The Emerald Flame (7 page)

“Use them wisely, Warrior Child. They will not make you invisible, but they will cause the eyes and the attention of ill-wishers to pass you by.” “Is the power only for me?”

“Nay, any of your followers who hold in their hand one of the stones will be protected by their powers,” said Merion. “And one other virtue they have: they will allow the bearer to understand foreign speech.”

“I’ll be able to know what the Saxons are saying, even in their own language?”

“You will,” said Merion. “But the stones will not allow you to speak their tongue, only to understand it.” The yellow points in her hidden eyes flashed. “Know the limits of their powers, Warrior Child.”

“And will they help me to find where Caradoc is imprisoned?” Branwen asked.

“Nay, they have not the power for that,” said Merion. “You will need wit and perseverance to find where my brother is being held. But certain signs I can give you—pointers to help you on your road. The prison of Caradoc of the North Wind lies under the hand of the one-eyed warrior.”

Branwen nodded, closing her hand around the crystals. “The one-eyed warrior. Yes. I understand.”

“Seek the one-eyed warrior in the land of Mercia. You will recognize him; he is known to you.”

Branwen frowned. “I don’t know any warriors with one eye,” she said. “I’m sure I don’t.”

“You will know him well enough when you see
him,” Merion insisted. “Do not doubt it.”

“And how will I know the prison?” asked Branwen. Her first thought was that Caradoc must be held in some strong fortress—in a stone room with a door of thick oak. But if that was true, then surely its lock would be a great iron device—certainly not a lock that could be opened with the small golden key her father had given her.

“You shall know the prison by this sign,” said the crone, passing her hands in front of Branwen’s face. A haze hung in the air like breath on a frosty morning, and there was a moving silhouette in the haze, like something seen through thick mist.

Branwen lowered her eyebrows, squinting as she tried to focus on the shape. It was an animal, padding silently through the gray haze, its back long, its head lowered as though on the scent. Its fur was short, gray like the mist; and it had tufts of hair on its pointed ears. Large paws it had and a blunt face and a short, thick tail.

“It’s a cat!” Branwen murmured, recognizing the smooth, predatory glide of the stocky body. “A big cat.”

“Aye, a lynx,” said Merion, lifting her hands again and dispersing the mist. “Where you see the lynx, there will you find Caradoc’s prison. But do not seek to use the key. Bear the prison back to me as swiftly as you can. If you free him and I am not at hand, he will kill you and all who are with you. Caradoc is a
deadly force, and his anger will be great after being held so long against his will.”

“But what
is
the prison?” Branwen asked. In her mind she saw Caradoc as a full-grown man—so what kind of cage was it that could hold him?

“I do not know,” Merion said. “But remember this: we are not as you see us, Warrior Child. Divested of my human form, my true spirit is as vast as the sky. But its essence is also so small that it could be held between the cupped palms of your two hands.” The crone stared at her. “And now you have all the knowledge that I can give you,” she said. “Be gone from here and do not return but that you have Caradoc of the North Wind with you.”

And as Merion spoke these words, Branwen was hit by a blast of bitter, biting wind. Half blinding her, it sent her staggering backward, out of the cave and into the tunnel, Fain fluttering above her head. Turning her back to the icy gale, Branwen ran over the carpet of bones, her hair snapping and her clothes cracking as she threw herself gratefully toward the bright light of the cave mouth.

T
HE SUN HAD
passed behind the mountain, and the shadows of afternoon were long among the summer-warm rocks as Branwen gathered her followers and told them all that had happened in the cave of Merion of the Stones.

Blodwedd crouched on a high boulder at her back, knees splayed, shoulders hunched, and head low—more frog than owl at that moment. She had already heard the tale, and she was more relieved that Branwen had survived the ordeal than she was astonished by the nature of the task that the Mountain Crone had set her.

But it quickly became clear to Branwen that not all her followers were so at ease with Merion’s enterprise.

“Are the Shining Ones not all powerful?” asked Dera. “How is it laid upon us to help
them?
I thought it would be the other way around.”

“So it has been up to now,” said Rhodri, looking uneasily at Branwen. “Are you sure Merion can be trusted?”

“Hist!” breathed Blodwedd, her eyes flickering. “Among the stones such things should not be voiced. Every pebble is an ear to her. Every cleft a whispering mouth!”

“And is that not enough to give us pause?” murmured Iwan. “That we should fear to voice our doubts lest the Mountain Hag rolls boulders down the mountain to help us on our way?”

Branwen looked at him. “I understand your fears,” she said. “But the question I would have you answer is this: do you trust
me?”

“Of course,” Iwan replied. “Why else would I be here?”

Their gazes locked for a few moments. Branwen felt a curious fluttering in her chest as she stared into Iwan’s unblinking eyes. She looked away and turned to the others. She saw confused and uncertain faces—especially among the four girls of Gwylan Canu.

“Listen, all of you,” she said, her voice firm and resolute. “I have been given a duty to perform, and I
will
go into the east as Merion of the Stones asked, and I
will
seek out the prison of Caradoc of the North Wind. That is the path of my destiny. I have no other choice.”

She saw Dera peering astutely into her face. “But
we
do have a choice, you mean,” she said after a few moments. “I see. Once again you’d be rid of us, Branwen.”

“Yes,” Branwen said. “Yes, I would. I would be rid of any who have doubts or distrust in their hearts. Dera, and you others—Aberfa and Banon and Linette—you joined with me to fight the Saxons and to see Llew ap Gelert brought down. My quest in the east is not of that business. You owe me nothing.”

“Nothing but our lives,” said Linette. “Where would we be now, Branwen, if not for you?”

“Trammeled like beasts in the pits of Gwylan Canu we would be,” added Banon. “Awaiting the pleasures of our Saxon captors—death or servitude, or worse abominations!”

“It wasn’t I who saved you when the Saxon ships appeared,” said Branwen. “It was Govannon of the Shining Ones.”

“All the more reason for keeping faith with you, Branwen ap Griffith,” growled Aberfa. “I am not considered wise or quick-witted, but it seems to me that if we cannot trust the Old Gods after they gave us their help at Gwylan Canu, then we may as well throw ourselves from the heights and put a swift end to our torments.” She looked up at Branwen from under her deep brows. “If the Shining Ones lead us false, then Brython is doomed and all its people with it.”

“A good point well made,” said Iwan. He gave a casual shrug. “But I need no convincing. I’ll follow the barbarian princess all the way to the court of the Saxon king Oswald if she desires it of me.” He cocked an eye at Rhodri. “What’s your word on the matter, Master Runaway?”

“Where the stinging nettle grows, the dock leaf is also found,” said Rhodri. “The one to inflict pain, the other to offer relief. While you ride with her, I’ll certainly not part from Branwen’s side. Nor shall I leave her when you become bored and wander off in search of new diversions.”

Branwen frowned. Nettles and dock leaves. Yes, there was something in that, although the effect that Iwan had on her went much deeper than the smarting of irritant needles in her skin.

“New diversions, is it?” Iwan laughed, staring pointedly at Blodwedd. “Well, a fine animal can be diversion enough, I’ve found; and my gallant Gwennol Dhu soothes my heart when human companionship palls.” His eyebrow raised in a taunting challenge. “But I’d not bed down in the stable with her, no matter how her eyes glowed.”

Rhodri’s hands balled into fists. “What do you mean by that?” he said with suppressed anger. “Speak plainly, Iwan ap Madoc.”

Iwan gave Rhodri a nonchalant look. “The runaway’s so angry, he’s spitting feathers!” He laughed. “How has it come about that his mouth is full of feathers, I wonder?”

Rhodri got to his feet. Iwan’s hand snaked to his sword hilt. The tension was like a fire in the air.

With a single bound, Blodwedd was off the rock and standing between the two young men, her eyes burning into Iwan’s face, her teeth bared. The other girls watched anxiously from the sidelines.

Branwen was among them in a moment, catching hold of Blodwedd’s arm to prevent her from throwing herself at Iwan.

“Stop this!” Branwen shouted. “Rhodri—do you know no better than to rise to Iwan’s bait? And Iwan—keep your taunts to yourself. Do we not have enemies enough that you must amuse yourself by such antics?”

“'Twas but a merry quip to lighten the mood,” Iwan said, spreading his hands.

“Then it should have been funny,” said Dera, her face stern. “And yet it was not! You always had a sharp tongue, Iwan. Sheath it now!”

Iwan bowed to her. “At your request, my lady,” he said, unperturbed. He looked at Rhodri. “Forgive me if I angered you,” he said. “As the scorpion said to the frog: it is in my nature.”

“Then beware your nature,” said Blodwedd, “lest it lead you to an untimely end.”

“Enough of this,” said Branwen. “We have no time for such foolishness!” She looked into the sky, still bright but showing the signs of the oncoming evening. “If you are all resolved to go with me, then let’s ride down into the forest and find some shelter and a spring of water. It’s a long time since we slept. We will camp in the forest tonight and ride eastward at dawn.”

It was a little before sunrise when Branwen awoke, sweating and shivering and brimming with bad dreams. A bird sang a dancing tune in the distance,
full of hope and joy. Voices were whispering in the aromatic darkness under the oak trees. Branwen leaned up on one elbow. Two slender figures were creeping away from the encampment and were quickly lost among the trees. She sat up, pulling sleep-tangled hair off her face. Rhodri was close by, also sitting up, watching the darkness into which the two shapes had vanished.

Seeing her eyes on him he smiled. She noticed that Blodwedd was not at his side, although she had been there when they had gone to sleep, curled up like a cat with his arm slung across her shoulders.

The humped shapes of the others were scattered in the small clearing. In the quiet, Branwen could hear slow, heavy breathing. Aberfa was snoring. The unsaddled horses stood together, their reins looped around branches to stop them from straying. There was no sign of Fain, but Branwen assumed he had found himself a perch somewhere close by.

Rhodri came crawling over to Branwen and sat huddled at her side.

“Blodwedd and Banon have gone hunting for some breakfast,” he whispered to her. “Blodwedd said she could smell woodcocks. We should feast well before we depart—if you think we have the time to build a fire and roast a few small birds.”

Branwen frowned. “Blodwedd doesn’t mind killing birds to eat?” she asked.

“She’s not squeamish where food is concerned,” said Rhodri.

Branwen looked away, biting down on the thoughts that filled her mind.

I do not understand your feelings for her, Rhodri; but if the owl-girl gives you joy, then so be it. Who am I to judge the right and the wrong of it?

“What is it?” he asked softly. “What’s on your mind?”

She turned and looked into his eyes. “Things were simpler when it was just the two of us,” she whispered. “The more people … the more chance there is of conflict, it seems to me.”

“That’s always true,” said Rhodri. “And also the more hope of fellowship and amity, not to mention the strength that we gain from our companions. And where we’re going, we’ll need their fighting strength, Branwen.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I have the gift of healing, and I’m strong enough if you want a tree felled or a field plowed; but we’re heading into unfriendly territory, and swords will be needed unless the luck of the pooka travels with us.”

She looked sideways at him. “You wouldn’t wish for maybe one less sword, though?”

“Iwan is a loudmouth and a mischief maker,” Rhodri said without rancor, understanding immediately whom Branwen meant. “But I’ve suffered worse abuse than any he can throw at me, and he has fighting skills that we cannot afford to lose.”

“I don’t know why he needs to challenge people the way he does,” Branwen murmured. “He has no need to be so quarrelsome and arrogant.”

“You heard what he said yesterday; it is his nature to behave like that.”

“No, I don’t think it is,” Branwen said under her breath. “I think in his heart he is quite different. He angers me so much at times. And yet … every now and then …” She paused, suddenly aware that she was about to speak aloud things that she had not even voiced clearly in her own mind.

“Every now and then …?” Rhodri prompted.

She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I don’t know what I was going to say.” She stretched and yawned. “It’s almost dawn,” she said briskly. “Let’s make up a fire to welcome back our two hunters. We do all deserve a good meal before we ride headlong into a forest of Saxon swords.”

She stood up and glanced around at the sleepers under their cloaks.

One face was turned toward her. One pair of eyes was open.

Iwan was watching her; and for a fleeting moment in the darkness she saw on his face an expression that both thrilled and alarmed her with its raw intensity.

But then his shoulder hunched, and he tucked his head down into his cloak again.

“B
RANWEN, I FEEL
a great sadness in you. Does the burden of leadership weigh heavy?”

Blodwedd’s voice brought Branwen up out of a deep reverie. They were riding together on Stalwyn in order to give Rhodri’s horse some respite from carrying two riders. Iwan was now doubling with Linette for the same reason, while the rest of them paused and changed every now and then to relieve the other horses.