‘Do not hurt her!’ cried Branwen, coming out of a kind of stupor of disbelief. ‘She’s possessed by Ragnar! We must set her free!’
Eyes like two black moons.
The warning had referred to Blodwedd all along. The owl-girl had understood something of it – she had intimated as much when they had been together on the ramparts of Pengwern. What had she said?
When you see the eyes like two black moons, do not hesitate – not for love, nor honour, nor compassion nor friendship.
But how could Branwen not hesitate?
Kill it before it can kill you.
How could she kill someone who had sacrificed so much out of loyalty and devotion? How could she? There had to be another way to release Govannon’s Messenger from Ragnar’s thrall.
Branwen ran forward, but too late. Blodwedd writhed loose, leaping like a feral beast at Banon. Blood spurted and Banon fell back, clutching at her shoulder. Turning, as lithe as a serpent, Blodwedd flung herself headlong at Iwan, knocking his sword out of his grasp, reaching with curved nails for his face.
Even then, Branwen could not bring herself to strike at her friend with cold iron. She lunged forward, snatching a handful of the owl-girl’s thick hair, digging her heels in hard as she hauled back, ripping the ravening monster away from Iwan – seeing how the hooked claws had already dug bloody crescents in Iwan’s cheekbones.
Using all her strength, Branwen heaved Blodwedd backward, swinging from side to side to prevent the berserk girl from regaining her balance. But she was not prepared for how mercurial and how agile Blodwedd had become. The owl-girl squirmed and thrashed in her grip, spinning to face her, the crooked nails now stretching towards her eyes.
Unprepared for Blodwedd’s sudden shift of weight, Branwen fell over backward, striking the ground hard so that the air was beaten from her body and the sword jarred from her hand. Blodwedd came down on her like a thunderbolt, straddling her chest, her long hair hanging, her face frenzied and inhuman, the black eyes like holes in the world.
Blood and spittle showered Branwen’s face as the insane owl-girl laughed, her hands gripping either side of Branwen’s head, the nails like splinters of flint scoring her flesh.
‘Govannon!’ Branwen cried in desperation, wrestling to throw the owl-girl off. ‘Rhiannon! Save her! Release her!’
‘They cannot!’ howled Blodwedd. ‘I am no longer theirs to command. It is too late.’
Branwen snatched hold of Blodwedd’s wrists, trying to prise her hands free. ‘Fight the demon, Blodwedd,’ she gasped.
‘ “Fight the demon”?’ snarled Blodwedd, her open mouth curling into a terrible smile. ‘Iam the demon, Warrior Child! I have always been the demon – did you not know that?’ Slowly she raised her arms, Branwen’s fingers still clinging to her wrists. ‘The Emerald Flame, you are called, Branwen of the Petty Gods. But let us see how you follow destiny’s path with only the pits of lost eyes to guide you!’
Branwen let out a cry as the curved fingers came raking down towards her face, the nails stretching for her eyes.
‘One eye you took from Earl Herewulf’s face,’ raved the gravelled voice from Blodwedd’s mouth. ‘One eye from my lord’s most trusted servant! As forfeit, you shall pay with both of yours!’
As Branwen looked in horror into the owl-girl’s face, she knew the truth: Ragnar had taken her friend body and spirit – there was no more Blodwedd. There was only Ragnar – a savage and murderous thing housed in Blodwedd’s body, a hellish beast that stared down at her with black, dead, ferocious eyes.
‘Blodwedd!’ A shape loomed in the corner of Branwen’s eye. It was Rhodri, stumbling forward, his arms out towards the demon that had once been his beloved friend. ‘For the love I bear you, Blodwedd, stop!’
For a moment, the furious strength of Blodwedd’s arms lessened a fraction. She turned her head, staring at Rhodri, as though some tiny shred of the person she had been had ignited a spark of memory in her mind.
Now Branwen did not hesitate. She released Blodwedd’s left wrist and flung her arm out. Her fingers caught the hilt of her sword and closed about it. Screwing her eyes shut to avoid seeing the thing she was about to do, she angled the blade upwards and thrust deep.
Blodwedd let out a wild screech as the sword drove through her body.
‘No!’ screamed Rhodri. ‘No!’
The owl-girl’s dying body convulsed on top of Branwen, the back arching, the neck stretching, the mouth gaping.
Blodwedd fell writhing to one side, ripping the sword from Branwen’s hands, clutching at it as though trying to pull it out from between her ribs.
Overwrought with horror, her eyes flooded with tears, Branwen crawled to where Blodwedd lay twitching on the ground. With a final burst of strength, the owl-girl jerked the sword out of her body and flung it to one side, her breath coming rapidly, blood blossoming on her clothes.
Rhodri dropped to his knees at Blodwedd’s side, shouting his futile denials as he bent over her, one hand pressing against her bloody wound, the other cradling the side of her face.
Branwen crouched by Blodwedd’s head, weeping, distraught, wrung with guilt and grief.
The owl-girl’s eyes opened as she turned her head to gaze for a moment into Branwen’s face. Branwen bit back a sob when she saw that her friend’s eyes were golden once more.
‘Do not weep,’ Blodwedd whispered, blood tricking down the side of her face and into her hair. ‘You had to do this … I would have … killed you all …’
Branwen tried to speak, but her voice would not come.
Blodwedd’s eyes began to glaze over. ‘I am free now. Soon I shall be at Govannon’s side – soaring the great wide sky-fields once more. Blodwedd of the Far-Seeing Eye.’ She turned her head one final time to look into Rhodri’s face. ‘I have … a gift … for you … Rhodri …’ Now her voice had become very faint and Branwen could hardly hear her words. ‘Come … closer … dearest … friend …’
Rhodri leaned close over her, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed. She lifted her hands and held his head between them, bringing his face down to hers and softly kissing his eyes. ‘Forgive me … sweet Rhodri,’ she breathed. ‘This is … not … an … easy burden … to bear …’
Her fingers loosened, her arms fell limp.
The light faded from her golden eyes.
Blodwedd the owl-girl lay dead upon the hill.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Rhodri let out a scream of utter agony, his body jerking upwards, his hands coming up to his face. Branwen stared up at him in alarm as he knelt there, swaying, shuddering, grinding his hands into his eyes as though fighting intolerable pain.
She ached to comfort him – but how could she do that – killer as she was of her friend’s great love? She had to suffer his agonies as well as her own. She deserved no better!
Through her tears, Branwen was aware of figures moving forward across the hill. Iwan was the first to reach Rhodri, stooping, taking the howling boy’s broad shoulders between his hands as though to halt the rolling of his agonized body.
Rhodri’s screams ended abruptly and he slumped sideways, almost dragging Iwan down with him as he crumpled to the ground.
Strong hands lifted Branwen to her feet. ‘Are you hurt?’ It was Dera’s voice. “Branwen? Are you injured?’
‘No.’ The word was like a knife in her throat.
‘There was nothing else you could have done,’ said Banon, holding a bloody rag to her wounded shoulder. ‘Ragnar had taken her over – she would have killed us all.’
Kill it before it can kill you.
Blodwedd’s own words.
‘Why did they not protect her?’ shouted Branwen. She turned, facing west, screaming her anger into the grey sky. ‘Why did you not protect her? She was your creature! Did her life mean nothing to you? Are you so cruel?’
But the clouded sky gave her no answer.
It was a vision, or a dream, or a… visitation. Branwen stood on air. She was far above the
hill, gazing down. Between her floating feet, she saw herself, seated on the blackened ground at Blodwedd’s side, her head hanging, her sword flung aside. She saw Rhodri lying close by, a cloak covering him to the chin while Banon and Iwan lifted his head and used a wetted rag to bathe his forehead. But Rhodri’s eyes were closed and from such a distance, Branwen could not even be sure that he was breathing. Three horses were tethered on the hill – Aberfa and Dera were busy rounding up the others that had fled when Ragnar had come.
Fain was there also, on the ground, preening his ruffled and disordered feathers, shivering but otherwise unhurt after his encounter with the evil raven. That at least was a blessing.
Branwen looked up, her mind strangely empty, wondering how much time had elapsed since she had slaughtered her friend.
‘You had no choice, you know that.’
Branwen turned her head and saw that Linette stood at her side on the empty air. The girl was dressed all in white, and there was a light radiating from her face that made it almost impossible for Branwen to look directly at her. Brighter than the noonday sun, Linette’s face had become.
‘I’m cursed,’ Branwen said. ‘All who come near me perish.’
‘When war stalks the land, many die, Branwen,’ said Linette mildly. ‘Yet you are right – you are cursed. You bear the curse of leadership.’
‘No. I’ll not lead any more. Let them choose another. Let Dera or Iwan guide them now. I’m done with it. I’ll not lift a sword in anger again. I shall take the path into the forest and live out my days in solitude. That way no more lives will be lost on my account.’
‘You can’t do that and you won’t,’ came Linette’s gentle voice. ‘You have a long and weary road ahead of you, Branwen. The only way you could make it worse is if you seek to avoid it. Do you not know that by now?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I think you do.’ Linette sighed. ‘Besides, you cannot leave poor Rhodri to his fate.’
Branwen frowned. ‘What of Rhodri? What do you mean?’
‘Blodwedd has given him a gift that he will find it hard to bear alone.’
‘What gift?’
‘The gift of the awakening blood. It will rise in him like a fever and when it boils behind his eyes he will not know himself. But he will speak truths to you, and you would be wise to listen. Iwan has long called him Druid, in jest – but it is jest no longer.’
‘Must I return then?’ Branwen asked. ‘Is there to be no respite?’
‘You know the answer to that already.’
Branwen gazed down at Blodwedd’s sad, slender corpse. ‘Why did they not save her?’ she asked, her tears falling, glimmering in the sunlight.
‘Because they could not,’ Linette sighed. ‘Do you think they are not bereft, Branwen? Do you think you are the only one that grieves?’ Her hand touched Branwen lightly on the shoulder. ‘Follow the path, my friend, my leader, my captain. Go south and do great deeds.’
‘My path lies northwards,’ said Branwen, narrowing her eyes as the light from Linette’s face grew brighter and brighter.
‘No,’ said the echoing voice. ‘It does not.’
‘And when all my tasks are done, shall I then be given time to grieve over Blodwedd’s death?’ Branwen called as the light engulfed her. ‘Shall I ever know peace, Linette? Ever?’
But there came no answer.
Branwen was aware of shapes moving in front of her in the gaping whiteness, and of hollow voices speaking in the void.
‘Does she even know we are here?’
‘How long must we wait? The day is all but ended, and still she sits like a stone upon the hill and responds to nothing!’
‘It’s the grief, for pity’s sake. Can you not see that?’ Iwan’s voice, Branwen realized. ‘She killed a dear companion; it has broken her spirit.’
‘We cannot camp upon this hilltop till doomsday.’ That was Aberfa. ‘The question is, will she be able to ride, or must we find some other way to bear her? And what of Rhodri? His injuries are slight, but he will not awaken.’
‘Bear her where?’ Banon, now. ‘Do we still go to Garth Milain, as she intended? Who will lead us?’
‘I shall, if no other takes the challenge.’
Branwen smiled a little at Dera’s voice. Yes, Dera would wear well the mantle of leadership, if it came to it.
‘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 w
ith 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.