Caradoc of the North Wind (28 page)

‘Did you see that? Her lips moved.’

The wasteland of empty white light began to fill with coherent sights and shapes now. Branwen jerked back as Aberfa’s face loomed close.

‘Are you with us again, Branwen?’ asked Iwan, kneeling at her side. ‘We feared your mind had gone.’

Branwen bowed her head, trying to make sense of what was happening around her. ‘Help me up,’ she said, lifting her arms. She swayed and almost fell, but arms supported her. ‘How long was I …’ She faltered, not knowing what words to use.

‘You strode about the hill for a while, smiting at the air with your fists and shouting oaths and threats,’ said Dera. ‘Then you came and sat at Blodwedd’s side and became still.’

‘You made no move nor spoke any word, nor saw nor heard anything for the whole of the afternoon,’ said Banon.

‘And Rhodri?’ Branwen asked, avoiding looking at the place where Blodwedd lay, a cloak thrown over her face and upper body.

‘Out of his senses,’ said Iwan. ‘Alive, but beyond us to rouse.’

Branwen shook herself free of helping hands and walked unsteadily to where Rhodri lay. She crouched, extending her hand, touching his face with her fingertips. What had Linette told her? Druid in jest no more. But what did that mean?

‘Will you awake now?’ she asked him in a low voice. ‘Even if it is to hatred and despair, I want you to wake up now, Rhodri.’

‘By the saints, look!’ gasped Banon. Branwen saw it too, a fluttering of the eyelids, a movement of the lips, a turn of the head.

Rhodri’s eyes opened and he looked straight into Branwen’s face. She gasped, standing up, quivering. His eyes were golden – like discs of amber threaded with sunlight. His eyes were the colour of Blodwedd’s eyes!

And then his body heaved and he sucked in air and struggled under the cloak. He sat up, panting, his teeth gritted, his head lowered.

Then his head snapped up and he stared at Branwen – and his eyes were his own again – and there was a look of such pain and anguish and hatred in them that Branwen took a step backward and lifted her hands as though to ward off a blow.

‘You killed her!’ he cried, scrabbling to his feet, his fists bunching. ‘She did not need to die! I could have saved her.’

He flung himself towards her and it was only the quick actions of Iwan and Dera that prevented him reaching her with his flying fists. He struggled in their grasp, his face enraged, his eyes blazing.

‘Blodwedd knew this would happen,’ Branwen replied, her voice dull and stoic. ‘She told me – she told me that I would have to kill her.’ She gave a wracking sigh. ‘Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted
any
of this?’

Rhodri pulled himself upright. ‘Leave me be!’ he said in a suddenly loud and commanding voice. ‘None may touch the son of
Y Ladi Wen
!’ Startled by the change in his voice, Iwan and Dera stepped back. Rhodri spread his feet apart and raised his arms, his fingers stretched wide, stabbing at the sky. ‘I see the high pool of Deheubarth, where my mother held the mirror to the sun and all the world was burned. I see the bright-browed Taliesin, teller of the ancient tales. I see Mabon the son of Modron, bearing the gift of the ocean’s child.
Bachen rhyfeddol
, they called me! Child of wonder! But that was many years ago and I am grown mighty in power and lore now. I am the strange marvel of my people.’

And now he seemed to see Branwen, as though for the first time. His eyes widened, his finger pointing. ‘When the owls depart, you must ride south,’ he roared at her, his face blazing with such majesty that she truly believed he might be some ancient Druid lord brought back into the world. ‘Ride to Pengwern and deal with what you will find there! And remember well the words of Rhiannon of the Spring. Remember, and find you wisdom!’

And then the light went out of his eyes and the fervour left his face and he crumpled on to his hands and knees as though felled by an axe.

Rhodri was unconscious again, lying under a cloak, breathing deeply and steadily, but impossible to awaken.

The others were gathered together, sitting in a ring on the hill as the sun dipped low in the west, debating what they should do.

‘Ride south when the owls depart?’ mused Dera. ‘What did he mean by that?’

‘Could he have been referring to Blodwedd’s death?’ asked Banon.

‘In which case should we not already have quit this place?’ asked Aberfa.

‘Are we to do as he says?’ wondered Iwan. ‘Is it not possible those were the ravings of a man bereft of his wits?’

‘Those were not ravings,’ said Branwen heavily. ‘Something has happened to Rhodri, for good or ill. As she died, Blodwedd passed something to him … some spirit or power or … I do not know! Something that has come alive within him. Something that has stirred in him the blood of his ancestors.’

‘Druid blood?’ asked Iwan.

Branwen nodded.

‘So shall we go south to Pengwern?’ asked Dera, her voice dubious. ‘Is that wisdom when the king wants none of us?’

‘King Cynon is
not
Powys,’ said Branwen. ‘It is the land itself that we must serve, not its passing lords.’ She frowned. ‘But I do not understand about the owls.’ She glanced to where Rhodri lay. ‘Should we wait for him to awaken?’ She stood up and walked restlessly about. ‘Instead of hints and riddles, I would like for once to be given some clear sign of what I must do!’

Iwan straightened his back, his head cocked. ‘Listen!’ he said. ‘What is that sound?’

Branwen heard it too. A low thrumming in the air. ‘Where is it coming from?’ she asked.

‘From the west!’ cried Dera, springing up and pointing.

A dark shape was moving towards them above the tumble of the wildlands. It looked at first like a low cloud, but it was moving against the wind, and it did not have the form of any cloud that Branwen had ever seen.

‘It is birds!’ cried Aberfa. ‘A whole host of birds!’

‘Owls!’ gasped Branwen as the flock came closer.

The legion of owls came sweeping up the hillside, flying low so that all but Branwen ducked as they passed over them. Branwen guessed there must be a hundred or more of the great majestic creatures. They wheeled about her, their eyes burning, their wings hardly moving, their voices stilled.

And then, as though acting with some powerful instinct beyond human understanding, the wings cupped, the eyes shifted and the whole congregation of huge birds descended to the ground where Blodwedd lay. The greater part of the hill disappeared under their tawny bodies. Branwen stood her ground, but her companions drew back, silent in awe, their eyes wide.

Then the owls gave voice.

Their melancholy hooting filled the air, a lament at the passing of a beloved kinswoman, a sound to break the heart.

Branwen dropped to her knees, tears flooding her face.

While the hilltop still reverberated to the dirge of sad hooting, the owls took again to the air. They swarmed and wheeled and then flowed away into the west.

And where Blodwedd had lain, there was just a scattering of tawny feathers.

Branwen wiped the tears off her cheeks. She got to her feet, her heart clamouring in her chest, her blood flowing strongly through her veins.

‘I asked for a sure sign,’ she called to the others, all doubt and confusion gone from her mind. ‘We have been given it! Come, gather the horses, we ride into the south! We ride to Pengwern!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T
hey rode until night took the land. Rhodri did not recover, and they had to tie him to his horse, one rope around his waist to hold him in the saddle, and another under the animal’s belly, linking his ankles. In that manner, he rode safe enough, slumped low over his horse’s neck, while Aberfa took the trailing reins.

Fain had an injured wing – he could fly, but only for short distances, clumsily and with evident discomfort. Branwen rode with him perched upon her shoulder, grieving that she would never again know what his shrill cries meant. She had lost that advantage when she had rammed sharp metal into Blodwedd’s body.

No! Don’t think of it. It’s done. It is past
.

Don’t think of it?

As though that were an option.

In the dark of night, they made camp in woodland by a thin stream of clear cold water. Banon gathered wood and lit a fire. They lay Rhodri close to the warming flames then clustered around it like tiny insects drawn to a candle. Although the long and bitter winter was relenting at last, the air was still deathly chill, and they sat shrouded in their cloaks, their faces ruddy in the welcome heat.

‘I did not think to ask,’ said Branwen as they gnawed dried meat and tore stale bread apart for their meagre supper. ‘Are Drustan and Meredith wed now?’

‘Not when we left Pengwern,’ said Aberfa.

‘Is it the prince’s doing?’ asked Branwen.

‘Nay, it is the king who forces the delay,’ said Iwan. ‘He has a serpent’s wisdom in this, I think. Once the marriage is sealed, Prince Llew will have all that he wishes. Why then should he obey King Cynon’s commands? No, the king desires to keep the prince on a tight leash, so he makes Llew wait for his prize, like a dog kept hungry and keen for the fight while food is dangled out of reach.’

Dera nodded. ‘The king’s no fool in this,’ she agreed. ‘Knowing Llew ap Gelert’s dark turn of mind, it would not come as a surprise to find Cynon struck down by some unknown ailment on the night following the wedding!’

‘You think he’d kill the king?’ asked Aberfa.

‘If it made his own daughter queen of Powys?’ said Dera. ‘Why not?’

Branwen winced. ‘Is there to be no end to treachery in Powys?’ she groaned. ‘Sometimes I think the Shining Ones have chosen a poor race of folk to champion.’

Iwan looked at her. ‘Do you really think the Shining Ones were given a choice in the matter?’ he asked. ‘Is that not like questioning the wisdom of a river that runs through a barren valley or a tree that grows on a windswept hill? The Shining Ones are surely part of the land – they cannot pick and choose the realms they protect.’

Branwen gazed at him. ‘You have come a long way since we first met, my friend,’ she said. ‘Can you imagine those words coming from the mouth of Iwan the merry prankster of Doeth Palas?’

He laughed ruefully. ‘We have all travelled far,’ he said.

‘Those of us who survived the journey,’ added Dera, glancing at Rhodri as he lay under a cloak close by. ‘Survived with our wits intact, I should say.’

‘What has happened to Rhodri?’ asked Banon, looking at Branwen. ‘What spirit possesses him, do you think?’

‘A Druid forebear, perhaps,’ said Branwen.

‘Hush!’ said Aberfa, leaning close to Rhodri’s head. ‘He is saying something. I can’t make it out. A word. Repeated over and over.’

Branwen scrambled around the fire and knelt at Rhodri’s side, bringing her ear down close to his moving lips.

‘… Caliburn … Caliburn … Caliburn …’

‘Rhodri? Can you hear me?’

‘Call in greatest need … and Caliburn shall come to you …’

‘Rhodri? I don’t know what you mean.’ She pressed her hand against the side of his face, turning his head towards her. ‘Who is Caliburn? What are you saying?’

‘… remember Rhiannon’s words … call for Caliburn when all is lost …’

‘Rhodri! Rhiannon has never spoken of Caliburn.’ She patted his cheek, hoping to rouse him. ‘You must tell me more.’

But the lips ceased moving and Rhodri said nothing more.

‘A troubling oracle, he may turn out to be, if he cannot make his meanings more clear,’ said Iwan. ‘
Ride to Pengwern and deal with what you find there
, he told us. But with no hint of what we might find nor of how to deal with it.’ He shook his head. ‘This half-Saxon and half-Druid may well be the death of us all!’

They struck camp at dawn, heading south-west, looking to come across the Great South Way as it wound through Powys. The ancient earthen track traversed the length of the entire kingdom, stretching from the northern sea-shore to the deep southern cantrefs, linking hamlet and citadel and farmstead as it made for Pengwern and beyond.

The sun was high in the eastern sky when they rode to a cliff edge and saw at last the long-awaited sight in the valley below. The road lay like a brown ribbon beneath them, cutting through the wild lands, pointing the way to their destination.

Branwen would have had them travel at the gallop if she had been given the option. But they needed to take care of Rhodri, and even at the trot, there was the risk of him falling and being injured.

As they rode, she puzzled over his cryptic words. Banon had been right to ask the question – who or
what
had taken hold of her wise, kind, gentle friend? It had come from Blodwedd, she believed, and so she had trusted it – but what if she was wrong? What if something of Ragnar had been put into Rhodri’s mind? What if he was leading them to their doom?

An inner debate occupied her mind as they followed the road.