The Emerald Flame (8 page)

They had left the mountains and the forests behind, and they were now passing through the rough and tumble of Cyffin Tir—the cantref of Branwen’s dead father and widowed mother, the land of her home.

The sun was high in a sky marbled with white cloud. A warm breeze ruffled the heather and set the
grasses hissing. All about them were raw, bony hills and steep-sided valleys sparkling with swift white streams. Birds sliced the sky like arrowheads. Insects darted and droned.

All so familiar to Branwen. And yet …

“I was thinking of my mother,” Branwen replied, her voice soft and melancholy. She looked into the south. Somewhere, hidden in the folds of the untamable landscape, lay the solitary hill of Garth Milain, with the burned shards of the citadel of Lord Griffith and Lady Alis upon its crown.

Gazing into the distance, Branwen almost believed she could smell the acrid smoke drifting in the air, although she knew it must be only in her imagination. The charred timbers were long cold now; and under her warrior-mother’s formidable will, it was even possible that reconstruction had already begun.

“And thinking of your mother makes you sad?” asked Blodwedd.

Branwen paused, not sure how to answer this. “Thinking of her gives me strength,” she said at last. “Not knowing when I shall see her again makes me very sad.”

“You would be with her if you could?” asked Blodwedd.

“Of course I would. I think of her and of my poor dead father and of my brother, Geraint, all the time.” A catch came into her throat as images of her shattered family swam into her mind. She lowered
her voice so that it was no more than a whisper. “I will tell you this, Blodwedd, for your ears alone. If not for the fact that I am given no time to dwell on what I have lost—no time to grieve for my slain father and brother, no time to mourn my stolen life—I believe I would have lost my wits by now; truly I do.”

Branwen found herself wondering why she had confided such a private thing to the owl-girl—a thing she would have hesitated to say aloud even to trustworthy Rhodri. It surprised her how much their relationship had changed. Perhaps it was because Blodwedd was part of the destiny that was driving her ever onward. Perhaps because Blodwedd would not judge her in human terms. Or perhaps because Blodwedd had also been torn from her former life by forces beyond her control. And in the owl-girl’s case, that was a severance that would never be healed. In order to bring the aid of Govannon of the wood to Branwen in the battle of Gwylan Canu, Blodwedd had sacrificed her true shape and given up forever the twilight world she had always known.

“Do not tell Rhodri of these things,” Branwen murmured. “I know he has seen me weak and indecisive, but he now needs me to be strong and resolute—as do all of the people who follow me. What faith would they have in our cause if I hesitate and falter?”

“I need it also.” Blodwedd sighed. “For if you fall, what purpose do
I
have in this twilight life?”

“I won’t fall!” This was spoken for reassurance, not out of conceit.

The approaching clop of hooves and jangle of harnesses made Branwen turn her head. Iwan was closing in on her, Linette’s slender, pale arms twined around his waist, her light brown hair shining in the sun, and her eyes bright. The thought flickered across Branwen’s mind that she did not need to cling quite so tightly to him, nor take such pleasure in the intimacy of riding tandem with him. But then he
was
the heir to Gwylan Canu—quite a catch for any maiden.

“Are we close to the border now, Branwen?” Iwan asked.

“Hmmm?” Distracted for a moment: Linette was slender and pretty—what young man would not wish to have her arms wrapped around him?

“Have we reached Mercia yet?” Iwan said. “You know these lands better than any of us. Do we need to be stealthier now?”

“We are close,” said Branwen, dragging her thoughts back to the moment. She pointed ahead. “See that ridge of high land? That is where Cyffin Tir ends and the great plain of Saxon Mercia begins. But we should be safe from prying eyes for a while—and Fain is on the wing. He will spy out danger before it comes upon us.”

“But Mercia is a vast land, from what I have heard,” said Linette. “Did Merion give you no token to help you in your search?”

“None save that Caradoc is captive of a one-eyed man, and that his prison will be marked by a lynx,” said Branwen.

The others had caught up with them by now: Dera and Rhodri riding solo, Aberfa and Banon mounted together close behind.

“Did you not tell us that Caradoc’s jailer was a one-eyed
warrior?”
Dera asked. “A man that you would know on sight?”

“So Merion told me,” said Branwen. “But I don’t see how that can be.”

“Could he be someone you met in battle?” asked Banon.

“I’ve encountered many Saxons at sword point,” said Branwen. “But none that I’d remember. They all look alike to me: savage, pale-eyed brutes with bristling beards and foul breath.”

“And yet Merion said he was a warrior,” said Rhodri. “And when they are not on the march, the Saxon army is encamped outside the town of Chester. Might he be there?”

“How would I know that?” Branwen retorted, frustrated for a moment that she was unable to answer these questions.

“The Saxons are probably in some disarray,” added Iwan. “The defeat at Gwylan Canu and the death of General Ironfist would be known to them by now. This could be the perfect opportunity to use those white crystals of yours, Branwen, and to slip in among them and learn all that we can of their
intentions. That way we would be doing Merion’s bidding, and thwarting King Oswald’s plans of conquest at the same time.”

“And Chester is a great meeting of the ways, Branwen,” Dera added. “Even if your one-eyed warrior is not there, in the streets of that old town we may learn news enough to send us on the right track.”

“And we may meet up again with Gavan and his merry troop,” said Iwan. “Were they not heading for the army camp outside Chester?”

“They were,” said Branwen. “But we should avoid contact with them if they are there. Gavan would have no sympathy for our cause, and I’d not have our mission put into jeopardy by the likes of Bryn and his blundering friends!”

“The camp is huge,” said Rhodri. “Far larger even than Doeth Palas. Many thousands of warriors are mustered there. We should have no trouble avoiding Gavan ap Huw.”

“Chester, then?” Branwen said thoughtfully. “Yes, why not? The town lies little more than half a day’s ride from the borders of Cyffin Tir, across a wasteland of forest and marsh.” She looked up at the sun. “We could be there before nightfall, if all goes well.” She straightened her back. “To Chester, then,” she said. “Into the very mouth of the wolf!”

In truth, Branwen knew little of the lands into which they were encroaching—and all that she did know had been picked up from listening to old men and
warriors swapping tales around the fire in the Great Hall of Garth Milain.

In her mind, Mercia was a land under perpetual nightfall—a land swarming with evil, a land of cold iron and fierce, savage people who looked upon Brython with hate-filled, envious eyes.

As a child, she had once joined in a rat hunt in the storage barns. The men had hunted the vermin by torchlight in deep evening. How old had she been? Five, six maybe—in among the legs of the tall men of Garth Milain, clutching a stick to beat at the filthy creatures. She had gone with the men into the back of a barn. A wooden winnowing pallet had been thrown aside—and a writhing and squirming nest of rats had been revealed! Branwen had never forgotten the disgusting, revolting sight; and that memory of the squealing and moiling rats had become over the years linked to all she had heard about the Saxons.

Rats and Saxons—they were one and the same.

Branwen remembered how she had screamed and beaten at the rats with her stick, frightened and enraged and sickened by them, lashing out wildly as the vile creatures had scattered in all directions—flooding through the legs of the hunters, tumbling and slithering, screaming as their backs were broken and their skulls were pulped. She remembered how the maimed and the injured rats had jerked in their death throes, all bloody and twisted and burst open on the ground.

A small fragment of the loathing and anger that she had felt came back to Branwen as she led her small band of followers beyond the lands she knew and into enemy territory.

Rats and Saxons.

Saxons and rats.

One and the same.

Deserving only of servitude or death.

And so, with Branwen’s mind filled with such unpleasant images, they passed out of Powys and rode with heightened vigilance into the land of Mercia.

“Is that Fain?” Banon’s long arm shot out, her finger pointing to a dot that wheeled just above the eastern horizon.

“I hope so,” said Branwen, peering into the watery blue sky. “It’s time he returned.”

The falcon had been gone for a long while now, and Branwen was becoming worried that some Saxon bowman had shot him out of the sky. It had not been so long ago that she had thought him dead, and some of that anxiety remained.

The black shape floated above a forest of dark, glossy-leafed alders that spread itself out across a wide, shallow valley. Branwen’s band had come to the eastern edge of a final hill, and in front of them the land dropped gently down to a seemingly endless plain.

From here Branwen could see far out to a blue haze where land and sky met. It was a strangely
smooth land; it had no real headlands or ridges—no bones showing through its green and lush flesh—just a gently undulating ocean of moors and forest and peaceful, untilled lowlands empty of human life.

Odd. She had expected something different. A pall of darkness over the land? A countryside where rats might swarm in their thousands? Something less …
benign?

“That’s no falcon,” said Blodwedd, her hands on Branwen’s shoulders as she leaned forward to watch the solitary bird. Her fingers tightened, her nails digging in. “It’s a raven,” she said, her voice suddenly harsh. “And very large for its kind.”

“A bird of ill omen,” muttered Aberfa.

“Hush now,” said Banon, seated in front of her. “It’s but a bird.”

“You do not understand,” said Aberfa. “A wise woman spoke over my cradle when I was newborn. She told my mother that she should beware ravens if she wished to keep me from harm.”

“Your mother is the greatest teller of tall tales in all of Gwylan Canu, and you know it!” Banon said. “Like as not she made up the whole thing to prevent you from straying.”

“Think you so?” Aberfa said dubiously.

“I am sure of it.”

“Ill omened or not, it is coming this way,” said Rhodri, staring into the sky. “And Blodwedd is right—it’s a mighty, big bird.”

The raven climbed the sky, flying toward them but rising always higher until it was far above their heads, a threatening black cruciform shape cruising the air on stilled wings.

“There’s evil in that creature,” said Blodwedd, straining her neck to stare up at the slowly circling raven. “Deep, old evil.”

Branwen didn’t know about evil, but she did have the feeling that the bird’s eyes were peering down at them. They were all staring up at the raven now, their eyes wide as though they had been transfixed by its appearance.

“It’s watching us,” hissed Dera. “Can’t you feel it?”

“It’s no ordinary bird, that’s for sure,” said Linette. “What do you think it wants?”

“The tales told by the Saxons say that Skur is always accompanied by a raven,” Rhodri reminded them. “A raven named Mumir.”

“The saints protect us!” murmured Banon.

“I’d test its mettle were it a little closer,” said Iwan. “I’d launch an arrow, and we’d soon know if it had the protection of a heathen godling!”

The raven circled them, high above the reach of bow or slung stone. Branwen felt its presence like a spike driving into her mind. The tension made the air ring in her ears. A pain grew behind her eyes. Still she couldn’t look away. It was as though the world had come to a halt—as though time was standing still, and nothing more would ever happen
unless the oppressive attention of the steadily wheeling bird could be broken. It
had
to be broken!

But the air was as thick as tree sap, and her limbs were leaden.

Summoning all her willpower, Branwen drew her sword and brandished it in the air.

“Do you see me?” she shouted up at the raven. “Do you know who I am? If you mean us no harm, then go about your business; but if you’re a demon come to spy on us, return to your master and tell him we do not fear him! Tell him we are coming!”

A single, harsh croak sounded from above as though in reply to her challenge. Then the wide black wings flapped, and the raven sped down from the sky toward the forest.

Around her, the others gasped for breath and stared at one another as though they’d all snapped out of the same dark dream.

“Well!” breathed Iwan, giving a crooked smile as he looked at Branwen. “I will say this for you, barbarian princess, you don’t shrink from defying the Saxon war-gods!”

Branwen gasped in relief as all the tension and the pressure was suddenly gone from her head. “Why should I?” she replied, filled with a sudden brash conviction. “I have my own protectors.” She slapped the reins to get Stalwyn moving again. “And I have a great destiny!” she called back as her tall bay stallion
went cantering down the hillside. “Didn’t you realize, Iwan ap Madoc—I’m going to save the whole of Brython!”

Once out on the plain, she urged Stalwyn to a full gallop. Blodwedd’s arms were as tight as vines around Branwen’s waist, and the wind was shrill in her ears and cold and fierce in her eyes. A kind of madness was in her head, seething through her as rich as blood, clouding her mind and setting a wild fire in her heart.

She knew not from where this sudden frenzy had come, nor did she care as she utterly surrendered herself to it. The feeling was overwhelming and glorious! She felt as though with a tug of the reins she could foil the pull of the earth and lift Stalwyn up into the sky, to go galloping above the forest roof, up and up into the vault of the heavens until she might reach the sun itself and strike its disk with the blade of her sword as though beating a great golden gong!