Free The Black Cauldron by Lloyd Alexander

girl!”
    Eilonwy gave a furious shriek. Doli raised a hand in protest, but Taran cut him short. He was calmer now that his first anger had passed. “This is not a game of courage,” he said. “I would be twice a fool, and so should we all, to be goaded by an idle taunt. This much, at least, I have learned from Gwydion. But there is also this: Arawn seeks the cauldron even now. We do not dare lose the time it would take to bring help. If he finds the cauldron before we do...”
    “And if he doesn't?” put in Doli. “How do you know he knows where it is? And if he doesn't know, how long will it take him to find out? A merry while, I'll be bound, even with all his Cauldron-Born and Huntsmen and gwythaints, and what have you! There's a risk either way, any clodpole can see that. But if you ask me, there's more risk than otherwise if you go popping off into the Marshes of Morva.”
    “And you, Taran of Caer Dallben,” said Eilonwy, “you're only making excuses for some harebrained idea of your own. You've been talking and talking and you've forgotten one thing. You're not the one to decide anything; and neither are you, Ellidyr. Adaon commands you both, if I'm not mistaken.”
    Taran flushed at Eilonwy's reminder. “Forgive me, Adaon,” he said, bowing his head. “I did not intend to disobey your orders. The choice is yours.”
    Adaon, who had been listening silently near the fire, shook his head. “No,” he said quietly, “this choice cannot be mine. I have said nothing for or against your plan; the decision is greater than I dare make.”
    “But why?” cried Taran. “I don't understand,” he said quickly and with concern. “Of all of us, you know best what to do.”
    Adaon turned his gray eyes toward the fire. “Perhaps you will understand one day. For now, choose your path, Taran of Caer Dallben,” he said. “Wherever it may lead, I promise you my help.”
    Taran drew back and stood silent a moment, filled with distress and uneasiness. It was not fear touching his heart, but the wordless sorrow of dry leaves rushing desolate before the wind. Adaon continued to watch the dance of the flames.
    “I shall go to the Marshes of Morva,” Taran said.
    Adaon nodded. “So it shall be.”
    No one spoke then. Even Ellidyr made no reply; he bit his lips and fingered the hilt of his sword.
    “Well,” said Doli at last, “I suppose I might as well go along, too. Do what I can. But it's a mistake, I warn you.”
    “Mistake?” cried the jubilant bard. “By no means! I wouldn't be kept away from it!”
    “And I certainly won't,” declared Eilonwy. “Someone has to make sure there are at least a few of us with good sense along. Marshes! Ugh! If you insist on making fools of yourselves, I wish you'd picked a drier way.”
    “And Gurgi will help!” shouted Gurgi, springing to his feet. “Yes, yes, with seekings and peekings!”
    “Gwystyl,” said Doli, with a look of resignation, “you might as well go and fetch that powder you were talking about.”
    While Gwystyl eagerly rummaged through the alcove, the dwarf drew a deep breath and flickered out of sight. He was back after some length of time, fully visible and looking furious, his ears trembling and rimmed with blue.
    “There's five Huntsmen camped over the rise,” he said. “They've settled down for the--- oh, my ears--- night. If that powder is any good, we can be well away before they even know we've been here.”
    The companions dusted their feet and the hooves of their steeds with a black substance Gwystyl distributed from a moldering sack. He seemed almost gleeful, as Taran untethered Melynlas and led the horse from behind the screen of brambles.
    “Goodbye, goodbye,” muttered Gwystyl. “I hate to see you waste your time, not to mention your lives. But that's the way of it, I suppose. Here today, gone tomorrow, and what's anyone to do about it? Goodbye. I hope we meet again. But not soon. Goodbye.”
    With that, the portal shut. Taran took a