The Emerald Flame Page 18

  Iwan snorted. “Our runaway is moonstruck if he truly believes that was Blodwedd! Shall I fetch him back, Branwen?”

  “No. I’ll do it.” Branwen tugged the reins, turning Stalwyn around. Fain flew from her shoulder and found a nearby branch. She set Stalwyn at the trot, passing the other riders. Rhodri was running like a mad thing, calling all the time.

  “Blodwedd! Blodwedd!”

  Branwen urged Stalwyn into a canter.

  Rhodri had vanished into a grove of aspens. Branwen brought Stalwyn up short, jumped from the saddle, and ran after Rhodri into the deep darkness under the trees.

  “Rhodri?”

  There was no sign of him, nor any sound of footsteps under the trees. Branwen walked slowly forward, listening intently, trying to make sense of the deep darkness. Something glinted—ahead of her and high above the ground. Two disks of pale light that stared unblinkingly down at her.

  She met the stare and moved toward it.

  An owl sat on a high branch, veiled by leaves, staring down at her.

  She swallowed, strangely disturbed by the silent creature.

  Blodwedd’s ghost—come to haunt her?

  By the saints, I pray it is not so, though I deserve no better from her!

  More eyes ignited in the darkness. With a shiver of apprehension, Branwen realized that there were owls all around her, perched in the trees, watching her, their heads turning slowly as she passed, their eyes shining eerily.

  They mean to kill me. For vengeance!

  Then she heard a whispering voice.

  Rhodri’s voice, chanting softly.

  Blessed healing spread, blessed healing grow

  And sickness disappear, and sickness be laid low

  Be gone thou withered weal, and let this soul be healed

  Begone, begone forever, thy eye be opened never

  No burial for this pretty maid

  This healing token have I made

  To guard thee from all hurt and harm

  To make thee hale, I speak this charm

  There was a pause—a yawning silence—and then Rhodri’s voice again, trembling, speaking quietly.

  “Blodwedd? I have you. All is well. I have you now.”

  Shaking in every limb and with a hooked claw clenching in her belly, Branwen moved deeper into the trees. She saw Rhodri kneeling on the ground with his bent back to her. A pale, slender shape lay in front of him.

  Her throat as tight and painful as knotted twine, Branwen circled Rhodri, her heart thumping.

  Blodwedd lay on her back, bleeding from many cuts, her dress torn to tatters, her huge eyes closed. For a moment Branwen was certain that she was dead, but then she saw the faint flutter of her chest.

  She knelt, aware of a score or more round eyes watching her from above. Judging her. Condemning her.

  Rhodri was running his blood-wet hands over Blodwedd’s frail body, chanting softly under his breath, tears running from his eyes. He seemed unaware that Branwen was even there.

  She did not speak.

  She could not speak.

  What was there to say?

  Branwen knelt listening for a long while to Rhodri’s whispered charms, then, at last, she reached out and touched her fingertips to the back of his hand.

  He started, lifting his head to look into her face.

  “She is hurt almost to the death,” he murmured. “But I will save her. By the healing powers of Frigé, she will not die!”

  “How did she get here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did she follow … on foot … all this way … hurt as she is …?”

  Rhodri didn’t reply, but his hand turned under Branwen’s, and he gripped her fingers tightly. “I shall not let her die,” he said, a fierce light in his eyes.

  Branwen heard movement through the trees. Iwan and Dera emerged out of the gloom.

  “By all the saints, she escaped the Saxon camp!” said Dera. “I would not have believed it possible. And yet she lives!”

  “Barely,” muttered Iwan, his eyes narrowing in concern as he looked down at Blodwedd’s blood-streaked face. “She needs a practitioner of medicines, I fear, or we shall yet lose her.”

  “Rhodri is a healer,” said Branwen. “He will tend her.”

  “Can she be moved?” asked Dera.

  Branwen tightened her grip on Rhodri’s hand.

  “Can she?”

  “Yes. With great care. I will need herbs and roots—and fresh running water.”

  Iwan rested his hand on Rhodri’s bent shoulder. “I will help you carry her. There is a stream close by—I heard it as we rode.”

  “Dare we linger?” murmured Dera, gazing eastward through the forest. “Will we not be overrun by our pursuers?”

  “I don’t care,” said Branwen. “I will not abandon her a second time—not if all the armies of Mercia should fall upon us!”

  “Then let’s to the river and prepare to fight if needs be,” said Dera. She looked into Blodwedd’s face. “So great a sacrifice deserves our solicitude, far from human though she be!”

  Rhodri gathered Blodwedd’s limp and bleeding form in his arms and got to his feet, Iwan keeping close with his hands ready to help.

  “There is no need,” said Rhodri, gazing down into her face. “She weighs nothing.”

  But as he began to walk, Blodwedd moaned softly, her head turning from side to side.

  “Beware!” she muttered, her lips hardly moving, her voice the ghost of sound. “Beware the black bird. He comes. On darkling wing and with a heart filled with old evil, he comes. Beware the raven. The harbinger of death! Beware Mumir … beware his ancient eye!”

  24

  THE STREAM FLOWED through a deep, mossy culvert between rising banks of willow. The dawn was not far off, but night still cloaked the land as Rhodri laid Blodwedd close to the water and began to wash her wounds.

  The owl-girl was restless, muttering constantly of the black bird and the peril he represented.

  Leaving Blodwedd to Rhodri’s tender ministrations, Branwen gathered Iwan and the girls of Gwylan Canu to her. They needed to make plans for keeping watch while they lingered here, and for how they might defend themselves if they were attacked.

  They were deep in these discussions when Gavan approached.

  “We should not stay here,” he said. “This is not a good defensive position. There’s higher land close by; we should make camp there, if we must break our journey.” He looked coldly at Blodwedd. “If we must.”

  Branwen turned to him. “We shall remain in this place until Rhodri tells me that Blodwedd is fit to be moved,” she said. “But you and yours are under no obligation to stay with us, Gavan ap Huw. Depart now, if you wish.”

  He looked thoughtfully at her for a few moments, and she saw the scar on his jaw move over a jumping muscle. “It would be reckless for us to divide our meager forces while we are still in Mercia,” he said at last. “But I would speak with you alone, Branwen.”

  She nodded. “Iwan, Dera, Linette, and Aberfa—you know what is needed. Go, be our eyes and ears in the forest. Banon shall stay to guard the camp. Come the dawn I will have Fain patrol the skies at our back, but for now we need keen eyes on high ground so that we’ll have good warning if enemies approach.” She walked away from them with Gavan at her side.

  “You have become a worthy leader,” he said. “I see great changes in you since we first met.”

  “I have learned a lot in a short time,” Branwen replied.

  “But you still have much to master,” he said. “And a little knowledge can lead down false paths, if confidence is not tempered with humility.”

  She halted some small distance from the others, under the hanging branches of a green willow. “What did you want to talk about?” she asked tersely, not liking the implied criticism in his words. “The parting of our ways, I assume? What is your plan when we come to Powys again?”

  “To travel on the Great South Way to Pengwern,” he said. “It may
be futile, but my duty to Brython requires me to offer my services to King Cynon now that Llew ap Gelert’s treachery is revealed. And maybe there Alwyn will return to her senses. In any event I will stay with the king, if he will have me, and I will help to defend Brython from enemies both without and within.” There was a glint in his eyes that suggested something left unsaid.

  “Am I an enemy within, in your opinion?” Branwen asked.

  “That I cannot say,” he replied. “But you are in the service of ancient powers whose true desires neither you nor I can possibly know.” He looked sharply at her. “It is your destiny, so they say, to raise up an army against the Saxons. Such a destiny would earn you the gratitude of all the folk of Brython, if it were fulfilled.”

  Branwen could hear the hesitation in his voice. “But …?”

  “But King Cynon rules in Powys, as does Maelgwn Hir in Gwynedd and King Dinefwr and King Tewdrig in the other two of the Four Kingdoms of Brython,” Gavan said portentously. “Is it your destiny to raise warriors in Powys under Cynon’s flag? For if not, I see only civil war and brother set against brother as the result of your actions. The king will not allow an army to grow in his realm that does not accept his overlordship—and yet I have heard nothing from you that suggests the Old Gods wish you to ally yourself to the king.” He paused as if to let this sink in. “So? What is it to be, Branwen of the Old Gods? Will you stand alongside the king, or are you entirely the creature of the Shining Ones?”

  Branwen didn’t reply. She had never considered the politics of her actions, nor the impact her destiny might have on those kings and lesser lords who ruled over Brython.

  Gavan nodded as though her silence confirmed some belief he already had. “The Old Gods lead you down dangerous pathways, Branwen,” he said, an urging tone entering his voice. “You have it in you to be a great leader of men,” he continued, and Branwen could hear his excitement building as he spoke. “Come with me to Pengwern, Branwen. Make this destiny truly your own—give your allegiance to the king, help him to throw down the traitor Llew ap Gelert, and then unite with him to raise an army that will deal such a blow to the Saxons that they will leave us in peace for a thousand years!” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Be true to your destiny and be true to your own people, Branwen—and we shall fight side by side. You do not need the wayward devices of forgotten gods to do this thing!”

  She looked into his slate gray eyes. They were powerful and compelling, offering her a safe path: the companionship of noble men and women—a great and true calling under the standards of the four kings of Brython.

  “Do it, Branwen,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “Throw the casket into the river and come with me to the king. Shed the encumbrances of the gods. You don’t need them or theirs. Be rid of them all.”

  He spoke a fraction too soon. If he had kept silent a little longer, she might almost have agreed. “The encumbrances of the gods?” she repeated. “And what are they, Gavan ap Huw? Is Blodwedd one such, in your estimation?”

  “She is a demon in human form,” said Gavan.

  “No! She is not,” said Branwen. “She is an owl in a human skin—and she is with me out of loyalty and choice. What would you have me do? Hurl her into the water along with the casket that she almost died to help me recover?” She shook her head. “No, for good or bad, I will follow the Shining Ones.”

  “Despite all that I have said?”

  “You do not know their true desires,” said Branwen. “But I cannot believe they mean anything but good for Brython and for all its people.”

  Gavan’s face became stern and grim. “Then you are lost to me,” he said. “I will waste no more words on you. We shall ride together till we come to Cyffin Tir, then our paths will be sundered forever.” He turned and began to walk away from her. But suddenly he stopped and looked at her over his shoulder. “I hope we never have to face each other in battle again, Branwen, because if we do, it will be because you have come into conflict with the king of Powys. And if that happens I shall not hesitate to kill you.”

  “Nor I you, Gavan ap Huw,” she replied, although it broke her heart to say this.

  Trembling with pent-up emotions, Branwen walked under the arching willow branches and down to the lip of the small, bright stream. She needed a few moments alone to gather herself before facing the others. She hated to have disappointed and distressed the old warrior, but she had learned enough to know that no good would come of turning her back on the Shining Ones. And she could never betray Blodwedd like that—not when so much harm had already been done to the faithful and valiant owl-girl.

  Standing and gazing into the purling waters, she heard the rustle of someone moving through the tangle of branches.

  She turned. It was Asta.

  The Viking girl nodded to Branwen and gave a nervous smile. “Rhodri sent me to seek for comfrey and yarrow,” she said.

  Branwen looked behind her. “And you are wandering alone?” she asked sharply.

  Asta came up close to Branwen, a frank and open look in her eyes. “I wish only to help,” she said. “You have treated me kindly, although I know my presence among you is not welcome.”

  “It’s hard on you, I know, when you are blameless in all that has happened,” said Branwen. “But I cannot release you.”

  “I understand,” said Asta. “Truly, I do. It would be foolish to let an ally of the Saxons go free. But if I am to stay with you for the time being, I’d make myself useful.” She grimaced. “I’d not be such a burden as the daughter of Gavan ap Huw! I have some small knowledge of herbs and healing unguents, and I would do all that I can to help bring Blodwedd back to full health.” Her smile strengthened a little, deepening the dimples in her cheeks. “I am allowed to wander alone because your followers are busy making sure we are guarded from attack. But I will return to Rhodri’s side, if you so wish.”

  “No.” Branwen looked into her pale, eager face, searching her dark blue eyes. She saw only honesty and gentleness in them. “You must not return empty-handed. I have not seen any yarrow, but there is comfrey in plenty along the riverbank. Come, we’ll gather it together.”

  They followed the river a little way, picking up sprays of white comfrey as they went.

  “I wish I could set you on the path back to your father,” Branwen said as they headed to where the others waited. Branwen had even managed to find some yarrow, and both had their hands full of white flowers. “But you would need a horse to travel so far, and I cannot spare one. When we come to my own lands, I will ask Gavan ap Huw to take you with him to the king’s court in Pengwern. You may have to stay there a while, but I believe you will be well treated. The king is a good man, so they say; and he will do you no harm when he knows your story.”

  Asta looked at her. “I’d rather stay with you, Branwen,” she said. “If I can earn your trust, that is.”

  “I’m on a hard road,” Branwen replied. “You’d find more comfort and ease in Pengwern, trust me on that.”

  “Nevertheless, it is you who saved me from the brute Skur. I’d ride by your side, if you are willing. I may have no battle skills, but I can be of use in other ways.” Her forehead creased. “I’d pay back the debt I owe you, Branwen. My father would wish that of me.”

  “We shall see,” Branwen said kindly. “How was Blodwedd when you left her?”

  “Quieter,” said Asta. “Not asleep, but more restful. I hope she lives.”

  Branwen sent up a silent prayer. “As do I,” she said. “But Rhodri knows what he is doing. He won’t fail her. You’ll see. All will be well.”

  Branwen only became aware that it was dawn because of the way the light grew in Blodwedd’s face. She had not left the owl-girl’s side since she and Asta had come there with the yarrow and the comfrey. She had helped Rhodri beat the flowers to pulp and had watched anxiously as he and Asta had applied the resultant poultice to Blodwedd’s wounds.

  Now that the blood had been cleaned away, it was easier to see the hurts done to her b
y the Saxons. She had several shallow slashes on her arms and legs and body, as though from the glancing blows of sweeping blades. There were also puncture marks of arrows or spears—some deep and worrying, others just small round holes where the blood had already clotted. The worse of her wounds were bound with linen, the others Rhodri and Asta laved with water steeped in comfrey while Branwen dabbed gently at her forehead with a damp cloth.

  Under the lids, Blodwedd’s eyes darted restlessly, as though she was lost in nightmares; and now and then her lips would tremble as if she was trying to say something.

  With the coming of daylight, Rhodri sent Asta in search of other flowers and roots, and Branwen was content for the Viking girl to forage alone. She did notice Gavan looking askance at the young woman as she headed up and away from the culvert. And she saw him say something to Bryn, after which the big lad trailed along in Asta’s wake. Padrig, Andras, and Dillon were nowhere to be seen—Branwen assumed Gavan had sent them into the woods to be his own scouts.

  As the light burgeoned, Branwen sent Fain out to watch at their rear for any approaching Saxons. She knew that Gavan fretted at the delay; and neither was she at ease with their present situation—in fact, the only person who seemed to be glad of it was Alwyn. The horses had been unsaddled; and she sat on a saddle in the grass, twining her fingers agitatedly in her hair, her face turned continuously to the east as though hoping at any moment to see Redwuld Grammod come riding out of the trees to bear her away.

  She’s a witless fool. Iwan was right—there’ll be no marriage bed for her in Mercia! Ironfist’s son would never marry a … what are we? Mountain rats! I hope Gavan’s wish is fulfilled, and she comes to her senses in the end. Otherwise, theirs will be a bitter reunion, indeed.

  Her thoughts were broken into by a high-pitched scream from somewhere above the narrow cleft cut by the river.