Destiny's Path (17 page)

B
RANWEN
, R
HODRI, AND
Blodwedd sat among the trees once more as the evening shadows lengthened. They had eaten a bleak meal together, Rhodri and Branwen almost too shocked by the turn of events to put their feelings into words. But no matter how deeply they were hurt by Prince Llew's treachery, they could not remain silent.

“If the prince knew all along that Ironfist was marching on Gwylan Canu, why did he send fifty horsemen to its rescue?” Rhodri asked.

“It was for show, that's all,” Branwen replied. “What else could he do? If Iwan had told people that his homeland was in danger and that Prince Llew had done nothing, how would that look? No, he sent Angor here with a troop of warriors who already knew the truth. But not to help Gwylan Canu—simply to
ensure that all was going as planned. The moment Iwan rode with them, his fate was sealed!”

Branwen shook her head, still enraged and overwhelmed by what she had witnessed. “In fact, it was Iwan's presence among them that made it so easy for Angor to force Lord Madoc to give up the citadel!” She glared at Blodwedd. “If we had not gone to Iwan, perhaps Gwylan Canu would still be holding out against Ironfist's army! We did no good at all. We only caused harm—and made it easier for Ironfist to take the citadel without even having to fight for it!” She glared at the owl-girl. “Your master has only made things worse!”

Blodwedd had not spoken for some time. She sat huddled on the brink of the hill—staring down at the fires and torches that were igniting in the citadel as the evening deepened. “Lord Govannon did not set your feet on the path that took you to Doeth Palas,” she said.

“She's right,” said Rhodri sadly. “That was my idea.”

“Then we should have been sent a sign or something to show us it was a
bad
idea,” said Branwen.

“I don't think it works like that,” Rhodri said in a subdued voice.

Blodwedd looked around. “Lord Govannon will show us the way to thwart that Saxon general's ambitions,” she said softly, almost as though talking to herself.

“Then share his plans with us,” Branwen said bitingly. “All he's done so far is to bring us here too late to do anything other than watch Gwylan Canu fall! What are his plans, Blodwedd? Will he conjure up an army for us, so we can sweep down and assail the citadel? Can he put a battering ram into our hands so we may beat down the gates?” She stood up, anger taking her again. “What will he do for us, Blodwedd?
What
?”

The owl-girl looked up at Branwen with wide, calm eyes.

“What more would you have him do, Branwen?” she asked. “Are you without hope, without thought? His will brought you to this place, at this time, with a purpose. You are the Warrior-
Child
. Use your skills, use your mind.” Her eyes sparked with purpose. “It is for us to find a way!”

“We should try to get word to the king,” said Rhodri.

Branwen nodded. “You're right. The king must be told of this. An army must be assembled and Gwylan Canu retaken before Ironfist can bring yet more Saxon warriors here.” Branwen had not forgotten the other element of her bleak vision. Not only had she seen Ironfist holding up Iwan's head, and the white dragon flying over the citadel, and Saxon warriors triumphant on the walls—she also had seen a fleet of Saxon ships cleaving the waves, and she knew they were coming.

It was no more than a day's march from Ironfist's great encampment outside Chester to the mouth of the River Dee. If her vision was true, then hundreds more Saxon warriors could already be on the open sea. The next morning could see a whole host of their low, square-sailed ships riding the surf off the coast of Teg Eingel.

“The trouble is, we could spend four days on the journey to Pengwern,” Branwen said. “And when we came to King Cynon's court, would we be believed? Will the king accept our word that his most powerful prince has turned traitor? What proof could we offer him?”

“The proof of our own eyes,” said Rhodri. “What more could he ask?”

“A great deal more,” said Branwen. “You are half Saxon, Rhodri—who would trust you? And for all we know, the prince already has conspirators at the Royal Court. How am I to be trusted if Prince Llew's men are there to give the lie to my every word?” She paused for a moment as the glimmerings of an idea came into her head. “But he would surely trust the word of the lord of Gwylan Canu.”

“Doubtless he would,” said Rhodri. “Except that Lord Madoc is being held captive behind the walls of his own citadel.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Or are you suggesting we three should attack Gwylan Canu and rescue Madoc ap Rhain from under Ironfist's very nose?”

“Not attack, no,” said Branwen. “I see no way through that wall. But is it impossible to approach the citadel from the sea?”

“Those who built it must think so,” said Rhodri. “Otherwise walls would surround the entire headland. I would say they think themselves quite secure from a seaborne attack.” He turned, listening to the drumroll of the surf. “Can't you hear the noise the waves make when they break on the rocks?” He shook his head. “That will be the sound of our bones cracking if we attempt such a deed.”

“And that is why no one within will expect such an assault,” Branwen insisted. “There are boats drawn up on the beach a little way along the coast. One of those may serve us, if a way onto the rock could be found.” She looked eagerly into Rhodri's face. “Couldn't a single boat make secret landfall on a dark night? Couldn't three people enter the citadel unseen? And could they not rescue Madoc and escape with him before the alarm was sounded?”

Rhodri pursed his lips. “What are we, flies and spiders that we may cling to sheer rock?” he said. “The land drops straight into the sea all along the headland.”

“We don't know that for sure,” Branwen persisted. “We should send Fain to scout the land for us. He can bring back news of any possible landing-place.”

Rhodri stared dubiously at her for a moment. “Yes,” he said at last. “We should do that.”

Branwen stood and walked over to where the horses had been loosely tethered. She peered up into the darkling branches, but saw no sign of the bird. And then, as though Fain knew he was needed, a dark scythe-shaped shadow came flying through the trees.

Branwen held up her hand, and Fain came to rest upon her wrist. She lifted a finger to stroke his feathers.

Blodwedd was standing suddenly behind her. “Ask him to fly down to the citadel to learn whether it can be approached safely from the sea,” she said. “I will tell you what tidings he brings.”

“Fain—do as Blodwedd says,” instructed Branwen, and she lifted her wrist higher. The falcon lurched forward, his wings spreading and curling. “Be swift and sure, my friend!” Branwen called after him. “Bring us back good news!”

 

“No one has lived here for some time,” said Rhodri as they walked among the huddled huts.

Branwen could see that he was right. From afar the little hamlet had looked like any other, but now that they had come down out of the hills and made their way across rough scrubland to the sandy bay, it was clear that the tumbledown huts were derelict.

In many places their daub-and-wattle walls had crumbled away to reveal the broken mesh of wickerwork beneath. Some of the thatched roofs had fallen
in, leaving the walls standing like the shards of a hollow tooth. Long-cold firepits and scattered pieces of cracked earthenware were dimly discernable in the growing night.

“What took the people?” Branwen wondered, looking uneasily around herself. “This place has a sad and mournful air to it.”

“Disease perhaps?” ventured Rhodri. “Or the village could have been overrun in the old wars, and none ever returned to fish its waters. Who can say?”

Branwen shivered and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. The wind was coming in cool off the sea.

She glanced up to the east. Across this small western bay, Gwylan Canu was a great dark hulk against the sky, cragged and uneven; the roofs of its huts and houses cut sharp shapes against the backdrop of the stars. Taller than all other buildings was the Great Hall, stark and black on its hill. But the citadel twinkled with lights, yellow and red and white, and there were torches lit on the wall, flickering as guards passed in front of them.

“Let's see if the boats are still seaworthy,” Branwen said. She looked sideways at Rhodri. “Can you swim?”

“No.”

“Neither can I,” she said. “Let's hope we find a watertight boat.”

Fain's news had been…
hopeful
. Speaking through
Blodwedd, he had made it clear that he had found no landing posts or jetties along the headland—in most places the black rock dropped straight into the waves without step or handhold. All along the promontory, the endless pounding of the sea had gnawed and corroded the ancient rocks, leaving cracks and breaches where the water churned white and deadly. In other places the waves had eaten deep into the rock, mining out blowholes and apertures from which the surf spouted.

It was one such chasm that had taken Fain's attention. A deep, sloping tunnel led from the sea up onto the land at the headland's very point, beyond the buildings, even beyond the Great Hall. How easy it would be for a person to climb this borehole to safety above the fury of the breakers, Fain could not tell them. But there was some hope that this perilous way might take them safely into the very heart of Gwylan Canu.

Either they took this chance, or they had to admit defeat—and Branwen was not prepared to do that.

The boats were above the tide line, but as the little group moved from one to the next, they quickly saw that most were falling to pieces. The wooden slatted hulls were long rotted, and the oars were snapped and useless.

“What about this one?” Rhodri asked. He had moved away from Branwen and Blodwedd and was standing by a boat turned upside down in the sand.

Branwen went to look. The boat was narrow and leaf-shaped, not much longer than Branwen was tall. Its hull was made from tough leather, old but thick and durable. So far as Branwen could see in the darkness, the hull had no breaches or tears in it.

“Let's turn it over and see if it's sound,” she said. They tipped the vessel onto its back; the timber framework seemed solid enough. It rocked in the sand, revealing two paddles that had been under the boat and looked to have survived the ravages of wind and rain and bad weather.

Branwen saw Rhodri's eyes on her. “We have to make our minds up,” he said. “I think it's this one or nothing.”

“Then it's this one,” Branwen said. She turned to where the owl-girl was standing, her arms wrapped tight around her chest, her forehead creased, her anxious gaze fixed on the sea. “Blodwedd—help us,” Branwen called.

Between them, they carried the boat down to the water's edge. As they waded into the surf, dragging the boat with them, Blodwedd hung back, unwilling to set foot in the foaming wash of the incoming tide. Branwen was aware of small, sharp sounds coming from the owl-girl and realized that Blodwedd's teeth were chattering.

Branwen looked back at her. “Come,” she said. “What's wrong?”

“I cannot.” There was deep terror in Blodwedd's
voice, and her eyes were haunted in her pale face. Pure animal eyes they seemed now—as though Blodwedd's true spirit was staring through them. She shook her head.

Branwen left Rhodri keeping hold of the boat. She splashed back to the shore, remembering the owl-girl's anxious words from earlier in the day. “There is nothing to fear,” she said.

“I am Lord Govannon's child,” Blodwedd murmured, her voice little more than a fearful whisper. “I dare not leave his realm.” Branwen could see that she was shaking from head to foot.

“What do you fear?” asked Branwen, looking into Blodwedd's terrified glowing eyes.

“Beyond the reach of his hand, the sea will drown me,” Blodwedd murmured. “My feathers will be waterlogged, dragging me down…and down…and down…. I will fly nevermore…never feel the wind…cold water in my mouth…in my body…choking me!” Her voice rose to a wail. “Lord Govannon, forgive me—you ask too much! I cannot! I cannot!”

Before Branwen could act, Blodwedd turned and ran headlong up the beach, the sand kicking high from her heels.

“Blodwedd! Wait!” Branwen chased after her, but the lithe owl-girl sped away into the darkness. Before Branwen had a hope of catching up with her, the slender form had vanished into the night.

Branwen stood in the sand, panting, staring blankly after her. She felt no anger at Blodwedd's flight. Not long ago she would have been relieved to be rid of her, but she didn't feel that either. She felt pity, that was all. Pity for the inhuman creature and for the terror that had caused her to run away from the duty that Govannon of the Wood had laid upon her.

At length, Branwen shook her head and made her way back to where Rhodri was waiting, knee deep in the sea, clinging to the bucking boat.

“Don't put too much blame on her,” he said. “At heart, she's an animal still. A bird of the forests—she could not help herself.”

“I don't blame her,” Branwen said. “But I hope her master is as forgiving. The Shining Ones ask for impossible sacrifices—and make us pay a terrible price if we fail them.” She was thinking of her father lying dead and of Garth Milain in flames. If she had not turned her back on Rhiannon of the Spring when the woman in white had first called to her, might those tragedies have been averted?

“Perhaps she hasn't entirely abandoned us,” Rhodri said, scanning the shadowed hills, his face hopeful. “She may wait for us with the horses.”

“Let us hope so,” Branwen said. “Because if she has deserted us, then I fear she will never be an owl again.” She glanced at Rhodri. “Although, would that upset you, I wonder?”