Destiny's Path (4 page)

“I do not believe you,” Branwen said. “You would say anything to make me do what you wish.”

“I have no wishes,” said Blodwedd. “And I cannot speak falsehoods. Lord Govannon sent me to tell only truths.”

“And I am to trust these ‘truths' you tell?” asked
Branwen angrily. “No! Say nothing more to me—I will not listen. Rhodri, I'm going to ready the horses.” She looked hard at Blodwedd. “Can you run as fast as you once flew?” she asked. “Because if not, you will have a hard time keeping up with us.”

She turned and walked up the rocky hill, heading back toward the horses. “Do as you please—follow or not. I do not care. I am done with you!”

There was a soft sound behind her—or rather, two sounds: a thud followed closely by a dull groan.

Branwen spun around. Blodwedd was running fast up the hill toward her, a rock clasped in one hand, her face ferocious, her eyes ablaze. Behind her, Rhodri was slumped on his side by the stream.

Branwen's fingers went instinctively to her slingshot, but Blodwedd was too swift for her. The owl-girl pounced on Branwen, the rock raised in her fist and ready to beat down on Branwen's head. Stumbling backward over the uneven terrain, Branwen grabbed at Blodwedd's raised arm, gripping her wrist.

She was so strong! It was all Branwen could do to hold her off.

They fell with Blodwedd on top, her lips drawn back in a fierce snarl, her teeth sharp and white.

Using all her strength, Branwen forced Blodwedd's arm sideways, jerking it down so that the back of her hand cracked against a rock.

Blodwedd hissed with pain as the stone was knocked from her fingers. Branwen lurched, trying
to throw the owl-girl off. But Blodwedd wrested her arm free, forcing her legs up so that she was sitting astride Branwen's chest, her knees pinning Branwen's arms with a strength that seemed almost impossible in so slight a frame.

Blodwedd's claw-thin hands gripped either side of Branwen's head, holding her in an unbreakable grip. The owl-girl reared up over her, bringing her head down, their faces so close that their noses almost touched.

“Stubborn and willful, indeed!” Blodwedd hissed. “But you
will
listen! You
will
look!”

Branwen fought desperately to get free, wrenching her head from side to side in the viselike grip of the owl-girl's hands. But she could not loose herself.

“Look into my eyes!” shouted Blodwedd, her breath hot on Branwen's face. “See! See what is to come!”

Against her will, Branwen found herself staring into those two radiant eyes, and as she looked, the unearthly eyes grew and deepened until the whole world was drawn into them and Branwen lost herself in a blazing golden light.

B
RANWEN WAS FLYING
. Above her, the wide sky went on forever. Below her, dark and forested mountains wheeled slowly away, cut by canyons and chasms, threaded by racing rivers and falls, punctuated by jutting peaks and crests and pinnacles of stone.

She turned toward the rising sun. Instinctively, she tried to draw her gaze away from that shimmering white light, but could not. Then she found she could look into the sun—into its very burning heart—and be neither dazzled nor blinded.

The mountains fell away beneath her, descending into foothills cloaked in oak and ash and elm. She swooped down, following the plunge of the land. Ahead, a rugged, wild countryside stretched away in heaths and moorlands into a distant landscape of
cliffs and bluffs and hazy blue distances.

She knew what she was seeing. She was flying over her homeland—over the long, narrow cantref of Cyffin Tir. There, in the east where the horizon blurred, lay the Saxon stronghold of Chester—no more than a dark smudge on the very edge of sight.

Herewulf Ironfist was camped there with his army—a Saxon serpent preparing to uncoil and fall upon the ancient kingdom of Powys, its iron fangs filled with venom.

The ground rushed up. Smoke was rising, thin and pale in the morning light. A tumulus thrust up out of the flat grasslands—a lone hump of hill with a blackened crown burning on its brow.

Centuries upon centuries ago—so long ago that Branwen could not hold the span of years in her mind—ancient peoples had labored to build that lonely mound. The ground occasionally offered up curious treasures: flints cut into arrowheads, delicate as dragonfly wings, sharp as thorns. Rounded stones etched with strange markings. Beads of green or blue or yellow. Puzzling glimpses of a people who had lived once on this land, who had built the hill that later became the fortified village of Garth Milain.

But the lofty citadel was no more. Its tall fence of wooden stakes was burned and broken, its huts and houses were destroyed—even the Great Hall with its high walls of seasoned timber and its long, thatched roof was now no more than a smoldering,
broken-backed hulk.

People were coming and going along the steep ramp that led to the hilltop, salvaging what goods they could from the ruin, bringing down the bodies of the dead. And even from such a height, Branwen could see her mother striding through the mayhem of the battle's aftermath—striving to bring order to the chaos, marshaling her warriors, and organizing the burial of the dead. It was clear that she was preparing what defenses she could against further attack.

Tears fell from Branwen's eyes, spinning and shining like jewels in the treacherous sunlight.

But she was not allowed to linger over her heartbreak. She flew onward into the east, passing beyond the bounds of her homeland, winging into the dark land of Mercia where the Saxons held sway.

And here she saw wonders…and horrors.

The town of Chester sprawled beneath her, teeming with people, far more people than lived in Garth Milain, more even than dwelt in the great hill-fort of Doeth Palas, largest of the fortified villages in the kingdom of Powys. The people swarmed like ants among the houses, forging iron for swords and axes, training horses for battle, baking bread to fill the bellies of their savage warriors.

There, like a black stain on the land, she saw the great encampment of Horsa Herewulf Ironfist, the bane of Brython, the hammer of the east.

She dreaded seeing Saxon warriors pouring
westward from the palisaded camp—new forces sent to annihilate what was left of the army of Cyffin Tir. But the way west was clear of movement. Branwen gave a gasp of relief—Ironfist was not sending a second force to crush her homeland. Instead, a long line of soldiers and horsemen were wending their way northwest, their spearheads and axes and helmets glinting cold in the morning light.

You see?
A low, husky voice whispered close to her ear. The owl-girl's voice.
They come not to grind Garth Milain under their heel. They have other purposes. And see now what they intend! See what fate awaits those upon whom you would turn your back
….

The world spun like a golden wheel, and Branwen found herself standing on a rocky seashore, a shrill north wind smarting in her eyes and a sickly, horrible smell in her nostrils. She stood among a host of fallen warriors. She winced at the sight of bloodied faces and hewn limbs, of butchered men and horses, of cracked shields and dented helmets and shattered swords. A young man stared unseeing into the sky, eyes wide and empty, blood matted thick in his hair.

A slaughter had taken place here—and she could see from the emblems on the shields and the tattered remnants of once-proud banners that these were—that they
had been
—men of Powys.

She smelled smoke and turned. A fortress lay on a cliff overlooking the pounding sea, its high wall of drystone washed to ash-gray in the pitiless sunlight.
Its gates were broken apart. Fire raged in the open heart of the fortress, consuming the thatched roofs of hut and hall, blackening the timbers and flooding the sky with thick dark smoke. Saxon pennants flew in the wind. Saxon ships clove the sea.

A black-bearded Saxon chieftain sat in the saddle of a great black stallion, his arm raised, a grisly trophy hanging from his fingers.

A severed head.

The Saxon fist clutched the head by its light brown hair, which was clotted with blood. Branwen tried to look away, wanting rid of this abominable vision. But against her will she was drawn closer, and she found that her eyes would not close.

Her mind fought to deny what she was seeing—to break the dreadful power of the images searing her mind.

She knew that face—those blank, dead eyes had once flashed with wit and intelligence. The slender, handsome face, now bruised and beaten. The hanging jaw where a knowing smile had once played.

It was Iwan ap Madoc, from the court of Prince Llew—a charming, intriguing, but untrustworthy young man whom Branwen had met in Doeth Palas.

Iwan's lifeless eyes turned to her, and an eerie light came into them.

The dead lips moved. “So, here you are at last, Branwen.” The voice was Iwan's, but it was toneless, hollow, dead. “You have arrived too late, as you can
see—the west is lost. You cheated your destiny well, my friend—the war is played out and the Saxons are in the ascendancy. All is done.” The voice sighed like the sea. “All…is…done….”

“No!” Branwen shouted. “I never wanted this! I didn't know! Forgive me, Iwan—I didn't know!”

But Iwan's face was lost in a vortex of golden light.

T
HE WHEEL OF
burning light divided and pulled back, and suddenly Branwen was staring up into Blodwedd's two golden eyes. She felt the owl-girl's weight on her chest, stifling her breath—the sharp points of Blodwedd's knees on her arms, the cruel grip on either side of her face.

“Get off me!” Branwen heaved, and Blodwedd sprang away, bounding feather-light onto a boulder. She crouched there, watching Branwen through the curtain of her hair, her fingers gripping the boulder's edge like claws.

Branwen struggled to stand. She managed to get to her knees, but a wave of dizziness pinned her there. She knelt, panting, and waited for her head to stop spinning.

“What did you do to me?” she shouted as the
world slithered and writhed around her.

“I showed you the future that will be forged if you forswear your true calling,” said Blodwedd. She angled her mouth in a sharp grin. “Did you like what you saw?”

“Lies!” shouted Branwen, pulling herself upright again. “It was all lies!”

A look of disdain crossed Blodwedd's face. “I do not lie,” she said. “I fly. I hunt. I eat. I watch. I sleep. I do not lie.”

Suddenly Branwen remembered Rhodri. She stared down toward the stream. He was sitting up, leaning heavily on one arm, rubbing his head with his other hand.

“Why did you hit him?” raged Branwen. “He was trying to
help
you!”

“I like him. He has an open and kindly heart,” Blodwedd said, looking down at Rhodri. “That is why I hit him only gently.”

“You didn't need to hit him at all!”

“He would have tried to stop me,” Blodwedd said with a shrug of her thin shoulders. “You needed to see what a threadbare cloth your selfishness would weave. Warp and weft—blood and death.” She cocked her head, her eyes on Branwen again. “If you go to the east, you will shape for yourself a necklace of corpses that will bow your head down to the bowels of Annwn!”

“Be silent!” Branwen shouted. “I won't listen to
you anymore.” She ran unsteadily down the hill. “Rhodri? Rhodri, are you all right?”

He was on his feet now, grimacing and holding his head. “She hit me!” he gasped. “I turned away for a moment and she hit me.”

Blodwedd came racing down the hill, her feet as light as a breeze as she leaped from rock to rock. “Rhodri, forgive me,” she called. “I did not mean you harm. I had business with the Warrior-Child. I could not let you stop me with your great heart and your strong muscles.”

Rhodri winced and frowned at her.

“I shall make amends,” said Blodwedd. “I shall gather wildflowers and roots and herbs for you to make a soothing mash as you did for my arm. Tell me what you need to ease your pain.”

“There's no need,” said Rhodri, the anger draining from his voice. “It's not that bad. The skin's not even broken. But please don't do it again!” He looked at Branwen. “What business did she have with you?”

“She wanted to show me phantoms,” said Branwen. “Ghosts of the pretended future to make me change my mind about going home.”

“Ghosts, you say? What kind of ghosts?”

“A Saxon army heading away north,” Branwen said sullenly. “A battlefield strewn with the dead of Brython. A citadel broken and burning.” She narrowed her eyes, the memory still too fresh in her mind. “Iwan ap Madoc's severed head—speaking to
me from beyond death.”

“And what did he have to say?” Rhodri asked quietly.

“Yes,” murmured Blodwedd, her eyes filled with a knowing light. “Tell him the words of the dead.”

“He…he told me his death was…was my fault,” said Branwen haltingly. “But what does it matter what he said? It was not Iwan—it was just a trick.”

“Are you sure?” murmured Rhodri. “In your heart—are you sure it was a trick?”

“Yes!” Branwen glared at him.
“Yes!”

His eyes were troubled. “But, what if…”

“No!” Branwen shouted, uncertainty and anger boiling up in her. “Leave me alone. Just leave me alone! It's too much. I cannot bear it!”

She turned frantically and ran off into the trees, desperate to escape the confusion that was threatening to overwhelm her.

She had not gone far when she heard behind her a flutter of wings and a familiar “
caw!
”

She stumbled to a halt, holding her breath, her heart thumping, her ears straining.

“Caw!”

She turned. “Fain!”

The falcon was perched on a rock among the trees, watching her intently, his clever eyes bright and black. Something shone between his claws, flashing with reflected sunlight.

“Caw!”

“Why did you leave me?” Branwen asked. “I thought you would guide me, but you flew away, and the shining path disappeared and I was lost in the forest.
Why?
”

She walked slowly toward him.

The thing at the falcon's feet was a knife—a hunting knife with a riveted handle of brown bone, worn smooth by generations of use.

It was the knife Branwen had held when she had stood vigil over Geraint's dead body in Bevan's field. The knife she had taken from among his belongings when she left Garth Milain. The knife that she had thrown in her anger and frustration at Rhiannon of the Spring. The knife the Shining One had turned to a hail of silver drops. But how…?

Fain bobbed his head and stepped aside. Branwen picked up the knife. Oh, but the worn handle felt so familiar in her hand! Geraint's knife—made whole again and returned to her.

She took a deep breath. “Rhiannon!” she shouted.

The ghost of a voice was carried to her like a scent on the breeze.

My part is done, Warrior-Child. Let others now light your path. Have faith. The stronger the tree, the fiercer the storm it can withstand. The brighter the flame, the darker the night. The truer the sword, the stronger the foe. Fare you well, child of the far-seeing eye, child of the strong limb, child of the fleet foot, child of the keen
ear…. Fare you well
….

Branwen stood still for a long time, her arms hanging heavy at her sides. She held Geraint's knife loosely in her fingers. Her heart ached and her throat was so tight that she could hardly swallow.

“Caw!”

Fain's voice was sharp and insistent.

She looked down at the bird. He was watching her with an impatient glint in his eye. “The vision was true,” she said. “If I go home, terrible things will happen in Powys. The Saxons will come to spread death and destruction among my people.” She frowned at the bird. “I must fight my doubt as though it were a Saxon enemy. In many ways, it is….”

Her destiny towered ahead of her like a mountain impossible to climb, its lofty peak soaring far beyond the extent of her vision. In her thoughts were the words she dared not speak aloud.

I shall follow their path, although I cannot see what end it leads toward. Even if I arrive at this end only to discover that I am destiny's fool
.

She slipped Geraint's knife into her belt and began to walk back to the clearing. Rhodri and the owl-girl would be waiting for her.