The Emerald Flame by Frewin Jones

Warrior Child, it was not she who chose you. Do you not know that by now? We are Guardians—we make no such choices.”
    “Then who?” Fain came to Branwen, perching on her shoulder, gripping tight, and keeping close to her head.
    “Who
is of no consequence to you at this time,Warrior Child” came Merion’s grinding voice. “How is more to the purpose.
How
you are to serve me.”
    “Rhiannon warned me of a great canker in the land,” said Branwen. “Now I know the true meaning behind her words. Llew ap Gelert must be destroyed. And you are to tell me how.”
    “That is not your task, Warrior Child,” growled the ancient crone, stamping again with her gnarled stick. “Riddle me this: Who is it that soothes the blistering mountain when the summer sun beats down so fierce? Whose hand cools the brow of the lofty crag when the air rises in a shimmering haze and the buzzards hang motionless above the valley?”
    Branwen stared at her, baffled by her questions, not even sure whether she was meant to answer.
    “Who brings news from distant places when all the world is frozen? Who speaks in the gullies and ghylls? Whose voice echoes through the caverns?”
    There was silence.
    It became obvious that Merion was waiting for a response. Branwen thought through the odd questions. “Is it the wind?” she asked. A sudden understanding hit her. “The north wind! You mean Caradoc of the North Wind!”
    The crone laughed again, slapping her knee and cracking her stick on the floor. “Did I not say a wise fool? Yes, Warrior Child, I speak of my brother the wind—my lost brother Caradoc.” A bony finger pointed across the candlelight. “This is the task I
    lay upon you, Warrior Child—to seek for the place where the Saxons have caged my lovely brother … my droll and diverting brother … my dancing clown, my shape-shifting brother….” Her voice lowered to an incoherent muttering, as if she had forgotten Branwen was there.
    “Is Caradoc a prisoner of the Saxons?” Branwen asked incredulously.
    The hag’s head had thrust forward, the wattles of her neck shaking like hanks of rope. “He is!” she cried. “They trapped him in their foul webs, the dirty priesthood of the Saxons. Ten times ten years ago he fell to their wiles and was borne away.” Her voice rose to a wail. “My brother! My beautiful, bonny brother! I ache to hear your voice again! But you shall be restored to me. You shall be set free! The child has come to me at last—the child with the golden key!”
    Branwen was astonished. She stared at the crone in utter bewilderment and disbelief. Of all the ends she had feared on this mountain—of all the tasks she had contemplated—to be asked to rescue one of the Shining Ones was so far beyond expectation that she was dumbfounded.
    Merion peered into her face. “You will travel east, Warrior Child,” she said as though oblivious to Branwen’s consternation. “You will seek out Caradoc’s prison and you will bring it to me, for only under my eye will it be safe for you to use the key and releasehim.” There was a pause, then the stick cracked down hard on the ground. “Warrior Child? Are you struck witless? Do you understand your task?”
    Branwen started at the shout. “That’s no task for me,” she said. “My destiny is to save Brython from the Saxons, to defeat the traitor Llew, to raise an army against the invaders. That is what Rhiannon told me.” She shook her head. “If Caradoc of the North Wind cannot save himself, what hope do I have?”
    Merion’s voice became impatient. “My brother is held by spells and incantations that have no power over you, Warrior Child,” she said. “And why do you bear the golden key if you are not to be the instrument of his release?”
    “What key?” demanded Branwen. “I have no key. What is this key of which you speak?”
    The hag lifted her arm and jerkily pointed the stick toward Branwen’s waist. “The golden key!” she growled. “I see it