Destiny's Path (22 page)

He stamped down on her wrist, forcing her fingers to fly open, and then kicked her sword away. Agony flared through her wrist as he brought his shield hammering down on it. He was laughing
now—sure of her death.

She gasped as lightning flared behind her eyes; the pain was crowding her senses. Using her last shred of strength, she pushed him up just enough to roll away and crawl through the rubble, seeking only to escape the pain and the thunder in her head.

She tottered to her feet, swaying, her eyes half closed.

She saw him snatch up her sword.

She braced herself, her shield up to her eyes, the upper rim angled outward to block the sword and perhaps, if chance allowed, to punch up into his throat.

He came for her, swinging the sword like a scythe.

In the fleeting moment before he would have fallen upon her, a gray shape soared out of the sky, shrieking and clawing, its wings beating and its hooked beak stretched wide open to rip flesh to the bone.

Straight into Ironfist's face the falcon flew, furious and savage, wings flurrying, claws raking. Dizzy with pain, Branwen saw blood spurt and heard Ironfist give a howl of agony as Fain tore at his eyes.

Staggering backward, Ironfist dropped his sword as he brought both hands up to try and protect his face—but his feet stumbled on the rocks, and he lost his balance. For a long moment he hung by his heels on the very edge of the black cliff. Then, with
a wavering cry, Ironfist lost his footing and plunged downward.

Branwen staggered to the cliff's edge. Fain was descending in slow circles—but the restless foaming waves had already swallowed up the great general. Branwen stooped forward, her hands on her knees, panting as she looked down at the seething waves far below.

Fain turned and came soaring up. He gave a single cry as he passed her.

She turned, watching as he flew back over the Great Hall.

She stood there for a few moments, gathering her breath, waiting until the pain in her head lessened to a dull throbbing. Then, slowly and painfully, she picked her way back over the rocks.

 

Branwen and Rhodri stood side by side on the hill of the Great Hall, overlooking the scene of carnage below. Dera ap Dagonet stepped in front of Branwen, her face pale with wonder, her eyes haunted. “What are these things that come to our aid, Branwen—are they known to you?”

“Did I not tell you I had powerful allies?” Branwen replied. “They have been guiding my footsteps, Dera, and it is their path that I walk.” She shook her head. “But I had not dared hope for
this!
”

“And can they be controlled?” murmured Dera, staring down the hill to where the forces of Govannon
swarmed among the buildings, seeking out and pulling down those few Saxons that remained alive. “I am glad of their help—but I fear them, also.”

“I don't think they will harm us,” Branwen said. But she shuddered as she watched the animals of Govannon at their dreadful work. It was brutal, that final hunt—and none were spared. Even those Saxon warriors who cast down their weapons and threw up their arms in surrender were killed.

Govannon was standing just inside what remained of the gatehouse, and as the last Saxons were hunted down and destroyed, the animals turned and went back to him, surrounding him, their heads turned toward him as though awaiting some word of command. The trees, too, came to a halt, seeming to know that their task was done. As Branwen watched, their roots dug down into the ground, and they seemed to settle and become still, so that the whole area between the citadel's huddled village and the ruined wall was dotted now with full-grown trees.

The sky cleared of birds as well—save for a solitary slate-gray shape that climbed in the air, heading for the spot where Branwen stood.

She held up her arm and Fain came to rest heavily on her wrist.

“Caw! Caw! Caw!”

Branwen smiled. “My life is yours, Fain, my dearest companion,” she said. “What would you have me do, now? I cannot understand your speech.”

The falcon turned its head, staring down the hill to where Govannon stood amid a quiet flood of animals.

“Caw!”

She looked and saw that Govannon was gazing up at her.

“I must go to him,” she murmured. But even as she spoke, her heart faltered. It felt as though her legs might give way under her at any moment.

“I'll come with you,” said Rhodri, his voice trembling. His hand reached for hers and their fingers twined together.

“And I,” said Dera. “I would see this marvel up close, though it may be my death!”

Branwen nodded, grateful for their offer.

The thought of approaching the Shining One alone had filled her with unease, but with these two companions at her side, she believed she could muster the courage to stand before Govannon and look up into those daunting green eyes.

Fain spread his wings and went swooping away down the hill.

Her heart crashing in her chest, Branwen followed.

T
HE CONGREGATION OF
animals parted to allow Branwen and Rhodri and Dera to pass through. Branwen saw fresh blood on fangs and claws and tusks and antlers as she made her way toward the center of the gathering—to where Govannon of the Wood stood waiting for her.

He was twice her height, a giant creature radiating such power and authority that it was all Branwen could do to gaze up into his noble face. His immense arms reached down so his broad hands were stroking the backs and heads and shoulders of the animals that crowded around him. Branwen saw in the eyes of every beast there a flickering green light that was only a pale reflection of the blazing emerald radiance that filled Govannon's own eyes.

The three young warriors came to a halt a few
paces away from him.

As Govannon looked down at them, Branwen could discern no expression on his face—no more expression than might be found on a tree or a bear or a cloud. But in his profound eyes there were things—lordliness and ancient knowledge and an aching sadness—that wounded her heart.

“So, Warrior-Child,” he said, and his voice was deep and sonorous. “We meet on the battlefield. Is this victory honey to your tongue?”

Branwen's mouth was dry, her throat constricted. “No, it is not,” she said, trembling slightly. “It is not, and I would have done anything to have prevented this slaughter. The death of Saxons gives me no pleasure, my lord. I did only what I had to do.”

“That is good, Warrior-Child,” rumbled Govannon's voice. “Dark is the heart that delights in killing. But it was not of your doing that the enemy came into Brython—and without you, great harm would have been done this day.”

Branwen narrowed her eyes. “Without me?” she said. “I didn't win this battle, my lord—the victory is yours. Had you not come, I and all who followed me would be dead now.”

There was a pause, and Govannon's eyes were thoughtful as he stared down at her. “Do you not know why I was able to come, Warrior-Child?” he said at last. “Do you not know the sacrifice that was made?”

She looked up into his eyes, confused now. “I don't, my lord,” she said.

“Do you think that I have the authority to breathe sentience into my trees as I will it?” Govannon asked. “Do you think I have such dominion that I can light wendfire in the eyes of my birds and my beasts without consequence? No, Warrior-Child, I am but a guardian, the steward of the forests. Greater potencies than I must be appeased. A sacrifice must be offered.”

“What sacrifice was offered?” asked Dera. “Who gave their life so that you could come to our aid?”

The huge green eyes turned to her. “Death is not the ultimate sacrifice, child,” Govannon said gravely. “To live sundered from your true self—to live a half-life of loss and willing surrender—that is
true
sacrifice.” His head turned, and the spreading antlers that branched up from his forehead seemed to scrape the sky. “Come forth, my daughter. Take the first step on this new path that you have chosen—and that you must endure now till the end of your days.”

From somewhere at Govannon's back, from in among the animals, a small, slender figure emerged and stood in front of them, her head bowed, her eyes hooded.

“Blodwedd!” breathed Rhodri, letting go of Branwen's hand and taking a step forward. “But…I saw you…,” he stammered. “It
was
you, surely? Leading the birds?”

She lifted her head, and her somber eyes gazed
into his. “Yes, it was me you saw,” she murmured. “My lord gifted me one last moment of flight—one final chance to feel the wind beneath my wings—before I renounced myself forever.” She looked at Branwen. “I learned much from you, Branwen, in the time we spent together. I learned of duty and loyalty, and I learned of the burden of responsibility and the weight of grief.”

“I don't understand,” said Branwen. “When the quest was completed, you were to be given back your true form. You were to become an owl again.”

“That is so,” said Blodwedd. “But I saw the same vision that was given to you—I saw ships filled with warriors sailing to the place of singing gulls. I knew you would not be able to stand against such numbers. I knew you would be lost, so I went to my lord and I begged him to come to your aid. And I offered myself in your place—offered my life. It was forfeit anyway—I fled your side in fear, Branwen. I failed in my duty to you. I would willingly have taken death as my punishment.”

“Death is not the ultimate sacrifice…,” Rhodri murmured, as though understanding now what Govannon had meant. He looked at Branwen. “She gave herself up to save us. She will be human now for the rest of her life.”

“No,” Branwen said in dismay. “It's worse than that—she will be an owl trapped forever in a human form.” She looked up at Govannon. “Can this be
undone?” she asked. “Can I do anything to change her fate?”

“The bargain has been made,” Govannon replied sadly. “It cannot be unmade.”

“I did this of my own free will, Branwen,” said Blodwedd. “Do not weep for me. I am reconciled to my exile. I will roam the forests and know that my loss had purpose. It will be enough.”

Filled with pity and gratitude, Branwen reached out her hands to the forlorn owl-girl. “I would rather you stay with us,” she said. “Will you do that?”

Blodwedd slid her slim fingers into Branwen's, her eyes glowing. “Gladly,” she said softly. “Gladly.”

“But what new purpose do you have?” asked Dera. “For I see that yours is no easy destiny, Branwen ap Griffith, and that great deeds await you.”

“I must go to Pengwern—to the court of King Cynon,” Branwen replied. “He must be told of Prince Llew's treachery. An army must be gathered, one strong enough to lay siege to Doeth Palas and bring Llew ap Gelert down.”

“No, Warrior-Child, that is not your path,” said Govannon. “Let others go to the king.” He turned, pointing up to the mountains. “Thither wends your path, Warrior-Child, up into the cold peaks, into the high places of the land. You must seek Merion of the Stones.” He turned to look down at Branwen again, his eyes smoldering. “My part in the great tale is done for now, Warrior-Child,” he said. “My sister
shall show you the next task that awaits.” He raised a hand. “Farewell, Emerald Flame of Brython. I leave you now.”

“But how am I to find Merion of the Stones?” Branwen asked.

“Fain will be your guide,” replied Govannon.

So saying, the great lord of the forests turned and strode away. As he went, the animals followed after him. The birds that had rested on stone and thatch and on the ground all around him rose into the air and flew southward, back into the forested foothills of the Clwydian Mountains. Only the trees remained, their roots sunk deep into the ground, their leaves stirring in the gentle sea breeze.

 

Branwen stood high among the ruins of the gatehouse of Gwylan Canu and watched the last few animals melt away into the forested hills. As they went, it was as though she was waking from a feverish dream. But she knew this could be no dream—her head still throbbed with pain, and her hands and arms and face were sticky with the blood of Saxons.

She was about to turn and climb down again when she heard the distant rhythm of galloping horses coming along the winding road from the west. Puzzled, she stared along the coast. At that moment five horses came speeding around a bend, saddled and bridled, but with no riders and with their reins flying.

Branwen jumped down and ran to the road. She recognized the leading horse.

“Stalwyn!” she cried, throwing her arms up.

Stalwyn came to a clattering halt in front of her. He rose up, neighing loudly and beating the air with his hooves.

Iwan came running to her side as the other four horses all came to a stamping, whinnying halt on the road.

“What does this mean?” Iwan gasped, staring at the horses. “These are steeds of Doeth Palas—why have they come riderless to this place?”

Branwen laughed as she caught Stalwyn's reins and pressed her face into his sweating neck, breathing him in.

“He was my horse. He came back to me,” she said gleefully. “Don't you see? He must have thrown his rider and bolted! He knew I needed him!” She thumped the great stallion's flanks. “Good boy—great friend!” she said. “And you brought companions!”

Stalwyn snorted and seemed to nod his head; his eyes were bright and knowing.

“Why so many?” Branwen mused. “I have need of but two.”

“Three, at least,” said Iwan. He gave a sweet, tuneful whistle between his teeth, and one of the other horses—a dun mare with a creamy coat and a mane, tail, and muzzle of black—came trotting obediently forward to nuzzle his shoulder. “Welcome back, my beauty,” he said, stroking the mare's nose. “This is Gwennol Dhu. She also must have known I would have need of her.” He smiled at Branwen. “She
has a wise head on her and is surefooted among the mountains.”

“But your journey lies south, along the road to Pengwern,” Branwen said, confused. “There are no mountains in your way.”

Iwan gave her a crooked smile and for a moment she was reminded starkly of the teasing lad from the Great Hall of Doeth Palas. “Oh, but I am not going to the king,” he said. “My father can undertake that errand. There are brave men of Gwylan Canu—elderly but hale—who can accompany him. No, I have decided on an altogether more amusing journey.” He cocked his head and his eyes sparkled. “I'm going with you, barbarian princess. Don't you remember what I said to you when you bound me and escaped with the half Saxon?”

She gazed at him, remembering it very well. “You said you thought I would have an interesting life,” she said quietly. “You said you wished you could have shared it with me.”

“And now I shall.” He lowered his head and gave her a sideways look. “If you will have me as a companion.” He turned his head and glanced over to where Rhodri and Blodwedd were standing. Rhodri seemed to be watching them carefully. “The half Saxon is a good fellow, I am sure, but he has spent most of his life as a captive servant, Branwen. He has no learning, no culture. On this strange journey of yours, I think you could do with a man of wit and intelligence—and thus I offer my services.”

The bantering tone left his voice, and his eyes fixed on hers. “I want to be with you, Branwen, at your side—no matter what. Will you let me ride with you?”

Before Branwen could answer, she heard the patter of running feet.

Dera came up to her, a determined light in her eyes. “I have spoken with the women of Gwylan Canu,” she said briskly. “I have told them I wish to journey with you, wherever you may go. I wish to share your adventures and your destiny, Branwen. And Linette and Aberfa and Banon wish it also.” Branwen opened her mouth to speak, but Dera gave her no time. “You will meet with many perils and dangers on your path, Branwen—we can help you. We fight well. We are unafraid. You alone cannot sweep Brython clean of Saxons. A princess needs followers—let us be the first of your warrior band!”

Branwen let out an astonished breath. She did not know what to say. But the words spoken to her by Rhiannon of the Spring came into her mind.

“It seems that Stalwyn was wise to bring companions,” said Iwan with a wry smile. “Even if we ride double, five horses will be only just enough.”

Rhodri strode up. “Are we departing soon, Branwen?” he asked. “Blodwedd says we should not leave it too long before we take the path to Merion of the Stones. She fears that any delay may be costly.”

Branwen turned to him, a smile widening on her face. “We are leaving very soon, my friend,” she said. “But not we three alone.”

Rhodri gave her a confused look, but before she could explain, a single shrill, compelling cry exploded from the air.

“Caw!”

She looked up to see Fain hanging in the sky, borne up by the sea wind, his wings spread wide, his black eye on her.

He, too, was eager to be going.

Branwen turned, gazing up into the mountains, and as she stood staring out at those distant peaks, in her head rang the words of the old song. The song of the Shining Ones. The song of the Old Gods.

It was time to take the path to Merion of the Stones. It was time for the Shining Ones to reveal to her the next stage on the long road to her destiny.

The Bright Blade! The Emerald Flame of her people! The Savior of Brython!

She was Branwen ap Griffith—the Warrior Princess.