The Emerald Flame Page 22

  And she is not the only one! Not all of Rhodri’s wise words will suffice to wash away the blood that stains my hands after this day’s vile work! Gavan ap Huw died because of my misdeeds! I shall not forget that! But by the grace of the Three Saints, let me be not a fool! Let me learn from my mistakes and do better hereafter!

  But a thought possibly even more daunting was also lodged in her mind, as deep and troublesome as a pricking thorn.

  Gavan’s dying wish had been for her to go to Pengwern. It was a grave thing to reject such a request—the last desire of a great hero of Powys. And yet, if she turned aside from her true path and went to the king as he had asked, what terrible consequences would ensue? No, if she was ever to take the southern road to Pengwern, it could not be until her duty to Merion of the Stones was fulfilled.

  Asta climbed into the saddle at Branwen’s back, her hands on Branwen’s shoulders. “When leisure allows, I’d know where you learned to shoot a bow so well,” Branwen asked the pale Viking maiden. “Your prowess did much to turn the tide in our favor.”

  “You’d know the truth?” Asta asked, her voice subdued. “I learned archery as a child from my father, but until this day it was no more than sport to me—shooting at wicker targets.” Her hands tightened on Branwen’s shoulders. Her voice shook. “Before today I had never killed a man, and the fondest wish of my heart is that I am never called upon to do so again!”

  “Many a seasoned warrior would say the same,” said Branwen. She rested her hand on the casket, tied securely to the front of her saddle. “But for what it’s worth, you have my thanks. Your debt to me is repaid in full, Asta Aeslief, and I will do all that I can to see you safe home again!”

  So saying, Branwen flicked the reins and led the others from the bloody scene of battle.

  All that could be done had been done. Gavan ap Huw lay in peaceful repose with his hands upon his breast and with the shields and weapons of his enemies at his feet. Stalwyn and the other slain horses had been covered in leafy branches—some small token of esteem for their sacrifice.

  Dera had also finished her grisly work.

  At the eastern end of the battlefield, spiked upon a standing pole, the severed head of Redwuld Grammod stared sightlessly through the trees, awaiting the coming of his father.

  29

  THERE WAS NO exact moment when the riders could have said they had left Mercia behind them; there was just the gradual change from the wide and undulating Mercian plain to the high ridges and steep valleys, to the bluffs and gorges and cliffs and gullies of the easternmost flanks of Cyffin Tir—the uncompromising landscape of Branwen’s wild homeland.

  The towering range of the Clwydian Mountains seemed so close now that Branwen almost felt she could have reached out a hand and grazed her fingers on the sharp, barren peaks that rose out of the great green forests. The sun stood high above the mountains, burnishing their lofty crowns and flanks so that they had a sheen like old leather.

  And hidden away among those bulwarks and bastions of ancient rock lay the cave of Merion of the Stones—and journey’s end!

  Branwen reined her horse up on a raised knuckle of heathland, the powerful creature fetlock deep in the purple heather that Branwen knew so well. The others stopped, gathering around her.

  “We have come now to the place where Gavan ap Huw would have parted ways with me and mine,” she said, her eyes moving between Bryn and Andras and coming to rest on Padrig, with Dillon sitting astride the saddle in front of him. “The way to Pengwern lies southward.” She made a wide gesture, stretching out her arm, her flat hand pointing. “If you travel south for half a day, you will come upon the Great South Way that leads from Gwylan Canu to the court of King Cynon. Another day’s riding will take you to his citadel.” She looked at Alwyn. “Go with them, daughter of Gavan ap Huw. I hope you find comfort there. It’s certain that the child of a hero such as your father was will receive a generous welcome from the king.”

  “And what would you have us tell the king of Lord Gavan’s daughter?” asked Padrig, glancing sideways at Alwyn, who was seated behind Linette with downcast eyes.

  A good question.

  Branwen frowned. “Tell him that Gavan ap Huw led you into the heartland of the great enemy, and that he plucked his beloved daughter from captivity,” she said. “And say that on the road home, the great warrior fell in battle to defend his child and that she wept over his body.”

  “And what of Redwuld Grammod?” asked Padrig.

  “Say that he is dead and that none lamented his passing, vile and treacherous dog that he was.” Branwen held Padrig’s gaze. “Tell that to the king, and he will know all that he needs to know.”

  Alwyn lifted her head and looked at Branwen; and among the harrowing grief and remorse in the stricken young woman’s face, Branwen saw a glimmer of gratitude and hope.

  “And what would you have us tell the king of you?” Padrig asked.

  Branwen held back from answering. What, indeed!

  Blodwedd’s voice sounded in the charged silence, frail still but firm. “Tell this king of men that he is but a passing dream in the long story of this ancient land,” she said. “Tell him that greater guardians than he have given thought to the future, and that their Chosen One walks the path of a high destiny.”

  Branwen smiled grimly. Doubts and conflicted loyalties had plagued her through this journey; but suddenly, at this parting of the ways, her mind became clear of doubt and uncertainty.

  “And tell him that I will come to him shortly, when my present duty to the Shining Ones is done,” she said. “And tell him that I will join with him, if he will have me, to help rid this land of enemies both without and within!” She could almost hear Gavan’s deep voice as she echoed the words he had spoken to her under the arches of green willow in the dark time just before that day’s dawn.

  “I shall do that, if you wish it,” said Padrig, a new respect dawning in his eyes. Andras also looked at her without disquiet for the first time, but Bryn’s face showed nothing of what he was thinking. “But can you not come south with us now?” Padrig added. “It’s the safer path, I think.”

  “We have an errand in the west first,” said Iwan. “And safe or not, we cannot turn aside from it.”

  Branwen glanced at him, glad of his unhesitant support.

  “Then give us the weapon of Skur Bloodax, and we will be gone,” said Bryn, eyeing the great battle-ax that hung still from its leather harness on the saddle of the Viking’s destrier. “It will be some token at least that we are telling the truth.”

  “By all means take it,” said Branwen, reaching to loosen the straps. “Tell the king how you came by it! Tell him of the great champion of the Saxons that I slew.”

  “Is that wise, Branwen?” Asta asked. “Would it not be better for you to bring the battle-ax of Skur to the king yourself?”

  Branwen turned in the saddle, looking into Asta’s face. “How so?”

  “The trophy belongs to you, Branwen—not to the king, nor to any other,” Asta said. “You should keep it with you.”

  “There’s sense in this,” added Dera, looking doubtfully at Bryn and the other lads. “Why hand it into the keeping of others when you can ride into Pengwern with it and lay it yourself at the king’s feet.”

  Branwen nodded, pulling the straps tight again. “Then I shall keep it,” she said. She looked at Bryn. “Tell the lords of the king’s court that Skur Bloodax is dead and that I will bring this token of my victory over him when I can.”

  Bryn’s face became peevish at this, and Branwen got the impression that the big lad had been looking forward to riding into Pengwern with the dead Viking’s battle-ax over his shoulder.

  “Go with them, Alwyn ap Gavan,” said Branwen. “I hope you live such a life from now on that all the past will be forgotten.”

  Alwyn climbed down from behind Linette. She walked to Branwen’s horse and lifted her open hand to her. Branwen took it.

  “Thank you,” Alwyn said
. “It was a bitter lesson that brought me from darkness into light, and I want you to know that I do not hold you to blame for my father’s death.”

  Branwen nodded but didn’t reply. Forgiven by Gavan’s daughter, she would never be able to forgive herself.

  Alwyn walked to Andras’s horse, and he reached down to help her climb up behind him, a sad, penitent figure with eyes still brimming with tears.

  “Good luck to you,” said Padrig, turning to Branwen. “If such a thing as luck can play any part on the unhallowed path you tread, Branwen of the Old Ones.” His eyes roved over the others of her band. “I’d advise you all to rethink your part in this and to take the road south with us,” he said. “But I think you are all as fey as your leader, and doomed to suffer her fate.”

  “We are,” Banon said with a laugh. “And we shall!”

  “Gladly so!” added Rhodri.

  Padrig shook his head and turned his horse to the south. Bryn and Andras followed him as he rode steadily away from the stationary riders.

  Branwen sat watching them for a while as they shrank in the distance, thinking how doleful it was that Gavan ap Huw would never now come to the king—that he would never now lead the fight against the traitor Llew ap Gelert.

  “Something comes,” murmured Blodwedd from behind Rhodri. “On the east wind. A bird. I think it is Fain.”

  “Then thank the Three Saints for his safe return!” said Branwen, twisting in the saddle and staring back the way they had come. “I have been searching the skies for him since we left the forest!”

  A dark speck came speeding from the fathomless blue of the eastern sky, growing gradually and taking form.

  Branwen lifted herself in the saddle, holding her arm up high as the falcon stooped and came swinging in to land on her wrist. No sooner were his wings folded than he began to give voice to loud, urgent cawings.

  “What does he say?” Banon asked Blodwedd.

  “He has news of Ironfist,” said the owl-girl, listening carefully to the falcon’s harsh cries. A sharp and merciless smile grew on her lips. “Fain tells that the great general met his son in the forest and was much affected by the encounter!” she said.

  “As I hoped he would be!” said Dera. “Did his one good eye have enough tears in it to tell of his grief?”

  “He wept copiously indeed,” said Blodwedd. “He leaped from his horse and fell to his knees, cradling Grammod’s head to his chest and lamenting in a loud voice. And amid his wailing he sent curses down on your head, Branwen—terrible curses! Oh, but he hates you now, with a raw hatred that has no surcease!”

  Fain’s scratchy voice sounded again.

  “Ironfist has vowed never to sleep in a bed again nor to forsake arms and armor until he has hunted you down and slaughtered you, Branwen,” said Blodwedd. “By the most terrible of oaths has he promised this! By Wotan and Thunaer and Tiw he has made his vow.”

  “And is he closer to us now?” asked Iwan, staring into the east. “I see no sign of horsemen out on the plain.”

  Again Fain cawed.

  “He has stopped to perform the funeral rites for his son,” Blodwedd translated. “We have gained ground on him. He is half a day and more behind us now.”

  “Then we will reach the mountains before him,” said Branwen. “Let him hunt for us in Merion’s domain if he dares! If all goes as I hope, he will by then have more than we few folk to contend with.” She smiled grimly, her hand resting on the lid of the casket strapped to her saddlebow. “He will find himself face-to-face with Caradoc of the North Wind!” she said. “And then we shall see how a god wreaks vengeance on his erstwhile jailer!”

  30

  AS THEY RODE on through the beautiful wilderness of Cyffin Tir, Branwen refused to let her thoughts dwell on how close they were passing to Garth Milain. It would do no good to think about hearth and home now. One day, if her destiny willed it so, when the raw wounds of these turbulent days had healed over and shriveled to nothing more than poignant white scars, she might sit at ease with her dear mother at the fireside of a new-built Great Hall talking over old agonies.

  And maybe they would speak of Geraint and laugh again at the jokes he used to play, and of Prince Griffith ap Rhys, warrior-husband and revered father who died battling the enemies of their blood. Tales of triumph and loss, of joy and sadness.

  One day …

  … if her destiny allowed …

  They were moving now through forested foothills, climbing slowly in a landscape as familiar to Branwen as her own arms and hands and fingers. She knew that if she traveled but a short way south through these green hills she would be able to look down on the solitary mound of Garth Milain.

  Not that she felt up to that challenge—to see her home and to have to pass it by without running into her mother’s arms. That was a thing that would test her beyond her limits. To be comforted by a mother’s embrace, to be enfolded in a mother’s love. She would never find the courage to leave again, and she knew it.

  Fain guided them as they headed deeper into the rising forest. He would go soaring up through the roof of branches while they picked their earthbound way onward and return with news of what lay ahead, shepherding them away from dangerous places and keeping them always on the straight road to Merion’s lofty cave.

  Branwen became aware of something curious about the casket strapped in front of her. At first she thought it was her imagination; but as they delved deeper into the hills, she grew more certain that the casket would every now and then vibrate, as though something within was awakening and struggling to free itself. And although the afternoon was warm and the air was heavy and humid under the trees, the casket was always cold to the touch.

  She thought that somehow the trapped god must know he was drawing close to his ancient sister of the stones and was eager to see the end of his long confinement. And as her thoughts turned to Merion, Branwen remembered again the horrors of that dark and dreadful cavern in the mountainside, and she shuddered.

  “Are you cold, Branwen?” Asta asked, close enough to have felt the chill go through Branwen’s body.

  “No, not cold,” Branwen said without looking around. “Anxious to be done with this, that’s all. I’m not at ease, Asta, knowing what lies inside this casket. I’d be free of it.”

  “Yes,” replied Asta, her voice strangely thoughtful. “It is a heavy burden to bear a god with you.”

  “It is indeed.”

  Up and up they climbed as the sun sank behind the mountains. The sky filled with vast gathering islands of billowing cloud, slate gray and threatening for the most part but tinted underneath with a pearly sheen and limned with silver.

  The thick of the forest was behind them now, and they were zigzagging through heights where the trees grew ever more scant and where rock jutted more and more often through the thin earth.

  The upper peaks were almost black against the clouded sky, although shafts of golden evening light would sometimes streak across a soaring precipice or stain some lowering palisade with a sudden brilliance that hurt the eyes.

  No one spoke. The only sounds were the rattle and clack of stones under hooves, the puffing and snorting of the climbing horses, and the creak of leather harnesses. There was no birdsong. The air was oppressive and still. Fain led them upward, perching on rocks, sending them this way and that across the rumpled skirts of the mountain, until Branwen was sick of the sight of bare rock and so weary of this endless journey that she could almost have fallen asleep in the saddle.

  The last time they had come to Merion’s cave it had been from the north. Now they struggled up to it from the east—and Branwen could see nothing ahead that stirred any memory.

  Dusk came creeping up out of the forests like a murky fog, swallowing the path behind them, drinking light and breathing out shadows. The east was a formless black ocean, the way ahead scarred and gouged and pocked with wounds that bled darkness.

  Fain swept suddenly in front of Branwen’s face, startling her. His crie
s were strangely loud in the gathering gloom.

  “He has seen the cave,” Blodwedd breathed. She and Rhodri were on the horse directly behind Branwen—the others trailing away in single file. “It is not far, but the path to it is steep and perilous.”

  Branwen let out a relieved breath. At last! Frightful as the thought of confronting Merion a second time was, at least it would bring this ill-fated quest to an end. She reined the destrier to a halt.

  “The rest of you will wait here,” she said as the other horses came to a halt behind her. “I don’t know what will happen when Caradoc is released, but I’d rather you were not close by.”

  “You can’t go up there alone,” said Iwan. “Let some few of us accompany you at least.”

  “I would be by your side,” said Blodwedd. “Always by your side.”

  “I know you would,” said Branwen. “And if you were not already weakened by the things you have done for me, I would gladly have you with me, because you at least are known to the Shining Ones. But as for the rest of you—Iwan and Dera—I see from your faces you would also go with me. What would you do in Merion’s dark cave?” She looked from face to anxious face. “If Merion cannot save me from death when Caradoc is released, what hope do any of you have?” She rested her hand on the cold lid of the casket. “I do not believe that I go to my death, my friends, but my fate lies in hands other than my own. If I do not return, I want you to go to Pengwern and take up arms with the king. Fight on in memory of Branwen of the Shining Ones….”

  “We needn’t make any such promise,” said Rhodri. “You will come back to us; I know it in my heart.”

  Branwen smiled. “Then all is well!” she said. “So. No more words of parting. Dismount and take what comfort you can. I shall ride a little farther, until the path becomes too sheer. Then it will be hands and feet to the cave.” She looked to where her faithful falcon was perched on a spit of rock close by. “Fain, stay with them, please. Your work is done for now.”