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

him.”
    Ellidyr straightened, his eyes black and bitter. “Do not give me counsel on my own steed. Islimach can go on. And so she will.”
    Nevertheless, as Ellidyr turned away, Taran saw his face fill with lines of worry. “Let me look at her,” Taran said. “Perhaps I can find the trouble.” He knelt and reached toward Islimach’s foreleg.
    “Do not touch her,” cried Ellidyr. “She will not abide a stranger’s hands.”
    Islimach reared and bared her teeth. Ellidyr laughed scornfully. “Learn for yourself, pig-boy,” he said. “Her hooves are sharp as knives, as you shall see.”
    Taran rose and grasped Islimach’s bridle. For a moment, as the horse lunged, he feared she would indeed trample him. Islimach’s eyes were round with terror; she whickered and struck out at him. A hoof glanced against his shoulder, but Taran did not loosen his hold. He reached up and put a hand to Islimach’s long, bony head.
The mare shuddered, but Taran spoke quietly and soothingly to her. She tossed her mane, the straining muscles relaxed; the reins went loose and she made no attempt to draw away.
    Without stopping the flow of reassuring words, Taran raised her hoof. As he had suspected, there was a small, jagged stone wedged far back behind the shoe. He drew his knife. Islimach trembled, but Taran worked quickly and deftly. The stone came free and fell to the ground.
    “This has happened even to Melynlas,” Taran explained, patting the roan’s flank. “There’s a place deep in the hoof—anyone can miss it if they don’t know. It was Coll who showed me how to find it.”
    Ellidyr’s face was livid. “You have tried to steal honor from me, pig-boy,” he said through clenched teeth. “Will you now rob me of my horse?”
    Taran had expected no thanks, but the angry thrust of Ellidyr’s words took him aback. Ellidyr’s hand was on his sword. Taran felt a surge of answering anger, a flush rising to his cheeks, but he turned away.
    “Your honor is your own,” Taran answered coldly, “and so is your steed. What stone is in your shoe, Prince of Pen-Llarcau?”
    He strode to his companions, who had taken cover in the tangle of brush. Gurgi had already opened the wallet and was proudly distributing its contents. “Yes, yes!” Gurgi cried gleefully, “crunchings and munchings for all! Thanks to generous, kindhearted Gurgi! He will not let brave warriors suffer bellies filled only with howlings and growlings!”
    Ellidyr remained behind, patting Islimach’s neck and murmuring in the roan’s ear. Since he made no move to join the companions
at their meal, Taran called out to him. But the Prince of Pen-Llarcau only gave him a bitter glance and remained with Islimach.
    “That foul-tempered nag is the only thing he cares about,” muttered the bard, “and as far as I can see, the only thing that cares about him. They’re two of a kind, if you ask me.”
    Adaon, sitting a little apart from the others, called Taran to him. “I commend your patience,” he said. “The black beast spurs Ellidyr cruelly.”
    “I think he’ll feel better once we find the cauldron,” Taran said. “There will be glory enough for all to share.”
    Adaon smiled gravely. “Is there not glory enough in living the days given to us? You should know there is adventure in simply being among those we love and the things we love, and beauty, too.
    “But I would speak to you of another matter,” Adaon went on. His handsome face, usually tranquil, was clouded. “I have few possessions, for I count them of little importance. But these few I treasure: Lluagor, my packets of healing herbs, and this,” he said, touching the clasp at his throat, “the brooch I wear, a precious gift from Arianllyn, my betrothed. Should any ill befall me, they are yours. I have watched you closely, Taran of Caer Dallben. In all my journeys I have met no one else to whom I would rather entrust them.”
    “Do not speak of ill befalling you,” Taran cried. “We are