Free The Black Cauldron (The Chronicles of Prydain) by Lloyd Alexander Page A

wouldn’t have been wiser to find Gwydion. But no, you have to decide the other way and drag the rest of us along.”
    Taran did not reply. Eilonwy’s words stung him—all the more because he had begun to regret his own decision. Now the companions had set off, doubts tormented him and his heart was heavy. Taran could not forget the strange tone in Adaon’s voice and sought again and again to understand why he had turned from a choice rightfully his. He jogged Melynlas closer to Adaon and leaned from the saddle.
    “I am troubled,” he said in a low voice, “and I wonder now if we should not turn back. I fear you have kept something from me, and had I known what it was, I would have chosen otherwise.”
    If Adaon shared Taran’s doubts, he showed no sign. In the saddle, he rode unbowed, as though he had gained new strength and the weariness of the journey could no longer touch him. On his face was a look Taran had never seen before and could not fathom. In it was pride, yet more than that; for it held, as well, a light that seemed almost joyous.
    After a long pause Adaon said, “There is a destiny laid on us to do what we must do, though it is not always given to us to see it.”
    “I think you see many things,” Taran replied quietly, “many things which you tell no one. It has long been in my mind,” he went on, with much hesitation, “and now more than ever—the dream you had, the last night in Caer Dallben. You saw Ellidyr and King Morgant; to me, you foretold I would grieve. But what did you dream of yourself?”
    Adaon smiled. “Is that what troubles you? Very well, I shall tell you. I saw myself in a glade; and though winter lay all around, it was warm and sunlit. Birds called and flowers sprang up from bare stones.”
    “Your dream was beautiful,” said Eilonwy, “but I can’t guess its meaning.”
    Taran nodded. “Yes, it is beautiful. I feared it had been unhappy and for that reason you chose not to speak of it.”
    Adaon said nothing more and Taran fell back into his own thoughts, still finding no reassurance. Melynlas moved ahead, sure-footed despite the darkness. The stallion was able to avoid the loose stones and fallen branches that lay across the winding path, even without Taran’s hands on the reins. His eyes heavy with fatigue, Taran leaned forward and patted the stallion’s powerful neck.
    “Follow the way, my friend,” Taran murmured. “Surely you know it better than I do.”
    At daybreak Adaon raised his hand and signaled a halt. Throughout the night they had ridden, as it seemed to Taran, down a long series of descending slopes. They were still in the Forest of Idris, but here the ground had leveled a little. Many of the trees were yet covered with leaves; the undergrowth was thicker; the land less stark than the hills around Dark Gate. Doli, his pony snorting white mist, galloped up to report no sign of the Huntsmen on their trail.
    “How long that sallow mealworm’s powder lasts I couldn’t guess,” said the dwarf. “And I don’t think it’ll do us that much good anyway. If Arawn’s looking for the cauldron, he’s going to look hard and close. The Huntsmen must know we’ve come in this general
direction. If enough of them keep after us, sooner or later they’re bound to find us. That Gwystyl—for all the help he’s been! Humph! And his crow, too. Humph! I wish we hadn’t run into either of them.”
    Ellidyr had dismounted and was anxiously studying Islimach’s left foreleg. Taran, too, swung down and went to Ellidyr’s side. The horse whinnied and rolled her eyes as he approached.
    “She has gone lame,” Taran said. “Unless we can help her, I fear she will not be able to hold the pace.”
    “I need no pig-boy to tell me that,” answered Ellidyr. He bent and examined the mare’s hoof with a gentleness of touch which surprised Taran.
    “If you lightened her burden,” Taran suggested, “it might ease her for a while. Fflewddur can take you up behind