Destiny's Path (8 page)

Branwen frowned, considering his question. She turned to the gathered family. “Ariana,” she said. “Come here.”

The girl clutched at the woman, whimpering.

“I will not hurt you,” Branwen said. “Be brave and true and you will be the protector of all your family. Come!”

“Go to her,” murmured the woman. “Do not be afraid.”

Trembling and unsteady on her feet, Ariana walked to where Branwen was standing. “You will come with us for part of our journey,” Branwen said, resting her hand gently on the child's head. “And when we release you, you will come back here and set your kindred loose. Can you do that?”

The girl's eyes were huge as she looked up into Branwen's face. “Do not let the demon kill me,” she said, her voice quavering.

“She will do you no injury, I swear,” said Branwen. “Rhodri—tie the others up good and tight.”

Slowly and methodically, Rhodri moved among them, getting them to sit and then tying them securely, passing the ropes around their ankles and wrists with many tight knots. He found a piece of clean cloth to bind the wounds on Fodor's cheek before tying him as gently as possible and seating him with the men. He left the woman's hands free so that she could keep hold of the baby, silent now in her arms. But he took her away from the others, and had her sit with her back to the quern stones while he wound the rope around and around the heavy milling block and tied it beyond her reach.

He stood up, his task complete. “There,” he said. “And now let us get away from this place.”

“Take some food,” Branwen told him. “Only what we need.”

Rhodri explored the house and found bread and cheese. He walked to the door and picked up the bundle of clothing, wrapping the food in a fold of cloth.

“Do not fear,” Branwen murmured to Ariana as she led the girl from the hut. She rested her hand on the girl's shaking shoulder. “All will be well.”

T
HE HORSES WERE
waiting, still tethered to a low branch.

Fain watched from a stump as they sorted through the bundle of clothes. Rhodri flung off his old rags and drew on a woolen jerkin and leggings—new-made, it seemed, and unworn. He knelt, slipping on a pair of soft leather shoes, cross-gartering the thongs up his calves.

Branwen saw the doubt and concern in his eyes as he glanced occasionally at Blodwedd. A bond had been growing between him and the owl-girl, but Branwen wondered if that bond had now been broken.

Branwen picked out a simple brown gown for herself, and a white linen wimple that she could use to cover her hair and keep her face in shadow if necessary. She pulled the gown on over her hunting
clothes, thinking it prudent to wear the dress during their journey, just in case they were seen from afar. It would be hot once the sun was up, she knew, but she was not prepared to leave her leathers behind. She tied the gown at the waist with a strong leather belt that had an iron clasp. Into the belt she thrust her sword and knife, along with her slingshot and the pouch for her stones.

Her more precious belongings—everything she kept hidden away—were tucked under that gown. Firestones and tinder, kept in a leather pouch, were necessary to their survival. But there were other items, too—less practical but indeed vital to her nonetheless. A small bag containing a handful of white crystals that Geraint had found on the mountains. A comb gifted by her mother. A small golden key her father had given her on her tenth birthday—found in an old Roman temple, he had told her, although no one knew what lock it might open. These last things were virtually all she had left of her old life; they pained her and comforted her at the same time, and she would never be parted from them.

Folding the wimple and tucking it into her belt, she looked around and saw that Rhodri was helping Blodwedd into a dark-green gown. The owl-girl stood like an awkward child while he settled the gown into place on her small body, tugging at the hem to straighten it, and then took a rope belt and knotted it around her waist. He had picked a wimple
for her, too, to shade her face and hide her peculiar eyes from view.

A dull wave of confusion sickened Branwen. How could Rhodri bear to have anything to do with her? She wasn't human. She was just an animal in human form—a cruel, murdering
thing
, with no compassion, no mercy or kindliness in her heart.

Branwen saw Ariana watching the owl-girl with frightened eyes.

She knelt, resting her hands on the small girl's shoulders and looking into her face. “Have no fear,” she said softly. “You will not be hurt, I promise.”

“She hurt Fodor,” Ariana replied, her eyes still on Blodwedd. “She wanted to kill all of us.”

“Your brother's injuries are not severe,” Branwen said. “He was more scared than hurt, I believe.”

Ariana shook her head. “He is not my brother,” she said.

Branwen frowned.

“Fodor is my cousin,” the girl said in a whisper. “His mother was my aunt—she died in the winter. My papa died, too. And Teithi died, and Aunt Yestin and Hafgan. They got ill and they all died.”

“I am sorry,” said Branwen. “My papa is dead, too. And my brother. The Saxons killed them.”

The girl's forehead crinkled. “Saxons are bad people,” she said. “Papa used to tell tales of the Saxons. He said they want to kill us. Why are you helping them?”

“Believe me in this, Ariana,” Branwen said solemnly. “We are not Saxon spies. We hate the Saxons as much as you do. More, probably, because you hate only what you have been told, but my friend Rhodri and I have
seen
their brutality. We know the deeds of which they are capable!”

“Why do they wish us harm?” asked Ariana.

“They envy us the good fortune of living in such a beautiful land, Ariana,” Branwen said, her heart going out to the little girl. “But I will not let harm come to you or to this land, not if I can help it. Now—have you ever ridden a horse? Do you know how?”

Ariana shook her head.

“Then I shall show you. You will sit in front of me and I will keep you from falling.”

The girl's worried eyes turned to Blodwedd. “Was Aunt Aberfar right? Is she a demon?”

Branwen stood up, avoiding the question. “She will not hurt you,” she said. “Come, now—let me help you mount up.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“No! I promise you, no.” On a sudden impulse, Branwen took her knife from her belt. “Here—take this. Hold it tight, it is heavy.” Ariana grasped the long hunting knife in both hands. “Keep it with you as we ride,” Branwen said. “Hold it against my throat if it makes you feel safer.” She grasped the little girl under the arms and lifted her up into the saddle. “We will ride until the sun is high,” she said. “Then you
will be let down and allowed to return home.”

The girl looked down at her from her perch on the horse's back.

“I wouldn't want to kill you,” she said. “I don't think you are bad.”

Branwen put her hand on Ariana's knee, deeply moved by the girl's faith in her. If only she had the same faith in herself—the faith that she could fulfill the burdensome destiny that the Shining Ones had thrust upon her. Somehow she needed to
find
that faith—despite her misgivings, despite her feelings of inadequacy—if only to justify the look of trust in Ariana's eyes.

“Listen to me, Ariana,” she said. “My name is Branwen ap Griffith. One day, perhaps, you will hear my name again. People may speak of me as the Savior of Brython—because that is, apparently, my destiny. To save this land from the Saxons.” She lifted her hand and touched her fingers against the girl's heart. “But if that day ever comes, and people sing songs of the deeds of Branwen ap Griffith, remember how very brave and strong you have been today—remember that Ariana the farmer's daughter is as courageous as any hero in the ballads!”

So saying, Branwen mounted up, with Fain flying over her head and Rhodri and Blodwedd following behind. She curled one arm around Ariana's waist and sent her horse off at a brisk walk along the forest eaves and into the north.

 

The beat of the horses' hooves was soft in the dense grass, and the air was still and quiet, with hardly a leaf stirring as they passed. Branwen could hear Rhodri speaking with Blodwedd as they rode. As before, the owl-girl was seated behind Rhodri, her thin arms around his waist.

“How did you know to come to our aid when you did?” he asked.

Branwen turned her head a little to better hear the owl-girl's response, realizing she had been too caught up in her anger at Blodwedd's callous behavior to give any thought to that question—though it was a good one. What had caused her to come to their rescue when she did?

“Lord Govannon spoke in my mind,” said Blodwedd. “‘Blodwedd of the Far-Seeing Eye,' he said, ‘you fail in your duty to the Warrior-Child. You have let her go into great peril. Go now to the habitation of the humans and do what you must to bring her back to the safe path.' So, I took the sword and came down to the human place. And I looked in through a window and saw you upon the floor with a spear at your throat, and I saw everything.” A bitterness entered her voice. “The Warrior-Child believes I struck the boy out of malice, but it is not so. I did not wish him pain, but the others needed to know that I was resolute—that if they sought to harm the Warrior-Child, then my retribution would be swift and deadly.”

“Because unless you look after her properly, you will never be an owl again,” Rhodri murmured. “I understand.”

There was a keen edge to Blodwedd's response. “You think that is all?” she asked. “You think I care only for myself? Do you not know the peril that this land is in? Lord Govannon has shown me horrors, Rhodri. He has shown me what will come to pass if the Saxons rule here. How the land will suffer and groan. Forests cut down or burned. Rivers dammed and fouled. The green hills scarred and gouged and riddled with maggot holes where the humans gnaw at the rock to feed their fires and to forge their weapons and to fill their pockets with pretty gems. The entrails of the world spewed up in a black slurry that will kill all things—bird and beast, tree and flower. And the air choked with filth, and the fish dead in the rivers and lakes, and nothing—
nothing
of beauty and grace left in the land.

“That is why the Warrior-Child must not fail,” continued the owl-girl. “That is why her destiny must be fulfilled. That is why no one can be allowed to stand in her way.”

 

They rode silently on through the morning, keeping to the forest's edge while the sun rose bright in a clear blue sky. A little before midday, Branwen brought her horse to a halt. She swung down from the saddle, reaching up to help Ariana dismount.

Wordlessly, Ariana held out the knife. Branwen took it and slipped it in her belt. She walked over to where Rhodri had halted his horse.

“Give me one of the loaves,” she said, avoiding eye contact with Blodwedd. He passed down a wheaten loaf and she tore it in two, handing half back to him.

“Take this for your journey home,” she told Ariana, going back to her and giving her the bread. “You know the way, don't you?” She pointed south along the forest.

Ariana looked at her. “I have never been so far from home,” she said uneasily. “Must I go back alone?”

Branwen frowned. What other choice was there?

“Caw!”

She turned at Fain's sharp cry. The falcon was perched on the saddle of her horse, his eyes glittering. He rose into the air, spreading his gray wings.

“Caw! Caw!”

The bird flew higher and circled southward, back the way they had come. He flew for the length of a single bowshot, then swooped down and landed on the bare limb of a gorse bush. He turned to stare at them.

“Caw!”

“Fain will lead the child,” said Blodwedd. “He will see her safe home.”

Ariana stared after the falcon, her face uncertain.

“Trust him,” Branwen said. “He is a wise creature. He will lead you true.” She called, “Fain! She is under your protection. Take her to her folk, then return to me as swift as you can.”

“Caw!”

“Go, little one,” said Branwen. “Have no fear.”

Giving her a final look, Ariana turned and ran.

Branwen stood on the hillside, watching the little girl as she raced through the tall grass. As she came close to where Fain was perched, the falcon flew up and winged its way farther southward.

The little girl turned and gave Branwen a last look before following the bird.

Branwen mounted up again. Now they could travel at speed. With good fortune, they would arrive at Doeth Palas before nightfall.

T
HEIR LUCK HELD
. Or perhaps luck had nothing to do with it. Perhaps it was fated that they should reach Doeth Palas without being caught by Prince Llew's soldiers. Branwen hoped that it was so. She hoped the Shining Ones were watching over her.

She had given a lot of thought to what she had overheard the owl-girl saying to Rhodri:
That is why the Warrior-Child must not fail. That is why her destiny must be fulfilled
. She still questioned her ability to live up to the expectations of the Shining Ones—but she now found herself clinging to the hope that she
could
be the person they thought she was.

They traveled quickly through the afternoon, avoiding any sign of human habitation—passing hamlets and farmsteads at a distance, moving into
the cover of trees or valleys, concealing themselves behind hills at the first sight of smoke or thatched roofs or men and women working tilled fields. They avoided the roads, keeping always to deep countryside as they headed northwest across Bras Mynydd.

Sunset found them in the forest that spread at the very foot of the huge mound upon which the great and formidable citadel of Doeth Palas was founded. As they slid between the trees, Branwen saw torches ignite atop the high stone ramparts. More lights flickered to the south, where an ancient Roman wall ran along a sharp ridge, lined with iron braziers.

The sight of the mighty fortress of Prince Llew brought memories swarming into her mind. Although it felt like a lifetime ago, it had been only a short time since that night when she had first arrived here, raw with the pain of Geraint's death, overawed by the size and the grandeur of the citadel. Her whole life had been overthrown in a day. Doeth Palas was to be a staging-post on her journey south to Gwent, where she would be married to a boy she had met only once, ten years ago—when she had been five and he had been a mean-spirited and spiteful child of six. Her marriage to Hywel ap Murig was intended to cement an alliance between Powys and Gwent. She was meant to be the great hope of the House of Rhys—the
mother
of heroes!

But she had hated life in Doeth Palas and kicked against the rules and the pointless daily rituals of the
life she was forced to lead while she waited there for the roads south to become safe for travel. She could still see the prince's wife, the lady Elain—her mouth puckered with disapproval. And she could still hear the carping voices of their two daughters, Meredith and Romney, high-born princesses who had done their best to make Branwen feel like an uncultured barbarian.

And then there was Iwan, handsome son of the House of Puw—a thorn in her side from the very night of her arrival. He seemed to delight in tormenting and criticizing her. But here she was, risking her neck to warn him of a Saxon attack on his home.

Branwen was vividly aware that they were close to Rhiannon's pool—the ring of bright water set in a forest clearing where she had wrestled with the enchanted salmon—where she had first encountered the Shining Ones and learned of the fate toward which they wished to guide her. She did not try to find the clearing again—she remembered Rhiannon's parting words.

My part is done, Warrior-Child. Let others now light your path
.

As night gathered under the trees, the three travelers huddled together, eating cheese and bread and drinking from the water bottle filled recently from a bubbling spring.

“Why do we not build a fire?” asked Blodwedd, sniffing skeptically at a piece of cheese that Rhodri
had given her. “Why do we not hunt and cook?”

“There are too many men about,” Rhodri explained. “They come and go upon the road from the citadel to the outer wall—they may see the flames. It's not safe.”

“A pity,” said Blodwedd. “Roasted meat is good in the mouth.”

“You like cooked food, then?” said Rhodri. “I thought you might prefer the taste of raw meat.”

Blodwedd frowned. “The food I ate had no taste,” she said. She reached out a hand, two fingers pointing. “I see it move.” She linked her thumbs and spread her fingers in mimicry of a bird's wings. “I float on the wind.” She almost smiled. “A snap of the beak. I swallow, and it's gone. There's no taste, Rhodri. No taste at all. Human food is…”

“Better?” Rhodri offered.

“Different,” said Blodwedd. “Perhaps I shall miss it when I get my true form back.”

“So, being human isn't all bad?”

Blodwedd tilted her head, her eyes thoughtful. “It is hateful to be without flight,” she said at last. “You folk—you crawl along the ground, bound to the earth. You never feel the keen north wind in your faces as you rise high into the sky.” Her voice took on an almost elegiac quality, and Branwen found herself gazing at the owl-girl in surprise. “Never know the joy of the silent swoop. Ahhh!” Blodwedd sighed. “To glide above the forest roof on a moonless night!
There is joy indeed—there lies contentment.”

“You wouldn't be able to do much soaring with your injured arm,” Rhodri said. “Not for a while yet.”

“You think not?” Blodwedd pulled the bandage loose from her arm.

“Branwen, look at this!” Rhodri exclaimed in amazement. “There's no inflammation, and the wound is already scabbed over and healing.”

“Good,” Branwen said curtly. “I am glad.”

“Did I not tell you, Rhodri?” said Blodwedd. “We heal quickly or not at all. Were I in my true form, already I would be winging over the treetops.”

“Do you not hate Govannon for taking that away from you?” Branwen asked quietly.

Blodwedd gave her a startled look. “Hate Lord Govannon?” she said. “How could that be? I
am
Lord Govannon!”

Branwen almost choked on a piece of cheese. “What do you mean?” She coughed, half rising.

“All creatures of the woodlands are a part of the great Lord of the Forests,” said Blodwedd. “He is in all of us, warm as blood, rich as rising sap, sharp as claws and thorns, bursting with life like a new-hatched chick or a seedling striving for the sun. We are his children and his limbs and his heart and eyes, his fingers and his arms and legs, his muscles and sinews and bones. We are all of him, the great Lord, Lord of the Forest—Govannon of the Wood.” Her strange
eyes turned to Branwen. “How could I hate him?”

Branwen sat down again, swallowing hard. “Does he have no physical form, then?” she asked. “I have heard that he was like a man—or half man, half stag. A man with antlers.”

Govannon of the Wood. He of the twelve points. Stag-man of the deep forest, wise and deadly
…

“I know nothing of that,” said Blodwedd. She touched a finger to her forehead. “He comes into my mind as a great eagle—greater than all others, greater than any that have ever been. His wings span the land from sea to sea, and when he rises into the sky, the sun is dimmed and his shadow covers the world.” Her eyes shone. “With one claw he could pluck a mountain out by its roots, and when he lifts up his voice, the stars shiver and the moon cracks. That is the Lord Govannon.”

“I don't understand,” said Branwen. “Rhiannon was a woman—a woman in white who rode a white horse. But…but you say that Govannon is a
bird
?”

Blodwedd gave a throaty laugh. “The Lady Rhiannon is not a woman,” she said. “The Shining Ones are not
human
, Warrior-Child.” She laughed again, as if the absurdity of the idea delighted her.

“You mean the Shining Ones can be anything they wish?” said Rhodri. He looked at Branwen. “Do you see?” he said. “Rhiannon showed herself to you as a woman—because you're human. For Blodwedd, Govannon is a bird. A huge eagle. They change their
appearance to fit their surroundings—and their needs.”

Blodwedd nodded enthusiastically. “That is the truth, Rhodri,” she said. “To the fish of the wide rivers, Rhiannon is an ancient pike. To the trees of the forest, Govannon is a mighty oak.” She raised her hand. “Lord Govannon is
all
trees, he is
all
birds, he is
all
creatures: deer, shrew, wren, and raven, oak, ash, and thorn. The lark in the morning and the owl at night. The white snowdrop in spring and the acorn of the late summer. Open your eyes, Warrior-Child—see truly who the spirits are that guide you!”

 

“We will sleep tonight in the forest,” said Branwen. “We must take it in turns to keep watch. If there is any sign of people in the woods, we must know it—and avoid them.” She glanced at Blodwedd. “We cannot risk being discovered.”

“I will watch through the night,” said Blodwedd.

“No, we should take turns,” Rhodri suggested. “We all need to get some sleep.”

Blodwedd smiled. “I can both sleep and watch together,” she said. “Not a mouse shall stir but I will know of it, no matter how deep my slumber.” Her eyes turned to Branwen. “I will serve as lookout through the night—if the Warrior-Child trusts me.”

Branwen looked at her. The owl-girl was a dangerous and disturbing creature, and Branwen was certain that she would never grow to like her, but she
had no doubt that Blodwedd could be relied on as a vigilant lookout.

She nodded. “Do it, then—and wake us at the least sight or sound of people. And in any event, wake us before first light. If we are to mingle unseen with the folk who come to Doeth Palas daily to trade, then our disguises will require some items for barter. A few fresh hares should suffice.” She lay down, wrapping Geraint's cloak around herself and bringing the warm, woolen cloth up over her head. “And then we shall learn whether Iwan ap Madoc is to be trusted!”