before—they came when the crystals were held up to sunlight and tilted in exactly the right way. But never before had the rainbows revealed themselves in such darkness.
Merion lifted an arm and passed her wrinkled old hand over the stones, muttering to herself words that Branwen could not make out.
“There, ‘tis done,” said the Stone Hag. “Keep them safe, Warrior Child. I have breathed part of my own powers into them. I am diminished by this loss, and I will not be whole again till you return from your mission and need them no more.”
Branwen gazed at the translucent crystals. “What have you done to them?”
“They have now in them the power to allow you to pass unnoticed among your enemies,” said Merion.
“Use them wisely, Warrior Child. They will not make you invisible, but they will cause the eyes and the attention of ill-wishers to pass you by.” “Is the power only for me?”
“Nay, any of your followers who hold in their hand one of the stones will be protected by their powers,” said Merion. “And one other virtue they have: they will allow the bearer to understand foreign speech.”
“I’ll be able to know what the Saxons are saying, even in their own language?”
“You will,” said Merion. “But the stones will not allow you to speak their tongue, only to understand it.” The yellow points in her hidden eyes flashed. “Know the limits of their powers, Warrior Child.”
“And will they help me to find where Caradoc is imprisoned?” Branwen asked.
“Nay, they have not the power for that,” said Merion. “You will need wit and perseverance to find where my brother is being held. But certain signs I can give you—pointers to help you on your road. The prison of Caradoc of the North Wind lies under the hand of the one-eyed warrior.”
Branwen nodded, closing her hand around the crystals. “The one-eyed warrior. Yes. I understand.”
“Seek the one-eyed warrior in the land of Mercia. You will recognize him; he is known to you.”
Branwen frowned. “I don’t know any warriors with one eye,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t.”
“You will know him well enough when you seehim,” Merion insisted. “Do not doubt it.”
“And how will I know the prison?” asked Branwen. Her first thought was that Caradoc must be held in some strong fortress—in a stone room with a door of thick oak. But if that was true, then surely its lock would be a great iron device—certainly not a lock that could be opened with the small golden key her father had given her.
“You shall know the prison by this sign,” said the crone, passing her hands in front of Branwen’s face. A haze hung in the air like breath on a frosty morning, and there was a moving silhouette in the haze, like something seen through thick mist.
Branwen lowered her eyebrows, squinting as she tried to focus on the shape. It was an animal, padding silently through the gray haze, its back long, its head lowered as though on the scent. Its fur was short, gray like the mist; and it had tufts of hair on its pointed ears. Large paws it had and a blunt face and a short, thick tail.
“It’s a cat!” Branwen murmured, recognizing the smooth, predatory glide of the stocky body. “A big cat.”
“Aye, a lynx,” said Merion, lifting her hands again and dispersing the mist. “Where you see the lynx, there will you find Caradoc’s prison. But do not seek to use the key. Bear the prison back to me as swiftly as you can. If you free him and I am not at hand, he will kill you and all who are with you. Caradoc is adeadly force, and his anger will be great after being held so long against his will.”
“But what
is
the prison?” Branwen asked. In her mind she saw Caradoc as a full-grown man—so what kind of cage was it that could hold him?
“I do not know,” Merion said. “But remember this: we are not as you see us, Warrior Child. Divested of my human form, my true spirit is as vast as the sky. But its essence is also
Merion lifted an arm and passed her wrinkled old hand over the stones, muttering to herself words that Branwen could not make out.
“There, ‘tis done,” said the Stone Hag. “Keep them safe, Warrior Child. I have breathed part of my own powers into them. I am diminished by this loss, and I will not be whole again till you return from your mission and need them no more.”
Branwen gazed at the translucent crystals. “What have you done to them?”
“They have now in them the power to allow you to pass unnoticed among your enemies,” said Merion.
“Use them wisely, Warrior Child. They will not make you invisible, but they will cause the eyes and the attention of ill-wishers to pass you by.” “Is the power only for me?”
“Nay, any of your followers who hold in their hand one of the stones will be protected by their powers,” said Merion. “And one other virtue they have: they will allow the bearer to understand foreign speech.”
“I’ll be able to know what the Saxons are saying, even in their own language?”
“You will,” said Merion. “But the stones will not allow you to speak their tongue, only to understand it.” The yellow points in her hidden eyes flashed. “Know the limits of their powers, Warrior Child.”
“And will they help me to find where Caradoc is imprisoned?” Branwen asked.
“Nay, they have not the power for that,” said Merion. “You will need wit and perseverance to find where my brother is being held. But certain signs I can give you—pointers to help you on your road. The prison of Caradoc of the North Wind lies under the hand of the one-eyed warrior.”
Branwen nodded, closing her hand around the crystals. “The one-eyed warrior. Yes. I understand.”
“Seek the one-eyed warrior in the land of Mercia. You will recognize him; he is known to you.”
Branwen frowned. “I don’t know any warriors with one eye,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t.”
“You will know him well enough when you seehim,” Merion insisted. “Do not doubt it.”
“And how will I know the prison?” asked Branwen. Her first thought was that Caradoc must be held in some strong fortress—in a stone room with a door of thick oak. But if that was true, then surely its lock would be a great iron device—certainly not a lock that could be opened with the small golden key her father had given her.
“You shall know the prison by this sign,” said the crone, passing her hands in front of Branwen’s face. A haze hung in the air like breath on a frosty morning, and there was a moving silhouette in the haze, like something seen through thick mist.
Branwen lowered her eyebrows, squinting as she tried to focus on the shape. It was an animal, padding silently through the gray haze, its back long, its head lowered as though on the scent. Its fur was short, gray like the mist; and it had tufts of hair on its pointed ears. Large paws it had and a blunt face and a short, thick tail.
“It’s a cat!” Branwen murmured, recognizing the smooth, predatory glide of the stocky body. “A big cat.”
“Aye, a lynx,” said Merion, lifting her hands again and dispersing the mist. “Where you see the lynx, there will you find Caradoc’s prison. But do not seek to use the key. Bear the prison back to me as swiftly as you can. If you free him and I am not at hand, he will kill you and all who are with you. Caradoc is adeadly force, and his anger will be great after being held so long against his will.”
“But what
is
the prison?” Branwen asked. In her mind she saw Caradoc as a full-grown man—so what kind of cage was it that could hold him?
“I do not know,” Merion said. “But remember this: we are not as you see us, Warrior Child. Divested of my human form, my true spirit is as vast as the sky. But its essence is also
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