the
     Generous!” He made place for the companions at his table and, sweeping aside the empty
     bowls and dishes before him, clapped his hands and bawled for the Steward. When the
     servitor arrived, Lord Gast commanded him to bring such an array of food and drink that
     Taran could hardly imagine himself eating half of it. Gurgi, hungry as always, smacked his
     lips in gleeful anticipation.
    As the Steward left, Lord Gast took up a tale, whose matter Taran found difficult to
     follow, concerning the costliness of his food and his openhandedness toward travelers.
     Taran listened courteously through it all, surprised and delighted at his good luck in
     finding Gast's stronghold. Feeling more at ease, thanks to the presence of Fflewddur,
     Taran at last ventured to speak of his meeting with Lord Goryon.
    “Goryon!” snorted Gast. “Arrogant boor! Crude lout! Braggart and boaster! To boast of
     what?” He snatched up a drinking horn. “See this?” he cried. “The name of Gast carved upon
     it and the letters worked in gold! See this cup! This bowl! These ornament my common
     table. My storehouse holds even finer, as you shall see. Goryon! Horseflesh is all he
     knows, and little enough of that!”
    Fflewddur, meanwhile, had raised the harp to his shoulder and began to strike up a tune.
     “It's a small thing I composed myself,” he explained. “Though I must say it's been cheered
     and praised by thousands...”
    No sooner were the words past his lips than the harp bent like an overdrawn bow and a
     string broke with a loud twang. “Drat the thing!” muttered the bard. “Will it give me no
     peace? I swear it's getting worse. The slightest bit of color added to the facts and it
     costs me a string. Yes, as I meant to say, I know full half-a-dozen who deemed the song---
     ah--- rather well done.” With deftness born of long, sad practice, Fflewddur knotted up
     the broken string.
    Taran, glancing around the Hall this while, was surprised to realize the plates and
     drinking horns of the guests were more than half-empty and, in fact, showed no sign of
     ever having been full. His perplexity grew when the Steward returned to set the food-laden
     tray before Lord Gast, who planted his elbows on either side of it.
    “Eat your fill,” cried Gast to Taran and Gurgi, pushing a small hunch of gravy-spotted
     bread toward them and keeping the rest for himself. “Gast the