there, hanging from your belt! Do you think me blind, child?”
Branwen stared down at the few precious possessions that hung from the leather belt: a poke with flint and tinder in it, a haircomb that her mother had given her. A leather pouch that held six pieces of white crystal that Geraint had found on the mountain and given to her as a keepsake. And a small golden key gifted to her by her father on the tenth anniversary of her birth.
Branwen fingered the small key.
“You’re wrong,” she said, closing her fist around the key as though wanting to protect it from Merion’s cold gaze. “This has nothing to do with the Old Gods; my father found it in the ruins of a Roman temple when he was but a youth. He gave it to me as a birthday present.”
Merion’s crowing laughter rang around the cavern. “And who do you suppose guided your father’s footsteps to that desolate place, and who revealed to him at that moment the golden glint among the wreck and the ruin?” She cackled. “And who put it into his heart years later to pass the key on to his daughter?” The yellow eyes sparked like igniting flame. “Do you not perceive the truth yet, Warrior Child? There have been no loose threads in the pattern of your life; all that has happened to you is but part of the same great design.” The stick hammered again. “The key will open Caradoc’s prison—of that truth have no doubt, Warrior Child. All that you bear has its own purpose, its own part to play. Think you the white stones came to you by chance?”
“The stones?” Branwen clutched involuntarily at the leather pouch. “Geraint’s crystals, you mean?”
“Found by your brother, given to you,” said the Crone. “A thread in the tapestry.”
Branwen gaped at her. “Have you been haunting my family’s steps from before I was born?” she exclaimed. “Has there been no moment of my life free of your wiles and your ruses and intrigues?”
Merion shook her head. “You do not
listen,
Warrior Child,” she rebuked her. “It is not
we
who chose you; it is not
we
who wove the tapestry of your fate. It is
She!
Hers is the guiding hand—Hers the whispered word, Hers the womb from which all life springs, Hers the arms that embrace the past and the present and the future. Hers the burden of love for all of creation.”
As Merion spoke, Branwen felt a strange and overwhelming sensation. It was indescribable, inexplicable; but for a fleeting moment it was as though the vast, unknowable power that held the world in balance had turned from its unending task and focused its attention on her. For that splintered fraction of time, Branwen felt its presence bearing down on her, as strong as the heat and light of the noonday sun.
Then, in an instant, the sensation was gone. Branwen understood now that it would be pointless to seek from Merion of the Stones further knowledge of this great She. Such wonders would only be revealed in their own time and in their own way.
Branwen wiped her sleeve across her forehead, feeling feverish. There was a gaping feeling of emptiness under her ribs and a cold sweat on her skin.
“What must I do?” she asked Merion, wanting now only to get out of this bleak and chilling cavern and to see blue sky overhead and to be with her companions again.
“Come here to me,” said Merion. “Show me the white stones.”
Trembling, but not from fear, Branwen loosened the leather pouch from her belt as she stepped forward. She untied the neck and tipped the six crystals into her palm, then came around the yellow candle and stood in front of Merion, offering out her hand with all the determined trepidation of someone reaching into a fire to pull a friend to safety.
The Mountain Crone leaned forward. Her cold breath eddied around Branwen’s fingers. The crystals glittered and shone as though frosted with ice; and deep in the heart of each of them, Branwen saw a tiny rainbow coiling.
She had seen those beguiling flecks of colored light
Branwen stared down at the few precious possessions that hung from the leather belt: a poke with flint and tinder in it, a haircomb that her mother had given her. A leather pouch that held six pieces of white crystal that Geraint had found on the mountain and given to her as a keepsake. And a small golden key gifted to her by her father on the tenth anniversary of her birth.
Branwen fingered the small key.
“You’re wrong,” she said, closing her fist around the key as though wanting to protect it from Merion’s cold gaze. “This has nothing to do with the Old Gods; my father found it in the ruins of a Roman temple when he was but a youth. He gave it to me as a birthday present.”
Merion’s crowing laughter rang around the cavern. “And who do you suppose guided your father’s footsteps to that desolate place, and who revealed to him at that moment the golden glint among the wreck and the ruin?” She cackled. “And who put it into his heart years later to pass the key on to his daughter?” The yellow eyes sparked like igniting flame. “Do you not perceive the truth yet, Warrior Child? There have been no loose threads in the pattern of your life; all that has happened to you is but part of the same great design.” The stick hammered again. “The key will open Caradoc’s prison—of that truth have no doubt, Warrior Child. All that you bear has its own purpose, its own part to play. Think you the white stones came to you by chance?”
“The stones?” Branwen clutched involuntarily at the leather pouch. “Geraint’s crystals, you mean?”
“Found by your brother, given to you,” said the Crone. “A thread in the tapestry.”
Branwen gaped at her. “Have you been haunting my family’s steps from before I was born?” she exclaimed. “Has there been no moment of my life free of your wiles and your ruses and intrigues?”
Merion shook her head. “You do not
listen,
Warrior Child,” she rebuked her. “It is not
we
who chose you; it is not
we
who wove the tapestry of your fate. It is
She!
Hers is the guiding hand—Hers the whispered word, Hers the womb from which all life springs, Hers the arms that embrace the past and the present and the future. Hers the burden of love for all of creation.”
As Merion spoke, Branwen felt a strange and overwhelming sensation. It was indescribable, inexplicable; but for a fleeting moment it was as though the vast, unknowable power that held the world in balance had turned from its unending task and focused its attention on her. For that splintered fraction of time, Branwen felt its presence bearing down on her, as strong as the heat and light of the noonday sun.
Then, in an instant, the sensation was gone. Branwen understood now that it would be pointless to seek from Merion of the Stones further knowledge of this great She. Such wonders would only be revealed in their own time and in their own way.
Branwen wiped her sleeve across her forehead, feeling feverish. There was a gaping feeling of emptiness under her ribs and a cold sweat on her skin.
“What must I do?” she asked Merion, wanting now only to get out of this bleak and chilling cavern and to see blue sky overhead and to be with her companions again.
“Come here to me,” said Merion. “Show me the white stones.”
Trembling, but not from fear, Branwen loosened the leather pouch from her belt as she stepped forward. She untied the neck and tipped the six crystals into her palm, then came around the yellow candle and stood in front of Merion, offering out her hand with all the determined trepidation of someone reaching into a fire to pull a friend to safety.
The Mountain Crone leaned forward. Her cold breath eddied around Branwen’s fingers. The crystals glittered and shone as though frosted with ice; and deep in the heart of each of them, Branwen saw a tiny rainbow coiling.
She had seen those beguiling flecks of colored light