The Emerald Flame Read online

  “We cannot kill her like this!” Rhodri was adamant.

  “Silence!” Branwen snapped. “No more words.” She paused, thinking hard, knowing she must assert her leadership before the dissent among her followers grew out of control. “The decision is mine to make,” she said. “For our own safety we cannot let her go free, but I will not have her killed. There is another way to render the Viking harmless. Troublesome as it may be, we shall take her with us.”

  “Then she should be blindfolded and hobbled,” Dera said doubtfully.

  “Bind me and blindfold me if you must,” said Asta with new hope. “But I can be useful to you. I have no experience in warfare, although I can shoot an arrow into a straw target. But in other ways than warfare, I will serve you well.” She looked eagerly at Branwen. “I have skills that will be of use to you—all of you. I can cook, and I am able to patch and mend damaged garments. I speak the Saxon language—you may find that an invaluable gift in these lands.”

  “We already have tokens that will allow us to understand the Saxon tongue,” Dera said.

  “But not to speak it,” Linette added. “If she can be trusted, a speaker of Saxon may come in very useful in Chester.”

  “If she can be trusted!” said Aberfa.

  “It would be madness indeed to allow her to enter Chester with us!” said Dera. “One word from her and we’d have a whole army about our ears!”

  “We shall not take her into Chester,” said Branwen. “And she need not be bound if she is kept under constant guard.”

  “I will vouch for her,” said Rhodri. “Put her in my keeping. Blodwedd and I will see that she cannot escape.”

  “This is yet more madness!” growled Dera. “Would we welcome a scorpion into our midst to sting us to death in our sleep? Kill her now and be done with her!”

  “No,” Branwen said. “I won’t have her blood on my hands without absolute need. She was brought here against her will. She is an innocent in the doings of this war.” She turned to Blodwedd. “I put her into your keeping,” she said to the owl-girl. “She will be your responsibility. Are you willing?”

  “I am,” said Blodwedd. “If she transgresses in any way, I will kill her.”

  “I know you will,” said Branwen.

  Branwen looked at the others. “Is anyone ill at ease with my decision?”

  Dera pressed her lips into a thin white line but said nothing. Rhodri looked relieved. Iwan smiled, as though the whole affair had been put on for his amusement.

  Aberfa let Asta loose. Rubbing her arms, Asta stepped up to Branwen, her face solemn.

  “I will not betray you,” she said. “My word on it!”

  “To horse!” Branwen called, ignoring Asta as she strode toward where Stalwyn and the other animals stood waiting. “Enough time has been wasted! We ride to Chester!”

  13

  “IHAD NOT expected it to be so large,” Branwen murmured as she gazed out from the summit of a long, forested fold in the land. “So many fires—so many lights! How many thousands must this place give shelter to?”

  Night had come, swifter than Branwen might have wished; and they were still on their way when the sun set behind them and darkness swept the Mercian plain. But the news was not all bad—Fain had recently returned from a scouting mission with heartening tidings.

  Blodwedd had translated his excited cries: ahead of them the land lifted in a long, gentle hill mantled in deep forest; but beyond that rise, the plain fell suddenly into a marshy valley through which a wide river flowed northward. And not far along the looping course of that river, as the falcon wings it, lay a great gathering of buildings. Chester, for sure!

  The travelers had wound their way up through the trees and so had come within sight of the ancient town. Night softened and obscured its contours, but even at a distance Branwen saw by the multitude of lights that twinkled and flickered and shone in the darkness that it must be a formidably vast settlement.

  “I told you it was big,” said Rhodri, his horse close beside hers.

  “You did,” she agreed.

  “What is our intent?” asked Dera, leaning over her saddlebow and peering at the faraway lights. “To slip into the town with the night as our ally?”

  “I would not advocate such a course,” said Iwan. “Daylight is a better friend to the thief than is the night.”

  “How can that be so?” asked Dera.

  “Because a stranger seen walking the streets in broad daylight may have many innocent purposes,” Iwan replied. “But an outsider prowling the town at dead of night is the more to be suspected of nefarious deeds.”

  “That’s wise,” said Linette.

  “Of course it is,” said Iwan.

  “But won’t Merion’s stones protect us from being seen?” asked Banon.

  “Not entirely,” said Branwen. “And I agree with Iwan—it’s too dangerous to enter by night. Far better to mingle with the townsfolk tomorrow and thus be in a position to hear their chatter. Our first purpose here is to learn of the one-eyed warrior. Who is there to overhear when doors are barred and only the guardians of the walls are abroad?” She shook her head. “No. We will sleep tonight in the forest and try our luck in the morning.”

  “And who shall enter Chester?” asked Dera. “There are only six stones, yet there are eight of us—seven if Blodwedd is to stay behind and watch over the Viking.”

  “I’ll decide in the morning,” Branwen said, tweaking the reins and turning Stalwyn away from the hill’s edge. “We cannot risk a fire for cooking; it may be seen. But let us find a fit place to spend the night.” So saying, she rode Stalwyn back under the trees. But even in the deep dark of the forest, the myriad lights of Chester lit a bright and sleepless fire in her mind.

  Branwen dreamed that she was walking through the alder forest again, trudging up a long slope, her shoulders bowed, her body steeped in blood, her fingers and hair dripping red. Alone. Weary almost to death. Skur lay vanquished behind her in the valley, and it was night.

  She recognized her surroundings although the scale was wrong: the hill was taller and steeper; the trees around her soared to impossible heights. And as she plodded up the hill, she left deep footprints that immediately filled with blood.

  She came to that same spring of water and that same hollow stone where she had washed herself. But now the spring had grown and swollen to a waterfall, and the pool was a wide, round lake under the star-swept night sky. The full moon shone bright in the high middle of the sky, throwing down a perfect reflection of itself onto the lake. The hugest full moon that Branwen had ever seen.

  Standing for a moment on the stone lip of the lake, she took a breath and dived into the water. It was cold and it stung, but she reveled in the way the blood was rinsed from her body.

  She swam for a while, clean and refreshed. She turned onto her back and floated easily, gazing up into the pocked face of the moon, high above her.

  “Branwen! It will not suffice!” A high, female voice.

  Puzzled, she struck out for the bank and clambered onto dry land, her clothes clinging, her hair hanging in her eyes.

  There was no one there.

  She lifted her hand to pull the hair out of her eyes.

  Her hand was covered in blood. Her hair was full of clots of gore. The water had not washed her clean.

  She turned, diving in again, scouring her body with her hands, desperate to get rid of the blood.

  She climbed into the air again, and still she was smeared and stained with blood.

  “That will not wash it away,” called the high, piping voice. She spun around and saw a fragile silvery figure standing on a rock at the foot of the waterfall. A female, for sure, very tall but as slender as a child, her hair falling like white water to her waist, her delicate body clad in a dress so fine that it was like a mist.

  “Then how?” Branwen called. “How do I get clean?”

  “You do not,” called the voice. “The blood is part of you now, Warrior Child.”<
br />
  “No! I don’t want that.”

  “Blood is life; blood is strength; blood is a mighty river—it will not be denied. Own yourself, Warrior Child. Be who you have become.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I want to dance in the moonlight,” called the creature. “My name is Nixie, but most call me goraig, if they name me at all.”

  Goraig? The goraig were the water goblins of her brother Geraint’s old children’s stories. Creatures that did not exist … that should not exist. But before Branwen had the chance to ask more of her, Nixie began to sing—a bright, lilting tune, her voice like the trilling of water over pebbles.

  Oh, the cuckoo is a pretty bird, she sings as she flies

  She brings us glad tidings; she tells us sweet lies

  She flies the hills over; she wakes in the night

  She pierces the heart through, with her song of delight

  She sucks the fair flowers, to make her voice clear

  She never stops singing, till the mountain is near

  Oh, the cuckoo is a pretty bird, in feathers so gay

  She sheds her bright plumage, at the close of the day

  And as she sang, Nixie began to dance, skipping featherlight over the stones that lay beneath the waterfall, pirouetting, twirling, springing from rock to rock, her slim body shining like a candle through the gauze of her dress.

  Suddenly she leaped from the rocks and came down onto the black surface of the lake. Small moonlight ripples spread from her feet as she danced across the water. Branwen saw the undulations trouble the reflection of the full moon as it lay on the dark breast of the lake.

  Nixie came dancing over to the reflected moon, circling it with delicate steps, her toes at its rim.

  Branwen watched her in baffled delight, gazing at her bewitching, serene face, envying her airy grace and her blithe moonlit existence.

  Suddenly Nixie stooped, reaching her two arms down into the lake. The moon exploded into glittering fragments as her hands clove the water. But a moment later she lifted her arms again, holding the white disk of the moon between her fingers as though it were a wheel made of pure light.

  Branwen gasped as Nixie began to spiral toward her, the moon lifted high above her head, spinning like a silver coin.

  She came to the water’s edge at Branwen’s feet. Bending low, she bowed her head, her hair tumbling forward, the moon held out toward Branwen.

  “Take it,” she said, lifting her head, her eyes radiant between the curtains of her hair. “It is yours. A gift from the Great One, to replace that which was broken.”

  Branwen reached for the moon disk—half expecting her hands to pass through it. But it was solid under her fingers, solid and cold like forged silver—the size of a shield.

  “May it serve you well,” said Nixie, rising to her full height, “as it served its old master.”

  “Who did it belong to?” Branwen asked. But Nixie was already dancing away across the lake. “Whose was it? What happened to him?”

  “Remember the cuckoo!” Nixie called back. “She is a pretty bird, but her heart is taken by another…. She is not to be trusted…. Be wary of her…. Beware….”

  14

  BRANWEN WAS AWOKEN by a hand on her shoulder and by Blodwedd’s voice whispering in her ear. “Something is afoot, Branwen,” Blodwedd hissed. “Come. Swiftly.”

  Disoriented and with half of her mind still caught up in the dream, Branwen got to her feet and followed Blodwedd’s padding footsteps away from the cloak-bundled, sleeping shapes of her companions and into the forest.

  “What of Asta?” Branwen murmured, knuckling her eyes to wake herself up properly. “You were to watch her day and night.” She saw that the light was gray. It would soon be dawn.

  “She is deep asleep,” Blodwedd replied. “She will not rouse soon.”

  “Caw!” A single sharp cry. Branwen turned, looking up into the branches. In among the leaves she saw the gleam of Fain’s eye.

  “Hush now!” she called softly. “All’s well. Stay and watch over the others!”

  She caught up with Blodwedd.

  “Why did you wake me?” she asked. “Where are we going?”

  “Not far,” said Blodwedd, turning with circular eyes. “Something waits for you.”

  “A shield!” Branwen gasped. “A white shield!”

  “Then you dreamed it, too,” said Blodwedd, her eyes glittering. “You are drawing ever closer to the Old Ones, Branwen. They are in your blood now.”

  Branwen stopped dead.

  “What’s happening to me?” she asked the owl-girl. “What am I becoming?”

  Understanding ignited in Blodwedd’s face. “Ahh!” She walked back, standing close to Branwen—the top of her tawny head the level of Branwen’s chin—looking up at her. “You fear you will lose yourself.”

  “I do.”

  “You will not,” said Blodwedd. “Am I lost under this absurd bag of bones? I am not.” She smiled her pointy smile, her face more owl-like than ever. “Own yourself, Branwen. Become who you are.”

  “That is almost exactly what the dancing girl told me.”

  “I know. Come—do you not want your gift?” Blodwedd walked away. Hesitating only for a moment, Branwen followed her.

  They did not need to go far.

  Daylight grew at Branwen’s back. She saw something flashing through the trees—white as lightning, but circular. Something that hung in the branches of a solitary rowan tree.

  It was a shield, dazzling in reflected sunlight.

  The white shield from her dream.

  “Take it and keep it,” said Blodwedd, stepping aside as Branwen approached the dangling shield. “It is made from the wood of the sacred linden tree of Afallach, and over its face is stretched the hide of the White Bull of Ynis Môn. The boss is of white gold mined in Dolaucothi in the kingdom of Dyfed and forged by Gofi ap Duw.”

  “How do you know these things?” asked Branwen, narrowing her eyes against the glare of the sun-blazing shield.

  “I know of its former master,” said Blodwedd. “His name was Cudyll Bach of the House of Wyllt. He died long ago, and his shield and sword have been kept secret for many’s the long year, waiting for a worthy champion. Be honored, Branwen of the Old Ones—the shield has chosen you! Take it for your own. It will bring you good fortune.”

  Her hands trembling, Branwen reached up and lifted the shield from the rowan branches. She slipped her hand into the grip, testing the weight and balance of the shield on her arm. “It feels good!” she said, smiling now. “What of the sword? Am I to receive that as well?”

  “Be content,” said Blodwedd. “The sword is for another champion.”

  Branwen frowned. “There’s another?”

  “There is.”

  Branwen was surprised and intrigued by this. And a little disturbed. Had the Shining Ones torn some other innocent from their home and sent them hurtling pell-mell along destiny’s path? “Is it someone like me?” she asked.

  “Like and unlike,” said Blodwedd. “He does not dwell in Brython. His home is in the kingdom of Wessex, which lies to the south of Mercia. I can tell you no more of him. Come—a new day has dawned; the others are stirring.”

  Blodwedd strode off through the trees, and Branwen had to run to catch up with her. “Do you truly know nothing more about this other champion? Why have you not spoken of him before?” she asked, walking now at the owl-girl’s side.

  “I know only that he is a boy alive in the world,” said Blodwedd. She glanced at Branwen, touching a finger to the middle of her own forehead. “I see in my mind a man in a cell of cold stone,” she said. “A man named Thomas. But Thomas is not the champion—he merely writes of him. He is bent over—quill to parchment—scribbling frantically; he knows of the champion the boy will become. But when he writes, the champion has already slept for eight hundred years in the dark tower of Caer Rigor.” A sharp edge came into her voice. “That is the extent of my knowledge,
Branwen. Ask no more!”

  Reluctantly, Branwen complied with Blodwedd’s wishes and put no more questions to her—though Blodwedd’s words were such a puzzle, she had nothing but questions. It was a long time before she was able to clear her mind of the notion that there was another Warrior Child alive in the world.

  A boy.

  A Chosen One.

  Like her.

  Branwen’s companions were fascinated and awed by the appearance of the white shield—and even more so by the way it had come to her.

  “A gift from the Old Powers,” Banon breathed, barely daring to touch the hard leather rim. “This is surely a reward for the slaying of Skur Bloodax.”

  “Maybe so,” said Rhodri. “Or a token that harder battles lie ahead.”

  “The gods of your people must love you dearly, Branwen,” said Asta, gazing at the shield. “Might it not be wise for you to turn back now to give thanks? That is how my people do homage to our gods. We go to their sacred places and make sacrifices to them for their bounty.”

  “In due time, perhaps,” said Branwen. “I don’t think Merion of the Stones would want me to turn from my path at this point.” She looked at her gathered companions. The only one who stood slightly apart was Iwan, his arms folded, his eyes on her as though his head was full of unasked questions.

  “I have made my decision about who shall come with me to Chester,” Branwen said. “Aberfa and Linette will stay behind with the horses. With them we will leave our weapons and any other gear that will mark us as other than humble travelers come to do business in the markets of Chester. Asta will stay with them.”

  “I thought Blodwedd was to be the Viking’s keeper,” complained Aberfa. “I would go with you into Chester.”

  “Asta will be in your charge for this time,” said Branwen. “It is pointless giving this task to Blodwedd; she would refuse it and give me an endless list of reasons why she must stay always at my side. I do not have time for such an argument.”