Destiny's Path (12 page)

There was some laughter at this, but Iwan broke angrily into it. “If Gwylan Canu is taken while
we slumber and snore, every death will be on our heads.”

“Calm yourself, boy!” ordered the third voice. “Dagonet ap Wadu will have reached the citadel by now. They will know of our coming. The gates will be closed. Why do you fret? Gwylan Canu is a strong fortress and your father a fearsome warrior. We will arrive in time, Iwan, have no fear.”

Branwen heard Iwan give a snort of anger. She knew why he was angry and frustrated by the delay; he alone knew that Dagonet would not be arriving at Gwylan Canu with hopeful tidings. There had been no messenger to begin with.

“Don't stray, lad,” called the first man.

Branwen realized that Iwan must have got up from the fireside and walked away from the men.

“I'm going to check on the horses,” called Iwan, his voice farther away now. “Perhaps they'll make more sense than you bunch of old women!”

The soldiers roared with laughter.

Branwen moved stealthily across the hillside, careful not to rustle a branch or snap a twig. She peered around a trunk. The horses were gathered a little way off from the fires, haltered by reins looped around fallen branches and large stones. A slim shadow moved among them.

She slipped from cover and was among the horses in an instant, smelling their distinctive scent, listening to their breathing and their nighttime movements.
She ran her hand over flank and neck, enjoying the rough texture of their hair, wishing she had some morsel—an apple or something—to offer them as they turned their huge, noble heads toward her.

And then one horse in particular nuzzled against her—and even in the dark of night, she knew him. A tall bay stallion, the bold and true friend she had been forced to leave behind when she had fled to save Rhodri from the gallows. Her own horse.

“Stalwyn!” she breathed, lifting her hands to stroke his neck and run glad fingers through his glossy black mane. “I thought I'd never see you again, boy.” She pressed her face into his neck and breathed in deeply, her head filling with his warm, horsey scent. “So, they knew your worth, did they, the men of Doeth Palas? Who rides you now to war, boy? Someone equally worthy, I hope.” Stalwyn lifted his head, his liquid black eye shining. He pushed his soft nose into her shoulder, as if glad to be reunited with her. “I'd ride off with you now, if I could,” she murmured. “But we'd be seen and that would not be good. Be brave and steadfast, and with luck we will be together again in time.”

Oh, but the smell of him brought back such memories! There was a thickness in her throat and a prickling in her eyes as she remembered carefree days riding on the heaths with Geraint, the wind slapping her skin red as berries, Stalwyn's body moving powerfully under her as she gripped him tight
with her knees and thighs and they raced away the long summer days.

She thought of him in wintertime, fetlock-deep in snow, his breath white like the smoke from a smithy's fire when the bellows are blown. The trill of a hunting horn. The chase for a stag. And Stalwyn sweating in the paddock afterward, leaning into her as she wiped him down with sacking, his hot horse smell filling her head.

Lost times. Never to be recovered, except with the bittersweet stab of memory.

“Branwen?” The voice was a low murmur, breaking the reverie into which Stalwyn's scent had thrown her. She looked around sharply, her fingers gripping her knife. Iwan was staring at her, his face just a pale blur in the night. He came closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You followed us?”

“I had to know your home would be saved,” Branwen whispered back. “But why are there only fifty of you? Prince Llew could have spared more, surely?”

“More are coming,” murmured Iwan, his head close to hers, his eyes dark and deep. “Two hundred or more—on foot, as soon as they can be mustered. But fifty horse was all that the prince could bring together on such short notice.”

So Rhodri's guess had been right—these were only the vanguard of the force that would be sent. Good. Very good—so long as they came quickly!

“At least Prince Llew believed you,” Branwen said.

“Aye, I played the part well. But you should not be here. It isn't safe. What if you are discovered?”

“Don't worry on my behalf,” Branwen replied.

He looked closely into her face, his breath warm on her cheek. “Oh, but I do,” he whispered, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “I knew from the first time I saw you that you'd stamp a heavy foot on my heart, Branwen.”

She stared at him, confused, not understanding what he meant. Was he playacting again?

“You should not have come, Iwan,” Branwen murmured.

He looked puzzled. “Why so?”

Because I fear you will be killed!

A deep voice called. “Hoi! Iwan!”

He spun, his face perturbed. “Here, Captain—I'm coming.” He glanced briefly at Branwen, moving away, holding his arm out toward her, warning her to stay hidden. Without thinking she reached out, and their fingers touched for a moment.

Then he was gone among the horses.

“Who were you speaking to, Iwan?” came Captain Angor's voice.

Branwen shrank away between the horses, a cold sweat starting on her face and the blood throbbing in her ears.

“Gwennol Dhu was fretful,” Iwan replied smoothly. “I calmed her with a few gentle words.”

“The horses are agitated, for sure,” said the Captain. “They care not for this forest. It has an ill
name in legend: the Ghostwood. Perhaps ancient memories linger.”

“Memories of the Old Gods, do you mean?” asked Iwan.

“There are no Old Gods, boy,” Angor said abruptly. “There are Saint Cadog and Saint Dewi and Saint Cynwal. Look you how they watch over us. We need no others.”

“But the saints have gentle hands and they watch from afar,” Iwan responded. “It is said the Saxons have terrible gods. Gods of thunder and lightning, blood and iron. Gods of death and mayhem. Can the saints protect us against such gods?”

“Aye, lad—that they can, have no fear on that score. Come now—get you to sleep, Iwan ap Madoc. It is stern work that awaits us with the coming of the new day.”

Branwen heard them move away, back toward the campfires. She let out a long, slow breath.

She waited among the horses until she felt it was safe to slip into the sheltering darkness under the trees and up the long hill to where her companions were waiting.

The Ghostwood, haunted by memories of ancient things. But
what
ancient things? Branwen wondered as she climbed whether Blodwedd would be able to tell her more. Yes, if anyone knew the secrets of this place, it would be Govannon's messenger.

“A
RE YOU THISTLEDOWN
that you think you can move among men without being seen?” In the darkness under the trees, Blodwedd's eyes were like angry fires.

“No one saw me except for Iwan,” Branwen retorted, stung by the owl-girl's rebuke and refusing to be browbeaten. “And I won't answer to you for my movements. You're here to be my guide, not my master.” She held Blodwedd's eyes.

“Did you find out anything of use?” Rhodri asked, obviously wanting to break the tension between his two companions.

“More soldiers are coming,” Branwen said, turning to Rhodri. “Iwan told me so. And one of the soldiers thinks there's a storm coming.” She peered up through the branches. “But I'm not so sure.” In
the clear sky, stars were twinkling, cold and remote.

“He is right,” said Blodwedd, looking at Rhodri. “I can smell it on the air. It rides in on a brazen west wind. There will be rain before dawn.”

“Then we should get what sleep we can,” said Rhodri. “For a while, before the heavens open.” He pulled his cloak around his shoulders and curled up on his side.

Branwen settled back against a tree trunk, pillowed on dead leaves, with her knees up, her feet splayed, and her arms folded over her chest. She closed her eyes but was vividly aware of Blodwedd's presence on Rhodri's far side, bundled up like a grasshopper on a stoop of hay. Did the girl never lie down?

Girl? Is that what you called her? Careful, Branwen—don't forget what she truly is
.

Branwen opened an eye. She was surprised to see Blodwedd gazing at Rhodri with a curious, conflicted expression on her pale, wide face. It seemed part fascination, part joy, and part…what?
Longing
, almost. Yes, that was it exactly—a look of quiet, almost regretful yearning.

Has she fallen in love with him
? Branwen wondered. She found the idea faintly repellent. And what feelings did Rhodri have for the owl-girl? He was kind to her, as was his nature, and he was obviously intrigued by her. But surely it was no more than that? Surely he could not have deep feelings for a creature so inhuman that she had come close
to slaughtering a helpless baby?

Blodwedd's eyes turned toward her and her face became blank and unreadable again. “You may speak freely,” Blodwedd said. “He will not wake.”

“Why?” Branwen asked sourly. “Have you put a spell on him?”

“Not I,” Blodwedd replied. “There are things you wish to ask me, but you fear the answers. Ask anyway, Warrior-Child—it is the fears that are never faced that gnaw the deepest.”

“The men were talking about this place,” Branwen began hesitantly. “About this forest. Something about it scares them, like children frightened of the dark, except not quite that. One of them started to talk about the Old Gods, but he was told to hold his tongue.” She sat up now, suddenly sleepless. “Do the Shining Ones live in this forest?”

“I have told you already,” Blodwedd said, as though speaking to a child. “The Shining Ones live in all things—trickle and torrent, shoot and tree, pebble and crag, breeze and blizzard.
All
things.”

“So why do the men call this place the Ghostwood?”

The huge eyes shone. “Perhaps because this was a place of worship in the young days, in the days before the counting of days. It was here they venerated the guardians of the land and gave thanks for their stewardship.”

Branwen tried hard to understand what the owl-
girl was telling her. “You mean there was a temple here—a Druid temple—before the Romans came?”

“A sacred place,” said Blodwedd. “A blessed place. A glorious place. If men fear it now, it is only because they know in their hearts that they have turned away from the father who seeded them and the mother who bore them and watched over them. They fear to come here because this place speaks to them of who they once were, and shows them the folly of the path upon which their feet are now set.” Blodwedd rose to her feet. “It whispers of their peril, Warrior-Child. It murmurs of their doom.”

“A Saxon doom?” Branwen asked, gazing up into the owl-girl's face. She trembled as Blodwedd stared at her; she felt in danger of losing herself once more in those golden eyes. But she could not tear herself free from the gaze.

Her head throbbed, and white lightning flashed at the edges of sight. Her skin prickled hot and cold, and she felt dizzy and disoriented as though in a nightmare or a high fever. Blodwedd seemed somehow to have grown taller; she towered over Branwen, her head among the stars, her feet sunken deep into the earth, her arms as wide as the night sky.

“The riddling Saxons will come, Warrior-Child,” cried Blodwedd, her voice booming in Branwen's mind, “and the high-hearted Angles and the flaxen Jutes and the runewise Danes.” Lightning flashed around the owl-girl like knives, and white sparks
rose from her hair, forming forked, antlerlike shapes against the dark sky.

“What are you talking about?” shouted Branwen. “I don't understand!”

But Blodwedd didn't seem to hear her.

“And also will come the butchering Vikings,” she raged on, “steeped to the shoulder in crimson gore, cutting the blood eagle and sprinkling salt in the wounds. And in their wake will come the courtly Normans and Owain Gwynedd, first prince of the Walha. And in time upon bad time, Edward Longshanks will awaken to slaughter the four brothers of Gwynedd and to hack off the head of Llewellyn Ein Llyw Olaf—the last leader of your people—and carry it as a trophy through the streets of London.”

“Stop! Stop!”

“And then, in the reign of Henry Plantagenet, third of that name, the great hero Owain Glyndwr will arise—a warrior descendant of warrior stock, the far-flung son of the daughters of the sons of the women of the House of Griffith!”

“For pity's sake—enough!” cried Branwen, screwing her eyes shut tight, pressing her hands to her ears to try and hold back the thundering and crashing of Blodwedd's voice in her head.

And suddenly the voice was gone—and all Branwen could hear was the hiss and spatter of rain. She held her breath for a few moments to be sure. Yes, Blodwedd's rantings were over.

Branwen could still hear the thunder, but there were no longer words in it. She could still see the cold fire of the lightning through her closed eyes. She could feel rain on her skin.

She opened her eyes. Blodwedd was standing over her, small and slender again, gazing unfathomably down at her through a curtain of slanting rain. Branwen gasped, her head aching and her limbs tingling as though the lightning had got into her body and was burning her from within.

Blodwedd stretched down a thin hand. Branwen took it and got up. She glanced at Rhodri, sleeping still in all the tumult, curled under his rain-speckled cloak. The horses stood close by, lost in imperturbable horse dreams.

Wordlessly, Blodwedd led Branwen through the trees. The rain tapped on the leaves like impatient fingers, but beneath their feet the ground was still dry. Thunder rumbled and growled, and blades of lightning bleached the world black and white, so that sable trees stood stark against a backdrop of blanched nothingness, like a veil thrown across eternity.

They came to a grove where there was no rain and no thunder. The sky above was vibrant with uncountable stars. The air was sweet and warm. Branwen saw that the skulls of animals had been nailed high on the trunks of the trees that ringed the glade, their staring eye sockets black in the light of flickering torches.

A rhythmic drumming filled the trees, throbbing
in the air and making the ground shudder under Branwen's feet.

A circle of gray, shoulder-high standing stones dominated the grove, rough-hewn into shapes like pointed leaves or spearheads. Designs and patterns had been engraved on the stones, but the hollows and ridges were blurred by lichen and fungi.

Branwen had the certain feeling that the stones had been there for a long time—girdled with snowdrops in festive spring, scorched by the sun in high summer, marooned in an ocean of brown leaves in autumn, snow-crowned in deepest winter—enduring and outlasting all that the shifting seasons offered for years beyond count.

A woman stood in the middle of the stone circle, dressed in deep-blue robes, her arms spread wide and her face lifted toward the starry night sky. She was chanting, her deep, resonant voice keeping time to the drum.

As the woman threw her words up into the immense darkness, four figures moved around her in a slow ritual dance. One was a woman, turning and turning, dressed in white; her long, fine white hair spun with her, and in her hands she held the white
skull of a horse. The second was a man dressed all in green, stamping with heavy feet, antlers bound to his forehead. The third figure, bent-backed, stumbled forward, its gnarled fingers clutching a twisted stick; it was masked with an ancient and ugly face, wrinkled and wise. The last of the four was a man in gray who tumbled and cavorted and pranced and leaped like cloud-wraiths in a gale.

“What is this?” Branwen asked, her mouth dry, her head hammering.

“The midsummer rites from the years of man's innocence,” said Blodwedd. “Do you recognize the players, Warrior-Child?”

“The woman in white is like Rhiannon,” said Branwen. “I imagine the green man is Govannon of the Wood.”

“Yes. And the crone is Merion of the Stones and the cloud-man is Caradoc of the North Wind. This is from the days of belief, Warrior-Child—from the days of bone-deep faith and loyal blood. This is from the days of
understanding
.”

“Geraint told me that the Druid priests sacrificed children to the Shining Ones,” Branwen said. “That they used human blood to placate the Old Gods. That they were terrible and full of vengeance.”

“Do you see spilled blood, Warrior-Child?” asked Blodwedd. “Do you feel fear in the air?”

“No.” There was certainly no sensation of fear in the glade. Instead Branwen sensed joy and awe, as
though this worship she was witnessing was a pleasure and a privilege. She turned to look into Blodwedd's golden eyes. “Why did we turn our backs on them?”

“You are human—you tell me.”

“I don't
know!
”

“Humans are weak and changeable,” said Blodwedd. “All the same, the parent loves still the wayward child, foolish and errant though it be. But when danger threatens, then the children must return and guard the home, lest the house fall and all are consumed in the flames.” A sinister, dreadful light glowed again in Blodwedd's eyes. “The Shining Ones dread the coming of the Saxons, Warrior-Child. They dread the things these folk bring with them.”

“What things?” Branwen whispered.

“The dark and brutal gods that dwell in their hearts,” Blodwedd murmured. “Gods of warfare and avarice who have no love for Brython nor its people. Gods with iron teeth and hearts of stone. Gods whose footsteps burn, whose touch withers, whose breath is plague and damnation. Gods who will enter the hearts and minds of the people of Brython and destroy them.”

Branwen felt her eyes widen in horror. “So the Shining Ones would have me fight not only the Saxons, but their gods as well?”

Blodwedd smiled. “Now you have wisdom, Warrior-Child,” she said. “Now you see all! But the task is not
as heavy as fear makes it appear. The Saxon gods follow behind the armies, feeding on death and despair as carrion birds feed on the fallen in battle. Hold back the Saxons and their gods will never darken this land. Do this thing and you will turn the long hard winter into glorious summer, Warrior-Child. That is what you must do. That is why the Shining Ones have called you. That is your destiny!”