The Emerald Flame (18 page)

“I’d help you because once you were my friend,” said Branwen. “And I too have business in Ironfist’s Great Hall. Maybe it is that we will help each other.” She lifted her chin. “Make your decision! I offer you my aid, if you will have it. If not we will go our separate ways; and you will take my good wishes with you, despite all the bad that you think of me.”

She was aware of Padrig and Bryn watching Gavan closely, and it was clear from their faces that they hoped he would refuse her offer.

“To save my child, I will risk all,” Gavan said at length. “Yes, Branwen of the Old Ones, I will join with you for a time—if the gifts of your gods will work for an unbeliever.”

“Oh, they will, Old Warrior; do not fear on that account,” said Blodwedd, her eyes shining. “The bounty of the Ancient Ones embraces even the most reluctant of their children.”

“I am not a child of the Old Gods!” snarled Gavan, finally looking into her face.

Blodwedd smiled, and there was blood on her teeth. “Oh, but you are,” she crooned. “Do not fool yourself, Old Warrior. We are
all
their children, whether we acknowledge it or not.”

Gavan turned away, but not before Branwen saw a look of profound dread disfigure his features. Blodwedd’s words seemed to have cut him to the very soul; and if not for his hunger to save his daughter, Branwen felt sure he would have quit that place and
never once have looked back.

“Then it’s settled,” Branwen said. “We should hide these bodies among the sacks so they are not quickly found. And then we should leave this town and gather our forces and await nightfall.”

“A
GLORIOUS SUNSET
to herald a night of dangerous endeavor!” said Iwan, coming suddenly to Branwen’s side as she stood on the breezy hilltop, gazing out over the darkening plain. The lights of Chester and of the army camp that grew like some poisonous tumor at its side were beginning to ignite.

Iwan was right. Behind the forest at her back, high banks of cloud burned scarlet and orange, as if the western sky was aflame. And above her purple scuds of cloud hung impossibly still against the grainy blue of dusk. In the distant east a rich velvet darkness crawled imperceptibly across the world, obliterating everything.

Branwen had been thinking of her mother, wondering whether, in the midst of her labors, Lady Alis had taken the time to lift her eyes to the glory of the
dying day and whether it was possible that at that moment she was thinking of her errant daughter and offering her blessings for Branwen’s safekeeping.

Branwen looked at Iwan but said nothing, struck by the way the fading light complemented the shape of his face, highlighting the curve of his mouth, the shadows under his cheekbones, the glimmer of his dark eyes.

He smiled, cocking his head to indicate the people and horses gathered just under the eaves of the forest. “A merry bunch we are, to be sure,” he said, his eyes twinkling with private amusement. “Do you see how Bryn glowers at everyone, like a hunting dog desperate to be unleashed on a flock of chickens!”

“Does he ever look otherwise?” Branwen sighed.

“No, I dare say not,” Iwan said, laughing softly. “But can we trust them, Branwen? I think Gavan hates and fears you in equal measure. Is it wise to take him with us into Ironfist’s camp?”

“We have had this debate, and the decision is made,” said Branwen. “There are six stones—and six people have been chosen.” She raised an eyebrow. “Unless you would give up your place to someone else? Rhodri, perhaps?”

“By no means,” said Iwan. “Let him and the others stay and keep watch over that Viking maid.”

Branwen frowned. He meant Asta, of course. “Why will no one use her name?” she asked.

“Perhaps because she is not of our blood, Branwen.”

He looked thoughtfully at her. “Can I speak of Rhodri without angering you?”

“I don’t know. Do you have that ability?”

“He is a good fellow, I believe,” said Iwan. “And I dislike him less than I show; but he is half Saxon, Branwen. I’d rest easier if I thought you understood what that means.”

“You’d hold his divided parentage against him?” said Branwen, surprised and a little annoyed. “He has proved himself a friend many times over. Why do you trust no one, Iwan?”

“I trust but one person,” Iwan replied. “I know for certain of only one man who would willingly give his life for you.” His voice lowered to a soft whisper. “A thousand times over.”

Branwen looked away from him, staring out over the wide plain, hoping he could not hear the way her heart was pulsing. She swallowed, the pounding sensation growing under her rib cage.

“What man is that?” she asked, her voice cracking.

There was no reply. She turned. Iwan was walking away from her under the trees.

Bringing the two bands together without conflict had not been easy, and at the very best a hostile truce was all that existed between Gavan’s boys and Branwen’s followers. After some brief initial antagonism, Bryn and the others virtually ignored Iwan,
obviously thinking their former friend and companion beyond the pale with his new allegiances. Iwan found this all too obviously amusing, which only made the other boys of Doeth Palas more peevish. And none of them would even look at Blodwedd; skinny Andras positively shrank away if she came close to him. All the while, Dillon kept to himself, silently watching with huge eyes.

It had not taken long to hide the bodies of the dead Saxons in among the barley sacks in the barn. A length of sacking had been torn away to provide a wrapping for the spears and knives that Bryn had taken from their corpses.

Their departure from Chester had passed without incident, Gavan’s Brythonic features hidden under his cowl, Bryn clutching the looted weapons in the wrap of sacking. Once across the river bridge, they had slipped south off the road and made their way to a huddled glade of willows, similar to the one in which Branwen had made her final plans before entering the town earlier that morning.

Here they had found Andras and Dillon and the five horses; and here they remained for the afternoon, hardly speaking, Branwen and Blodwedd sitting together, and Gavan and the boys keeping their distance. To pass the time, Gavan had arranged mock sword fights with the lads. Branwen watched with a critical eye. Padrig was a good shot with a bow, but although he was light-footed and quick-witted,
his sword work wasn’t up to much in her opinion. And Andras was all but useless, more likely to trip up and stab himself in the foot than to do damage to an enemy. The only truly dangerous fighter among them was Bryn, and his abilities were due more to weight and force than to anything else. But there was a cold look in his eyes as he fought of which Branwen had taken particular note.

He’d kill without a second thought. I could never bring myself to like him, but he would be a good man to have at your side in a desperate situation.

Branwen had managed a private word with Gavan while they waited for the others. She felt he had a right to know the full nature of their mission, to give him the opportunity to break their alliance if he found it too disturbing.

He had listened in stony silence as she told him of Merion and of the imprisonment of Caradoc of the North Wind. When she had finished, he made only one comment.

“If I find Alwyn and have the means to escape Ironfist’s camp with her, I will do it,” he had warned her. “Whether your mission is fulfilled or not.”

“And if I find Caradoc’s prison, I too will depart the place,” Branwen had responded. “And I will not wait for you or yours.”

“Then we understand each other, Branwen.”

“Yes. I think we do.”

Rhodri and Banon had been the next pair to appear
from Chester, heading toward the place Branwen had suggested for their gathering and drawn to this new hiding place by a shrill whistle from Blodwedd and Branwen’s beckoning arm.

Rhodri had accepted the appearance of Gavan and the boys without comment, but Branwen had not forgotten that these were the lads who had cornered and beaten him when he had been captured in Doeth Palas. She guessed his forbearance was due more to not wishing to cause her problems than to having forgiven the boys.

Rhodri and Banon had little to report that Branwen had not already known. They had heard Ironfist’s speech and had been as disgusted by it as Branwen had been. They had then moved among the townsfolk, listening to much the same kinds of conversations. But Rhodri had used his knowledge of the Saxon language to manage to buy some food for them.

“How did you come by the money?” Branwen had asked.

A slow grin had spread across Banon’s face. “I played cutpurse, and relieved an overfed wheat monger of it,” she said. “He did not even notice the loss! ‘Tis a quick way to gain coin, although my mother would not approve!”

As the afternoon wore on, Iwan and Dera had also appeared. Dera had not hid her disapproval of the new alliance that Branwen had forged, but her
antagonism had been restricted to glowering looks. Iwan had been hugely entertained by it, and his mockery of the boys almost brought him to blows with Bryn. Only Gavan’s intervention prevented them from fighting. After that, the boys of Doeth Palas hardly spoke to their onetime friend and companion. Not that Iwan had seemed to care.

Now that they had all come together, they headed up the forested hill to join with Aberfa and Linette and Asta. There had been more awkwardness, with Aberfa and Bryn facing off, sullen face to sullen face; but in the end Branwen and Gavan had managed to convince everyone to hold to this temporary truce—at the very least until their tasks in Ironfist’s army camp were done.

Asta had prepared a meal for them all while they awaited nightfall. She moved quietly among them, her eyes lowered, handing out bread and cheese and parcels of fish stuffed with herbs and cooked in the embers of a smoldering fire too small to be seen from afar.

Gavan had questioned Asta about Skur, and the answers she had given him were the same as those she had given to Branwen when she had first been rescued. Gavan approved of the decision not to let her go free, but Branwen could see that he also sympathized with the Viking maiden’s plight despite her being of foreign blood.

One last decision had been needed.

Six stones.

Twelve people, not including Asta or Dillon. Who would go with Branwen and Gavan into the camp?

In the end Branwen chose Blodwedd, Dera, Iwan, and Bryn.

And so, all choices having been made, Branwen had walked from their small camp under the trees to watch the sunset and to think of her mother—only to be interrupted by the perplexing and unsettling appearance of Iwan.

At the last moment before the six departed for Ironfist’s encampment, Branwen sought out Rhodri for a quiet word alone.

“I don’t want you to be concerned that I chose Iwan over you for the mission into the Saxon camp,” she said.

“I’m not,” Rhodri said. “Iwan is the better fighter; if you fall into bad luck, he’s more likely to get you all out safe than I.” He smiled. “And I have my own skills,” he added. “Who better to tend the wounded when you return?”

Branwen was relieved. “Good. Exactly.” She looked into his face. “You are my truest friend, Rhodri—and the voice of my conscience, whether I like what it tells me or not. I don’t want any misunderstanding between us. I’d not upset you for all of Brython. Please remember that.”

“I shall.” He touched his hand to her arm. “I’m not concerned for your safety; Iwan will make certain that you do not come to harm.”

She looked at him, puzzled by this. “Why Iwan? I would have expected you to have named Blodwedd as the one to keep me from danger.”

“Blodwedd would fling herself into fire for you,” said Rhodri. “But I think Iwan might just do more.” He smiled a knowing smile. “I believe that under all his bravado and mischief, he may possibly cherish you almost as much as you cherish him.”

Branwen almost choked, embarrassed that her attraction to Iwan was so obvious and desperate to deny it. “What do you mean? He’s a valued companion to me. No more.”

Rhodri’s smile widened. “Don’t try to dupe me, Branwen; I know you too well. I have seen the fond way you look at him when you think no one can see.”

Branwen felt her cheeks burning. “I have no idea what you mean,” she said. “And if we’re speaking of ardent gazes, Rhodri—what of the mooncalf eyes you make at Blodwedd!”

A look of pain crossed his face. “She is an owl, Branwen,” he said. “She can never love me.”

Branwen winced to have hurt him. “I’m sorry; that was unkind,” she said gently. “And I hope she will prove you wrong. But you are mistaken about my feelings for Iwan, and his for me. He is conceited and artful and annoying! He could never love another as
deeply as he loves himself! I would need to be a great fool indeed to harbor affection for one such as he.”

Rhodri looked thoughtfully at her, leaving a silence, it seemed, into which she might pour more words. But she had nothing more to say.

“Your fellows await you,” Rhodri said at last, and Branwen had the disturbing feeling that he had seen through the shield of her thoughts and had looked into the hidden rooms of her heart.

She turned, glad to bring the conversation to an end.

On the edge of the forest, five people stood waiting. And as she walked toward them, she saw Blodwedd hold up her crystal to the rising crescent moon, and she saw the rainbow heart of the stone blaze out through the owl-girl’s fingers in shafts of ever-changing many-colored light.

Branwen took from her pouch the two crystals she had still to distribute, along with two slender lengths of linen.

It had been Rhodri’s idea to enfold the stones in linen strips and to tie them around the wrists. That way the stones would be in constant contact with skin, but the hands would be free.

Already, Branwen, Dera, and Iwan had on their linen wristbands—and Blodwedd had removed her stone from hers only for a few moments to watch it shine in the moonlight.

“They must be constantly against your flesh,”

she warned Gavan and Bryn. “Their power will fail if they are not. And remember—they do not make us invisible…. They merely give us the ability to go
unnoticed
so long as we do not draw attention to ourselves.”