Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,12

does not wake with spite in his heart.’

Branwen looked at the owl-girl. ‘Is it Caradoc, do you think?’ she asked. ‘Why would one of my guardians act against me? Especially one whose freedom was won by my own hand?’

Blodwedd’s eyes glowed amber. ‘Do you think this winter was created to hinder and discomfort you alone, Branwen?’ she asked, a hint of amusement in her deep voice. ‘You are a great soul, my friend, and your destiny is awesome indeed, but not all the world revolves around you.’

‘So it’s not the doing of Caradoc?’

‘Oh, his hand it is that draws these snow clouds over us, for sure,’ said Blodwedd. ‘And it is his breath that drives the blizzards. One hundred years trammelled in a box of sorcerous wood has not changed him, deathless and eternal spirit that he is.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Blodwedd sighed. ‘No, you do not.’ She looked at Branwen. ‘The feet of Merion of the Stones stand upon the very foundations of the world. Lord Govannon of the Wood has roots that bind him to the soil. Rhiannon of the Spring may flow and dance and rise at times like mist to the heavens – but she too is weighed down by the burden of the land that demands her stewardship. They are all bound to the earth, Branwen. But Caradoc of the North Wind holds no allegiance to any of these things. He leaps free, dancing his wild dance from mountain-top to moonbeam, from the eagle’s back to the very lap of the sun.’

‘You mean, Caradoc is … different from the others?’ Branwen asked uncertainly, trying to understand what the owl-girl was telling her. ‘More dangerous?’

‘I would not say more dangerous,’ mused Blodwedd. ‘Forest, river and rock are each most dangerous in their way. Say instead, Caradoc is less predictable, less constant, less troubled by the passing things that crawl upon the world’s face. He will act for his own pleasure, Branwen – for his own diversion and amusement. And a merry trickster he can be; his breath can bring death and mayhem, his whims unleash slaughter and misery.’ She gestured up into the ocean of steadily falling snow. ‘This is not an attack upon you, Branwen – nor upon any living thing. This is Caradoc at his sport. We endure it or we perish – to him, it is all the same.’

‘But what of my destiny?’ Branwen asked. ‘Does he not care that this winter may hinder me in what the Shining Ones would have me do?’

‘He does not care,’ Blodwedd replied. ‘And during the months of the year’s turning, his powers are in the ascendancy. He revels in his freedom and his strength, Branwen. He cares for nought else.’

‘And I let him loose,’ groaned Branwen. ‘Why didn’t you warn me of this before I opened the casket that held him?’

Blodwedd looked affronted. ‘You were acting upon the wishes of Merion of the Stones,’ she said. ‘I cannot speak against the will of the Shining Ones.’

‘And what of them?’ asked Branwen. ‘Can’t they keep Caradoc under control?’

Blodwedd’s eyes shone with an eerie, inner light. ‘Does the mountain control the wind, Branwen?’ she asked. ‘Does the forest make demands of the gale that rushes through its branches? Does water tell the gust of air which way to blow?’

Branwen’s reply was as soft as the falling snow. ‘No,’ she murmured. ‘They do not.’

‘You are not invincible,’ Blodwedd intoned solemnly. ‘You are not deathless. But he is both these things and more. Beware him, Branwen of the High Destiny. Beware Caradoc!’

CHAPTER FIVE

The day came snowbound and silent. They ate a brief meal by the fading firelight, before gathering such provisions as they would need on the journey to Pengwern.

Linette was awake and in pain. Rhodri crushed some more of the dark berries to make her sleep. She swallowed the narcotic mixture, her face twisting in agony. A little while later, a kind of fragile peace came over her features.

‘She cannot ride a horse,’ Rhodri said.

‘I could carry her,’ said Iwan. ‘She’s as light as thistledown, almost.’

‘You’d bear her in your arms all the long leagues to Pengwern?’ pondered Dera. ‘I think not.’

Rhodri shook his head. ‘Lying flat would be best, if it can be contrived.’

‘We have wood in plenty,’ said Banon. ‘Let’s fashion a stretcher from straight branches and cloaks. It can be attached by thongs to a saddle and she can be pulled along behind a horse upon it.’

‘That’s a good idea,’ said Branwen. ‘The snow will make it less