Destiny's Path (9 page)

O
NCE AGAIN, FLYING
shadows and the sinister beating of wings haunted Branwen's dreams. There were golden eyes, too—round as wheels, rimmed with flame, watching her unblinkingly from the black pit of the night.

She awoke in darkness to the flutter of wings. Fain had returned. He came to rest close to her head.

“Is the girl-child safe?” she whispered.

Fain dipped his head as though to say
yes
.

“Good.” She reached out and gently stroked the bird's chest feathers. “You did well. I'm glad you're back.” She turned her head. She could see the dark hump of Rhodri nearby. Blodwedd was in her usual pose at his side, sitting up gawkily with her limbs gathered up, her chin on her knees. Her golden eyes were wide open—staring straight at Branwen.

The owl-girl's head tilted and an accusatory glint came into her eyes, as if she assumed Branwen was checking on her and resented it.

Branwen nodded to acknowledge Blodwedd's gaze, her lips spreading in a tight smile intended to convey that it was no lack of trust that had awoken her. Then she turned away and drew the cloak over her head again.

 

A pale mist came to the forested valley in the still, cool time before dawn. Branwen crouched, shivering a little, and stared through the trees. She had taken off her brown gown and was in her hunting leathers. The long skirts of a gown were useless for forest work, and woolen garments were forever snagging on twigs and branches. Fain had disappeared into the mist to scout ahead for quarry. Rhodri had stayed behind with the horses—he had no skill at the hunt and was not especially adept at moving with stealth and silence.

But someone else was. Branwen watched the slim shadow of the owl-girl as she glided through the mist like a wraith, passing in absolute silence from tree to tree. Adept as Branwen was in forestry, she felt heavy and clumsy in comparison.

Blodwedd turned and beckoned. Branwen followed, moving forward on tiptoe, making sure that every step was soundless.

Blodwedd's hazy form slid forward, heading
deeper into the forest. A dark, winged shape exploded from the mist at eye level. It circled the owl-girl twice, then vanished again. Fain. On the hunt.

Blodwedd turned and beckoned again, this time waiting until Branwen caught up to her. The owl-girl pressed her lips to Branwen's ear and whispered in a barely audible voice.

“Fain has found two hares. I will go around. You wait here. Be ready.”

Branwen nodded. Blodwedd sped away as silently as a shadow and was swallowed in the mist.

Just like an owl on the hunt!
Branwen thought, stepping cautiously forward. The dawn was close now. She could feel it in the air and see it in the way the deep dark of night began to soften to shades of slate gray. The mist coiled its tendrils around her legs as she moved, the air still cold in her lungs.

She came to a place where the trees thinned a little and the mist was fading. A shape stirred on a branch above her head. Fain. He stared down at her.

She crouched, her head low, her eyes scanning the ground.

There!

A gray-brown hump in the grass. A crouching hare. She took in a shallow breath and held it, taking her slingshot and fitting it with a stone from the pouch at her elbow, leaving the mouth open to allow her to quickly take out another stone.

Then she waited, judging from experience how long it would take Blodwedd to circle the hare. She
saw a long ear twitch.

Geraint's tutoring came back to her.

Be calm, be silent, be swift, be still
….

Branwen rose, twining the leather ends of her slingshot between her fingers. She lifted her right arm above her head slowly and stretched the left out in front of her—elbow locked, hand flat, fingers pointing toward the hare—creating a line along which she could aim.

Twice she spun the slingshot, her eye never leaving the dark hump—her focus aimed on the long narrow head from which the ears folded back along the spine. Then she flicked her fingers open, loosing the stone. Even as it flew through the air, she was reaching for a second stone and fitting it to the slingshot.

The first pebble struck the hare, and it slumped into the grass with barely a sound. A second hare—an animal Branwen had not even noticed—bolted from the shallow depression in which the two had been resting. It raced to Branwen's left, dashing for the cover of denser trees. Branwen spun and threw—but the hare jinked at the last moment, and the stone missed.

Annoyed at herself, she snatched up a third stone. Blodwedd appeared in the hare's path as if out of nowhere, lifting her arms and shouting. The hare turned sharply, scudding back and zigzagging through the long grass, so it was almost impossible for Branwen to aim at it.

Fain lifted suddenly in the air, arrow-fast on his
scythe-shaped wings. He rose then stooped, stalling midair before plummeting toward the hare. The terrified animal turned again, its wide eyes desperate. Blodwedd came running at it with her arms spread wide.

The hare sped toward where Branwen was waiting. Her stone struck it between the eyes. It flipped, tumbling through the grass, dead before it came to a slithering halt almost at her feet.

Blodwedd picked up the other hare by the ears and walked toward Branwen, holding it aloft. “That was well done!” she said, smiling her pointed smile. “As an owl, I might have taken one, but never the pair. You hunt well, Warrior-Child.”

Branwen almost smiled—the rigors and the necessary focus of a good, clean hunt had cleared her mind. “Another half dozen, maybe, and then we go to the citadel. Pray that good fortune attends us.”

 

“I don't like this plan,” said Rhodri. “I should go into Doeth Palas with you.” He gave Branwen an uncomfortable look. “I don't want to lurk uselessly in the forest with the horses while you walk into who knows what dangers.”

“What would you do, Rhodri?” asked Branwen. “Even if you pass without any of the gate-guards recognizing your face, you cannot speak to answer their challenges—your accent would give you away before you spoke a handful of words.”

“Then I shall be dumb,” said Rhodri. “And this
hooded cloak will hide my face as well as those wimples hide you and Blodwedd from prying eyes.”

“Prince Llew's soldiers are hunting for a male and a female traveling together,” said Branwen. “Two females traveling together will not arouse their suspicions, but add a man and our chances of succeeding are diminished.”

Rhodri stared at her for a long moment, then his eyes dipped. “Very well,” he said. “Rhodri the beggarly runaway will skulk in the forest with Fain and our two horses while the brave young women go alone into the wolves' lair!”

“Do not fear for the Warrior-Child,” said Blodwedd, lifting her hand to show the crooked fingers and white, claw-sharp nails. “Any that look askance at her will lose their eyes.”

“No!” said Branwen. “We only fight if all is lost.”

Blodwedd gave her a curious look. “I will defend you
before
all is lost, Warrior-Child,” she said. “Thus
all
shall never
be
lost. But have no fear—I will not kill needlessly. And I will touch no child, if you wish it so.”

“Good. That's good, then,” said Branwen. She turned to Rhodri. “We should return before midday—but if we have not come back by nightfall, flee this land. If we are captured, I want to know you will not share our fate.”

Rhodri's eyebrows rose. “You think I would run and hide and leave you to the mercies of Doeth Palas?” he asked.

“No, I don't,” said Branwen, her mouth curling in
a faint smile. “But it would be wise.”

“I've never been known for my wisdom,” said Rhodri. “But for now, good luck go with both of you. Be wary and cunning, and take no risks—and if Iwan proves false, do not hesitate to cut his throat.”

“It will not come to that,” Branwen added quickly.

“It may,” Rhodri warned.

Branwen saw the apprehension in his eyes. She rested her hand on his chest. “We will not be long,” she said. “Keep yourself safe!”

“For you, always,” he murmured.

Nodding, Branwen stooped and picked up the long, slender branch to which they had tied three of the hares they had caught. Blodwedd already had a second branch over her shoulder; four hares dangled from it, blood clotted on each of their muzzles.

Branwen glanced down at her shield and sword and chain-mail shirt, lying on the ground with her leathers and hunting knife. She and Blodwedd were dressed now in gown and wimple, but Branwen had her slingshot and stones with her, tucked well out of sight. Two young peasant women from a farm or hamlet of Bras Mynydd would not draw undue attention from Prince Llew's guards. They would pass unnoticed among the crowds that made their way every day into the markets of the great citadel.

Or so Branwen hoped.

“S
O MANY HUMANS
!” murmured Blodwedd, her eyes wide in the shadow of her wimple. “Such danger!”

“Stay close to me and all will be well,” Branwen said. “Do not speak unless you have to, and keep your eyes on the ground at all times.”

“Why?” asked Blodwedd.

“Because you have an owl's eyes!” Branwen hissed. “Do you think they will go unnoticed if anyone looks directly into your face?”

They were in the midst of a slow-moving crowd of peasants, jostling and shuffling and knocking and barging up the steep, narrow road that led to the rearing, white stone ramparts of Doeth Palas, citadel of Prince Llew, lord of Bras Mynydd.

The citadel towered above them, its blanched
ramparts shining in the light of the sun as it climbed over the eastern mountains. The massive fortifications of Doeth Palas were cloven by a deep passage; the road to the gates passed through this gap, rising sharply, the earth beaten iron-hard through the years by the passing of thousands.

Branwen and Blodwedd were pushed together as the traders, hawkers, and farmers pressed toward the gates. Some rode in ox-carts, while others had their wares packed in wicker baskets suspended from the backs of donkeys. Some drove geese and goats and pigs. The rising heat of the day filled the air with the heavy, pungent smells of grain and animals and closely packed people. There was shouting and grumbling and the honking of geese and the squeal of pigs and the calling of traders as they greeted one another.

The procession slowed almost to a stop as the crowd of peasants came to the bottleneck at the open gates. Branwen waited impatiently to be let through. This would be the first test of their disguises. Armed guards stood atop stone slabs on either side of the road, scrutinizing the people as they made their way past the gates. Other guards shoved their way roughly in among the crowd, spears in their hands, keeping some semblance of order and checking that all was well.

Branwen linked her arm with Blodwedd's, determined that the bumping and barging of the people
would not separate them. They were almost through now—she could see the wide, paved road that led deep into the heart of the citadel. At the path's end, she saw the high, thatched roof and the stone walls and gold-sheathed doorways of Prince Llew's Great Hall.

Stalls and carts already lined the road where those peasants at the head of the procession began to set out their wares and prepare for trade.

A burly man elbowed Branwen aside, and she stumbled into one of the guards.

“Now then, maid,” growled the guard, fending her off with the shaft of his spear. Branwen swallowed her irritation as he pushed her back. She kept her head down, the white linen wimple drawn over her forehead.

Still clinging to Blodwedd, she passed the guard, and the mass of people began to loosen. They were within Prince Llew's fortress and all was well.

“Hoi! You there—maiden!”

Branwen's heart pounded. It was the voice of the guard she had bumped into. Was he calling to her? She didn't dare look around. Keep walking! Just
keep on walking!
she thought, nearly in a panic.

“Hoi! Stop when I speak to you!” A hand came down on her shoulder, bringing her to an abrupt halt.

“I will kill him,” muttered Blodwedd in an undertone. Branwen was grateful that the general hubbub
prevented the guard from hearing the threat.

“No! Wait!” Branwen whispered under her breath. She turned, her head still lowered. “What do you want of me?” she asked aloud.

“Use a less haughty tone with me, girl,” warned the guard. “Those are fine hares you have for sale. I'd have a brace for the cookpot. What price are you asking?”

Branwen had to think quickly. Money was seldom used in the less sophisticated cantrefs east of the mountains; in Garth Milain virtually all trade was for barter—a fine, plump goose for two bags of rye grain, or a wheel of fresh-churned cheese for a basket of tench or trout or grayling. She had no real idea of the value of coins here.

“What would you consider a fair price, sir?” she asked.

“An eighth of a silver piece for the pair,” said the guard, his fingers delving into the leather pouch at his waist.

“A half would be closer to the mark, sir,” she said, keeping her voice low and humble. She assumed the guard had named a price lower than the true value of the animals; to agree to his first offer would rouse his suspicions.

“Ha! Would you make your fortune out of me, girl? A quarter and no more.”

“Done!” Branwen shifted the branch from her shoulder and slipped off two of the hares. She hoped
the guard did not see how her hands were shaking as he dropped the cut silver coin into her palm.

She bowed her head, hefted the branch back onto her shoulder, and walked on, away from the gates. Her racing heart slowed, and she blew out a relieved breath.

“What did he give you?” asked Blodwedd. “Show me.”

Branwen displayed the quarter-circle coin on her palm.

“
That
—for two hares? What purpose does it serve?”

“I'll explain another time,” said Branwen. “We must find Iwan.”

“There are many people here,” Blodwedd said, staring out across the thronging market. “Where is he to be found?”

“I have an idea,” said Branwen. “Follow me.”

She led Blodwedd into the heart of the market. It was a noisy, boisterous affair. People crowded and elbowed and jogged and jarred one another, some laden with panniers from which they traded, others arguing and bickering over the stalls. Stilt-walkers, jugglers, and acrobats entertained the passersby. Metalsmiths came with heavy carts, selling pots and pans and knives. Grain traders cried their wares, competing with the loud shouts of their neighbors. A hundred different smells filled the air—sweet, sour, savory, and foul—rising from the uneasy animals and
from wicker baskets and hempen sacks. There was the clank of metal on metal as goods were weighed on handheld balances, and the slap of palm against palm as deals were done. Oxcarts rumbled; gaggles of geese waddled underfoot; wattle pens were set up to house sheep and goats and pigs. There were earthenware jars of honey, fresh from the hive, as well as wheat and rye and barley by the poke, and beans and peas and lentils. And in the odd corner, rings of men and women watched cock fights and wrestling bouts.

But Branwen wished only to pass through the melee as quickly as possible. The noise of the market formed a constant backdrop as she led Blodwedd between the huts and dwelling places. She had in mind a courtyard, hidden close to the walls—a dusty square where she knew the young men of the court often gathered to practice archery and hone their battle skills.

As they turned a few corners, moving away from the marketplace, Branwen recognized the long building whose wall formed one side of the courtyard.

“Stay back,” she murmured to Blodwedd. The owl-girl nodded. Branwen slid along the wall and peered around the corner.

Three lads were in the courtyard. There was gangly Andras, red-haired Bryn, and Iwan ap Madoc, tallest and most handsome of the three. Branwen felt a strange fluttering in her stomach as she caught
sight of him, smiling his usual cocksure smile as he leaned on his bow and watched Bryn aiming for the wicker target.

“Elbow up more,” Iwan remarked.

“I do not need your advice,” said Bryn, his lips to the bowstring, his arms shaking a little as he strained against the tension of the bow.

He loosed the arrow. It struck the head of the wickerwork figure with a sharp
thuk
. “Now you do better!” demanded Bryn.

“With pleasure,” said Iwan, setting an arrow to the string and pulling back on his bow.

Branwen didn't bother waiting to see his shot. She knew he would hit the target with ease. “He is there,” she whispered to Blodwedd. “But he is with others. I need to speak to him alone—the others cannot be trusted. One of them in particular has no love of me—a big redheaded lad who thought he could best me with a staff in his hand.” Her fists clenched as she remembered their fight. “I proved him wrong, but he would delight in giving me up to the prince if he knew I was here.”

“Then what shall we do?” asked Blodwedd.

“We'll leave the hares here—they have served their purpose, I hope.” They laid the two long poles down against the wall. “Now, I want you to watch and wait,” Branwen continued. “Be my lookout—I need to know if any others approach. Look out especially for an older man with gray hair and a white scar down
the left side of his face.” This would be Gavan ap Huw, warrior and hero of Powys—briefly her mentor, the man whose teachings had saved her life during the battle outside the gates of Garth Milain. How he must hate her now! He must think her a traitor—to have released a condemned spy and fled with him.

Gavan ap Huw often schooled the lads of the prince's court in weaponry and battle skills. Above all others in Doeth Palas, Branwen did not want to come face to face with him. She didn't want to see the disgust and abhorrence in his flint-dark eyes; she didn't want to suffer his disappointment and displeasure; and she did not want his to be the hand that dragged her to Prince Llew's feet.

She crept back to the corner. Skinny Andras was aiming at the target now, but Branwen saw that his stance was all wrong—it was obvious to her that he would miss.

He did, and his two companions roared with laughter.

She watched from behind the wall as the three boys took turn and turn about. Her intention was to follow Iwan once the training session was done and to somehow get him alone.

A fourth boy came running into the courtyard. “Hoi! Come quickly—Padrig has challenged Accalon of Rhufoniog to a wresting bout in the market. Gold coins are being gambled.”

“On Padrig's swift slaughter, surely!” laughed Iwan. “Accalon is unbeaten in fifty matches. He will
pound our little Padrig to a sticky paste.”

“Padrig is as slippery as an eel,” said Bryn. “I'll risk a silver half piece on him!” He hooked his bow over his shoulder and strode off. Andras followed.

“Oh, it will be amusing, I suppose—albeit brief!” said Iwan, following the others.

Branwen had to act quickly. She fumbled under her gown for her slingshot. Bryn and the fourth boy had already left the courtyard by the time Branwen loosed a stone.

It skipped on the hard earth a fraction away from Iwan's foot. He paused, staring down at where the small white pebble had come to rest. Then, quick as an adder, he turned and stared along the obvious trajectory of the stone.

Branwen leaned around the corner, pulling back her wimple so that he could see her face. His expression changed from puzzled curiosity to amazement as he caught sight of her. She beckoned to him, then slid out of view before any of the others saw her. She leaned against the wall, her heart hammering and her legs trembling. Blodwedd looked questioningly at her, but Branwen gestured for her to keep silent.

Everything depended on Iwan's reaction to seeing her. Would his instinct be to call the guard? Would he give her away?

“Go on ahead,” Branwen heard him call. “I will follow shortly. Put a gold quarter piece on Accalon for me.”

Branwen bit her lip. Soft against the distant
hubbub of the market, she could hear footsteps padding toward her across the courtyard.

Iwan turned the corner. “Well now,” he said, an arrow point aimed at her heart. “The barbarian princess has returned to the scene of her great treachery. How very interesting. Prince Llew will think better of me now, when I bring him such a prize!”