Destiny's Path (11 page)

“No, I did not,” Blodwedd said. “All but that, Warrior-Child.”

“I'm grateful for that, at least,” Branwen said, her anger abating a little. “We should go now. I would be
out of this place before Prince Llew's warriors begin to gather.”

“We cannot depart,” said Blodwedd. “Not until we are certain that the boy's warnings will be heeded.”

“It will take time for a host to be mustered,” said Branwen. “Yet we will know soon enough. We will keep watch from the forest.” She thought for a moment. “If soldiers have not taken the road to Gwylan Canu by the time the sun is low in the west, we will know Iwan has failed. And then…” Her voice faded.

And then?

Return to Doeth Palas. Give herself up to the guards. Hope to be taken to the prince—hope to convince him where Iwan failed.

Hope to live long enough to do what she had come here to do.

B
RANWEN HAD BEEN
apprehensive ever since she nervously stepped foot on the road that led up to the citadel; and once within Doeth Palas, she had been on edge, wary of every shadow, of every eye turned toward her. But true fear of capture did not strike her until she saw the gates ahead, through the crowds, and knew that escape was near. The terror—the thought that safety lay so near but that danger could still strike her down at any moment—it was overwhelming.

The market bustled, riotous and unruly, and she had to force her way forward, forging a path in the opposite direction of the mass of people. Blodwedd was close behind her, struggling to keep up. Branwen could see from her stumbling, uncertain walk and her hunched shoulders that the owl-girl was having
trouble coping with the crowds that pressed in all around her. A woman crossed Branwen's path, leading a donkey loaded with sheaves of flax. Branwen was pushed to one side as the woman barged through the crowd. The donkey came between her and Blodwedd. More people shoved past, knocking her aside, forcing her to use her arms to fend them off. The crush took away her breath, and she was unable to see where she was going.

She fell over an earthenware pot and struggled to raise her hands over her head to avoid the trampling feet. There was something nightmarish about the surging crowds. She had to get up again! She had to find Blodwedd!

A hand plucked her from the ground. Her arm was twisted roughly behind her, fingers locking on her wrist and wrenching the joints of her arm to force her out of the crowds and into a narrow passage between two buildings.

“Release me!” she demanded, wincing from the pain in her arm and shoulder.

The fingers loosened from her wrist. She turned and looked up into the face of Gavan ap Huw. His gray eyes glowered down at her, and his mouth was set in a grim line.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, and Branwen was surprised to hear a quaver in his gravelly voice. “Are you moonstruck to come back here, girl?”

She didn't know what to tell him. The truth? Gavan
did not believe in the Old Gods, and he would not listen to talk of Rhiannon of the Spring and Govannon of the Wood.

“Do you know what happened at Garth Milain?” she asked him, her own voice shaking.

“The battle? Aye, I know. All dead, child—all burned. Your home…gone. Is that why you have returned? It was lunacy to do so. Do you not know what kind of welcome Prince Llew will have prepared for you, Branwen?”

“No! You're wrong about the battle,” said Branwen. “Not all are dead. My mother still lives, and although the garth was burned, the Saxons were thrown back. I was there, Gavan. Rhodri spoke the truth; everything he told me was true. He is no spy.”

“That is not for you to decide,” said Gavan. “Come, I must take you to the prince.”

“No!”

“Be calm, girl. I will speak on your behalf in front of the full council. The fell deeds in Cyffin Tir will weigh in your favor. Prince Llew is not a tyrant, Branwen—he will treat you justly when all is known.” His eyes glittered. “Where is the boy?”

“Far from here,” said Branwen. “Where you will never find him.”

“Is that so?” Gavan's voice was thoughtful. “He means us naught but good, and yet he flees us?”

“You would have hanged him,” said Branwen. “He has no reason to trust to kinder treatment were you
to capture him again. Let me go! Let me leave Doeth Palas. I give you my word that neither I nor Rhodri will do anything to cause harm to a single soul of Bras Mynydd.” She looked fiercely into his eyes. “I have a task to perform, Gavan ap Huw—you would do well not to hinder me in it. You do not know what peril you put yourself in!”

His great hand gripped her shoulder. “Tell me of this peril.”

“You would not believe me.”

“You are the daughter of Alis ap Owain. Open your heart and speak honestly with me, and I will believe you.”

Branwen paused, uncertain of how Gavan would react to the things she was about to tell him. “The Shining Ones have awoken,” she said at last. “They would use me to beat back the Saxons. They call me the Emerald Flame of my people. They call me the Bright Blade. They call me the Sword of Destiny. Release me, Gavan ap Huw, or you stand in the way of the Old Gods!”

A look of alarm crossed Gavan's face. “No!” he gasped. “It cannot be. You are deluded, Branwen. Tell me that you know this to be untrue.”

She laughed without humor, and his face became even more grave and troubled.

“She is telling you the truth,” came a man's voice from behind the old warrior. “Now, do nothing foolish. Do you feel the blade in your back? Twitch but the
tips of your fingers, and it shall be the end of you.”

“Rhodri?” breathed Branwen, as stunned as Gavan. Her companion had come up behind the old warrior without a sound.

“Yes, and not a moment too soon, it seems,” said Rhodri. “Hoi! Hold still, old man—I may not be a great swordsman like you, but it will take little skill to skewer you like a wild pig!”

Gavan's eyes narrowed. “It seems he is not so very far from here after all, my lady,” he muttered. “Boy! Do you know the danger you are in? Were I but to cry out, a hundred men would fall upon you like thunder before you could run ten steps.”

“I am sure you're right in that,” said Rhodri. “But you'd not be alive to enjoy the sight!”

Gavan winced as Rhodri pressed the tip of the knife into his back.

“I have offered my life to my liege lord many a time,” said Gavan, speaking without a trace of fear or anger. “Think you I fear death if my duty requires it of me?” He twisted in an instant, taking Rhodri completely by surprise, and before Branwen was able to react, the knife was wrested from Rhodri's grip and he was pressed up against the wall with its keen edge against his throat.

“Now, boy, let's see how
you
face certain death,” Gavan growled.

There was dread in Rhodri's face as Gavan pulled his head back by the hair to stretch his neck under the
blade. “Kill me, if you must,” Rhodri croaked. “But let Branwen go. She has told you the truth.” He swallowed hard. “My life for hers, old man. Willingly.”

For a few long moments Gavan held Rhodri against the wall, his slate-colored eyes staring into Rhodri's brave, frightened face.

Branwen didn't dare move—nothing she could attempt would be quick enough to prevent the cold iron from slicing across Rhodri's flesh.

At last, Gavan took the blade from Rhodri's neck, turning the knife in his hand and offering the handle to him. “Three fine fools together are we, I think—but I will not be the cause of the downfall of the House of Griffith,” he said somberly. “I will not have it weigh on my heart that the daughter of Alis ap Owain died because of my actions.” He turned to look at Branwen. “I fear for you, child—truly I do. But for all your ravings, I cannot believe you mean us harm. Go now, return to your mother—and seek her wisdom, for pity's sake. For you are mad, Branwen, if you believe you are guided by gods.”

“If I had my way, I would be by my mother's side at this very moment,” Branwen said. “My heart aches to be with her.”

“Then go to her!”

“I
cannot
!”

A slender figure appeared at the end of the alley. She walked forward, drawing her wimple back and looking keenly up into Gavan's face.

“Beware, warrior of Powys,” Blodwedd murmured. “Beware lest your eyes be opened by the gods themselves—for they will pour their truth into your heart like molten iron, and you will be seared and destroyed by it!”

Gavan stared at her, his face blanching.

“What…are you?” he breathed.

“What am I?” Blodwedd's voice was a low rumble. “I am the silent wing in the still of night. I am the swift slaughter in twilight. I am the claw that clutches the heart, the beak that pecks the soul. Would you know me better, warrior of Powys?”

Gavan shook his head. “No,” he murmured, and for the first time, Branwen heard fear in the powerful old man's voice. “No, for the life of me, I would not. I know now what you are. But the world has changed since your kind walked abroad. You are wrong for these times. You come here from beyond sanity's shores.”

“You thought we would slumber for all eternity?” Blodwedd asked him. “You thought that if you never spoke our names, you would be free of us? Free of the ache for air in your lungs? Free of the need for earth beneath your feet? Free of the howling hunger? Free of the unslakable thirst? Free of all things that bind you to this land?” She smiled. “Not while you breathe and walk and eat and drink, warrior of Powys.” She turned to Branwen, her head bowed. “I failed you again, Warrior-Child,” she said. “I should
not have let us become parted.”

“No harm was done,” Branwen said. She looked into the disturbed face of the old warrior. “Do you see now, Gavan? Do you see that I am not mad?”

“That may be,” said Gavan. “But heed my words, Branwen: These ancient powers that call you are like a mighty river, and you are but a leaf on their flood. They will bear you to your doom, child.”

“Perhaps,” Branwen said. “But you must leave me to walk the path laid out for me by the Shining Ones. If you truly honor me for my mother's sake, tell no one that you saw me here.”

Gavan bowed his head. “I will pray for your soul,” he said.

“For that, much thanks,” Branwen replied. She looked from Rhodri to Blodwedd. “Come. He won't give us away.” And so saying, she pulled her wimple close over her face again and led her two companions along the narrow alley between the two huts and out into the marketplace.

“W
HAT GORAIG GOBLIN
put it into your mind to risk your life like that?” Branwen demanded as she and Rhodri moved through the trees toward where the two horses were quietly grazing. “Don't you know that Gavan could have slaughtered you in an instant if he had so chosen? I told you to stay with the horses where you would be safe.”

“I left Fain to watch over the horses,” said Rhodri. “And here they are—safe and sound. And your armor remains untouched. As for the rest,” he shrugged, “I asked myself, ‘What would Branwen do in these circumstances?'” He smiled. “The answer came very easily.”

“Then perhaps such questions are better left unasked,” retorted Branwen.

“Caw! Caw!”

Branwen smiled at the falcon, perched on a branch, watching them with its clever, knowing eyes.

“Thank you, Fain,” she said. “You are more true to your duty than some I could mention.”

Blodwedd looked from Branwen to Rhodri. “Why do you chide him so?” she asked. “He acted out of loyalty and concern.”

“He could have been killed,” Branwen snapped.

“Well, I was not,” said Rhodri. “Now that we are safely returned and out of earshot, tell me all that happened in Doeth Palas. Did you find Iwan?”

“We did,” said Branwen. “He will speak with the prince.”

“And will Prince Llew act, do you think?”

“That we shall see,” said Branwen, staring up through the leaves at the midday sun.

 

The afternoon wore slowly away. The forest was full of drowsy air, the light thick and golden through the canopy of leaves. An insect buzzed in Branwen's ear. She flicked her hand at it, fretting at the delay.

She and Rhodri and Blodwedd were seated under the trees, waiting. Blodwedd was sitting as she always did—bolt upright in the grass, her legs folded, her arms wrapped around her shins, her chin on her knees. Her eyes were open, but she did not seem to be looking at anything. She had not moved for some time. Branwen wondered whether the owl-girl was watchfully asleep, perhaps, as she
had been the previous night.

Rhodri was whittling a stick with the hunting knife, his head bowed in concentration. Branwen envied his calmness. She felt anything but calm. She had no idea how long ago it was that she had sent Fain to gather news, but it seemed like a whole lifetime. And still they hid in the forest, and still they knew nothing of what was happening in Doeth Palas.

What if Prince Llew did not act? What were her options then? She had gone over this many times in her mind, turning her thoughts like heavy rocks, not liking what was revealed beneath.

A gray sickle-shaped form came winging through the branches.

Branwen jumped up. “Fain!”

The falcon gave a succession of sharp calls as it circled her.

She looked over to Blodwedd, who was alert now and also on her feet. “What is he saying?”

“Horsemen,” said Blodwedd. “Many horsemen have left the citadel, armed and caparisoned for warfare. They have taken the coastal road to the east, traveling swiftly.”

Branwen let out a breath. “Then it is done!” she gasped, relief thrilling through her body like a rush of cool water. “The prince has sent soldiers to Gwylan Canu. Ironfist will be thwarted!” She looked over to where Rhodri was standing. “It is done!” she called to him.

He smiled, looking at Blodwedd. “The place of singing gulls will be safe from the Saxon hawks, Blodwedd,” he said. “You will be a bird again!”

“When all is fulfilled, with my lord's blessing, I shall,” said Blodwedd. “The bird is on the wing and the prey is under the claw, but the kill is not yet certain.” She looked at Branwen. “We must go to the place of singing gulls,” she said. “We must know for sure that all is well. Only then will our duty be complete. Only then will Lord Govannon release me.”

 

The stone-clad citadel of Doeth Palas stood on a lofty peak rising from a forested valley at the northern limits of the kingdom of Powys and indeed the entire land of Brython. The solitary hill sheared down in precipitous cliffs to the restless sea, and from its shoulders long, undulating bluffs of timeworn limestone stretched into the east.

A road ran along these cliffs, hugging the coastline, rising and falling like a pale ribbon as it threaded its way into the cantref of Teg Eingel—longtime seat of the House of Puw—a narrow stretch of land between the Clwydian Mountains and the sea.

It was a road much used, traversed by merchants, hawkers, and travelers in peaceful times—a conduit for trade and commerce. And in unsettled and violent days, the hooves of war-horses and the feet of soldiers echoed among the cliffs and glens as armies swept back and forth with the tides and fortunes of battle.
Although Branwen had no patience for dry lists of names and dates, she had always loved the thrilling tales of the old wars that were told and retold around the hearth in the Great Hall of Garth Milain. So she knew it was almost twenty years now since a Saxon warrior had walked this road—twenty years since Powys had been in such peril as now haunted these regions.

Branwen, Rhodri, and Blodwedd tracked the horsemen of Doeth Palas as they made their way along the road. They were careful to keep out of sight, wary of showing themselves against the horizon or to coming close enough for a vigilant eye to catch a glimpse of them.

Fortunately, the northern reaches of Bras Mynydd were less hospitable than the fertile lowlands, and there were no farms or hamlets to be avoided. There were hills and forests enough to provide cover, and when the difficulties of the landscape forced Branwen to lead them away from the warrior band, there was always Fain to keep watch from on high and guide them back to the road.

They shadowed the horsemen through the long afternoon and into the evening.

They were drawing close to the mountains now; the dark-green bulk filled the eastern sky as the sun set, the highest peaks turning to gold in the fading light.

 

Night fell. The horsemen made camp in a sheltered dell south of the road, building fires and setting the horses to graze while they prepared their evening meal.

Branwen and Rhodri watched from a high ridge, lying flat on their stomachs as they peered down the wooded slope to where the cooking fires flickered. Branwen was in her hunting leathers again. She felt much more herself now that their disguises had been shed, and she was glad to feel the knife and slingshot at her belt. Her sword and shield were with Blodwedd and the horses, further up the hill and well out of sight. It had been difficult to convince Blodwedd to let the two of them patrol alone, but in the end the owl-girl had agreed to remain behind while they scouted the land.

“How many men, would you say?” asked Branwen. “Fifty, perhaps?”

Rhodri nodded.

“Why so few?” Branwen wondered aloud. “He has twice ten times that number of armed men in Doeth Palas. What can fifty men do against Ironfist's army?”

“They can hold the tide till the foot-soldiers arrive,” said Rhodri. “My guess would be that these are just an advance party, sent as a show of force—to let Ironfist know that the prince of Bras Mynydd is coming for him.” Rhodri grinned, his eyes bright in the darkness. “Ironfist will be livid to find that his
tactics have been discovered. His whole purpose was to strike without warning—first, Garth Milain, then another citadel, and another and another—his enemies never knowing when or where he will come at them next. This will sour his milk for him! Closed gates and men armed and ready. Ha!”

“The prince is not with them, I think,” said Branwen, staring down through the gloom. “But who is leading them, then? We have never come close enough to find out. And is Iwan with them? That's something I'd like to know.”

“Go down and ask,” Rhodri suggested. “And while you're at it, beg some food from them. We have hardly anything left to eat. I have to say, being linked to your high destiny would be more comfortable if the Old Gods gave thought to our bellies once in a while.”

“Don't joke about such things,” Branwen warned.

“Was I joking?” Rhodri sighed, lifting his head to gaze off into the east. “How far is it to Gwylan Canu, do you think?”

“Why ask me? I don't know these lands,” Branwen replied distractedly. She was staring down the long slope and calculating how close she could get to the encampment without being spotted by the sentries. “Another day? Half a day? It cannot be too close, or they would not have made camp for the night.” She lifted herself onto one elbow, looking at Rhodri. “I'm going down there,” she said.

“Are you out of your wits?” Rhodri hissed. “Why
would you want to do that?”

“I may learn how soon they expect to come to Gwylan Canu,” Branwen replied. “And find out whether you are right about more warriors coming, or whether fifty is all Prince Llew is willing to spare for a neighbor in peril.”

“What are you saying? I don't understand.”

“Neither do I,” said Branwen. “But doesn't it seem odd to you that the prince did not send his warriors over the mountains to Garth Milain when he learned of the Saxon attack? Why did he not come to our aid?”

“The battle was over, so far as he knew,” said Rhodri. “Your army scattered or slain, your mother and father dead, and the triumphant Saxons warming their hands as Garth Milain blazed. It was too late to help. That seems reason enough—and there's little purpose in risking your neck to be certain of it.”

“I'll be careful,” assured Branwen.

“All the same,” Rhodri said, “you'll probably find that they're talking of nothing more elevated than saddle sores, or grumbling about having to sleep under the stars instead of snug in their own beds with the furs piled high.”

“We shall see,” said Branwen. “Wait for me—I shan't be long. And don't let Blodwedd know I've gone. The last thing I need is for her to go crashing down there causing chaos.”

Rhodri gripped her arm. “Branwen—be careful.”

“I will, I promise.” She pulled away and slipped silently over the ridge and down the forested slope.

 

“Be calm, be silent, be swift, be still.” Branwen mouthed the familiar instructions to herself as she made her way down the steep fall of the hillside. Occasionally the bulk of trees blocked the sight of the fires down in the vale, but most of the time she could see the flames flickering through branch and bole as she slipped lithely from trunk to trunk, her fingers running over the rough and ridged bark. The acrid smell of smoke drifted toward her, tingling in her nostrils, blotting out the other nighttime forest scents.

She began to hear the voices of the warriors…the clank of metal against metal…the restless thud of horses' hooves…the crackle of the flames. And with those sounds on the night air mingled the rich aroma of cooking meat, filling her head and making her belly growl. She had not tasted hot food since the half-finished bowl of stew in the farmhouse, where they had almost been captured.

She rested her back against a wide fir, listening intently. The nearest campfire was no more than twenty paces away, and now she could clearly hear the voices of the soldiers.

“I'm telling you, there's a storm coming,” one was saying. “I can smell it on the air. We'll sleep cold and wet this night. We should have found a
more sheltered spot to make camp.”

“We should have ridden on through the night,” said another voice—one that Branwen knew. Iwan. So, he
was
traveling with them. She felt uneasy, remembering the vision of his severed head dangling from a Saxon fist. Was he riding to his death? A third voice interrupted her troubled thoughts.

“And arrive to fight red-eyed and yawning?” it said. “That were wisdom, indeed, young pup!”

“Captain Angor knows his business, lad,” said the first voice. “Don't you fret. We'll be up and on the move with the dawn. It makes no sense to travel by night. Look you at those hills—wooded from end to end—trees enough to hide an army! You'd have us ride such terrain at night? Why, if old Ironfist was lying in ambush, we'd not stand a chance.”

“Aye, I don't like the look of these forests,” said a different voice. “Pass that pig's foot, Digon—fetch it out of the flames before it's charred. Mark me, boys, there's something uncanny about these old woodlands. Don't you feel it? Eyes watching. Minds turning.”

Branwen felt a shiver run down her spine. There was something almost sinister in the way that flecks of firelight trembled and danced on trunk and branch and leaf all around her. But what did the man mean?
Eyes watching. Minds turning
.

“They say there was a Druid temple hereabouts in the way-before times,” said the first voice in a husky
growl. “They performed strange rites and rituals in these hills, sacrificing to the Old Gods—”

Ahhh! The Old Gods
…

“Be silent, you fool,” the third voice said angrily. “Do not name them! Not here. Not in this place. Are you moonstruck?”

“Why do you fear them?” asked Iwan. “Do the Old Gods hate us?”

“How would you feel, boy?” commented the first voice, ominously. “To be a god no longer worshipped or feared?”

“Speak no more of these things!” snapped the third voice.

There was a lull in the conversation for a few moments. Branwen could hear the sounds of meat being gnawed from the bone and of drink being swallowed.

“I still say we should have pressed on through the dark,” Iwan said at length. “Scouts could have ridden on ahead to scour the road for danger. And isn't it as dark for Saxons as it is for us? My father could be lying slain this very moment, while we sit cramming our bellies and gossiping!”

“If your father is already slain, there's little need for haste, boy,” said the first voice lightly. “He won't begrudge us our respite—not where he'll be watching from!”