The Emerald Flame (13 page)

Her hand was covered in blood. Her hair was full of clots of gore. The water had not washed her clean.

She turned, diving in again, scouring her body with her hands, desperate to get rid of the blood.

She climbed into the air again, and still she was
smeared and stained with blood.

“That will not wash it away,” called the high, piping voice. She spun around and saw a fragile silvery figure standing on a rock at the foot of the waterfall. A female, for sure, very tall but as slender as a child, her hair falling like white water to her waist, her delicate body clad in a dress so fine that it was like a mist.

“Then how?” Branwen called. “How do I get clean?”

“You do not,” called the voice. “The blood is part of you now, Warrior Child.”

“No! I don’t want that.”

“Blood is life; blood is strength; blood is a mighty river—it will not be denied. Own yourself, Warrior Child. Be who you have become.”

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“I want to dance in the moonlight,” called the creature. “My name is Nixie, but most call me goraig, if they name me at all.”

Goraig?
The goraig were the water goblins of her brother Geraint’s old children’s stories. Creatures that did not exist … that
should
not exist. But before Branwen had the chance to ask more of her, Nixie began to sing—a bright, lilting tune, her voice like the trilling of water over pebbles.

And as she sang, Nixie began to dance, skipping featherlight over the stones that lay beneath the waterfall, pirouetting, twirling, springing from rock to rock, her slim body shining like a candle through the gauze of her dress.

Suddenly she leaped from the rocks and came down onto the black surface of the lake. Small moonlight ripples spread from her feet as she danced across the water. Branwen saw the undulations trouble the reflection of the full moon as it lay on the dark breast of the lake.

Nixie came dancing over to the reflected moon, circling it with delicate steps, her toes at its rim.

Branwen watched her in baffled delight, gazing at her bewitching, serene face, envying her airy grace
and her blithe moonlit existence.

Suddenly Nixie stooped, reaching her two arms down into the lake. The moon exploded into glittering fragments as her hands clove the water. But a moment later she lifted her arms again, holding the white disk of the moon between her fingers as though it were a wheel made of pure light.

Branwen gasped as Nixie began to spiral toward her, the moon lifted high above her head, spinning like a silver coin.

She came to the water’s edge at Branwen’s feet. Bending low, she bowed her head, her hair tumbling forward, the moon held out toward Branwen.

“Take it,” she said, lifting her head, her eyes radiant between the curtains of her hair. “It is yours. A gift from the Great One, to replace that which was broken.”

Branwen reached for the moon disk—half expecting her hands to pass through it. But it was solid under her fingers, solid and cold like forged silver—the size of a shield.

“May it serve you well,” said Nixie, rising to her full height, “as it served its old master.”

“Who did it belong to?” Branwen asked. But Nixie was already dancing away across the lake. “Whose was it? What happened to him?”

“Remember the cuckoo!” Nixie called back. “She is a pretty bird, but her heart is taken by another…. She is not to be trusted…. Be wary of her…. Beware….”

B
RANWEN WAS AWOKEN
by a hand on her shoulder and by Blodwedd’s voice whispering in her ear. “Something is afoot, Branwen,” Blodwedd hissed. “Come. Swiftly.”

Disoriented and with half of her mind still caught up in the dream, Branwen got to her feet and followed Blodwedd’s padding footsteps away from the cloak-bundled, sleeping shapes of her companions and into the forest.

“What of Asta?” Branwen murmured, knuckling her eyes to wake herself up properly. “You were to watch her day and night.” She saw that the light was gray. It would soon be dawn.

“She is deep asleep,” Blodwedd replied. “She will not rouse soon.”

“Caw!”
A single sharp cry. Branwen turned,
looking up into the branches. In among the leaves she saw the gleam of Fain’s eye.

“Hush now!” she called softly. “All’s well. Stay and watch over the others!”

She caught up with Blodwedd.

“Why did you wake me?” she asked. “Where are we going?”

“Not far,” said Blodwedd, turning with circular eyes. “Something waits for you.”

“A shield!” Branwen gasped. “A white shield!”

“Then you dreamed it, too,” said Blodwedd, her eyes glittering. “You are drawing ever closer to the Old Ones, Branwen. They are in your blood now.”

Branwen stopped dead.

“What’s happening to me?” she asked the owl-girl. “What am I becoming?”

Understanding ignited in Blodwedd’s face. “Ahh!” She walked back, standing close to Branwen—the top of her tawny head the level of Branwen’s chin—looking up at her. “You fear you will lose yourself.”

“I do.”

“You will not,” said Blodwedd. “Am I lost under this absurd bag of bones? I am not.” She smiled her pointy smile, her face more owl-like than ever. “Own yourself, Branwen. Become who you are.”

“That is almost exactly what the dancing girl told me.”

“I know. Come—do you not want your gift?” Blodwedd walked away. Hesitating only for a moment,
Branwen followed her.

They did not need to go far.

Daylight grew at Branwen’s back. She saw something flashing through the trees—white as lightning, but circular. Something that hung in the branches of a solitary rowan tree.

It was a shield, dazzling in reflected sunlight.

The white shield from her dream.

“Take it and keep it,” said Blodwedd, stepping aside as Branwen approached the dangling shield. “It is made from the wood of the sacred linden tree of Afallach, and over its face is stretched the hide of the White Bull of Ynis Môn. The boss is of white gold mined in Dolaucothi in the kingdom of Dyfed and forged by Gofi ap Duw.”

“How do you know these things?” asked Branwen, narrowing her eyes against the glare of the sun-blazing shield.

“I know of its former master,” said Blodwedd. “His name was Cudyll Bach of the House of Wyllt. He died long ago, and his shield and sword have been kept secret for many’s the long year, waiting for a worthy champion. Be honored, Branwen of the Old Ones—the shield has chosen you! Take it for your own. It will bring you good fortune.”

Her hands trembling, Branwen reached up and lifted the shield from the rowan branches. She slipped her hand into the grip, testing the weight and balance of the shield on her arm. “It feels good!” she said,
smiling now. “What of the sword? Am I to receive that as well?”

“Be content,” said Blodwedd. “The sword is for another champion.”

Branwen frowned. “There’s
another?”

“There is.”

Branwen was surprised and intrigued by this. And a little disturbed. Had the Shining Ones torn some other innocent from their home and sent them hurtling pell-mell along destiny’s path? “Is it someone like me?” she asked.

“Like and unlike,” said Blodwedd. “He does not dwell in Brython. His home is in the kingdom of Wessex, which lies to the south of Mercia. I can tell you no more of him. Come—a new day has dawned; the others are stirring.”

Blodwedd strode off through the trees, and Branwen had to run to catch up with her. “Do you truly know nothing more about this other champion? Why have you not spoken of him before?” she asked, walking now at the owl-girl’s side.

“I know only that he is a boy alive in the world,” said Blodwedd. She glanced at Branwen, touching a finger to the middle of her own forehead. “I see in my mind a man in a cell of cold stone,” she said. “A man named Thomas. But Thomas is not the champion—he merely writes of him. He is bent over—quill to parchment—scribbling frantically; he knows of the champion the boy will become. But when he writes, the champion
has already slept for eight hundred years in the dark tower of Caer Rigor.” A sharp edge came into her voice. “That is the extent of my knowledge, Branwen. Ask no more!”

Reluctantly, Branwen complied with Blodwedd’s wishes and put no more questions to her—though Blodwedd’s words were such a puzzle, she had nothing but questions. It was a long time before she was able to clear her mind of the notion that there was
another Warrior Child alive in the world.

Branwen’s companions were fascinated and awed by the appearance of the white shield—and even more so by the way it had come to her.

“A gift from the Old Powers,” Banon breathed, barely daring to touch the hard leather rim. “This is surely a reward for the slaying of Skur Bloodax.”

“Maybe so,” said Rhodri. “Or a token that harder battles lie ahead.”

“The gods of your people must love you dearly, Branwen,” said Asta, gazing at the shield. “Might it not be wise for you to turn back now to give thanks? That is how my people do homage to our gods. We go to their sacred places and make sacrifices to them for their bounty.”

“In due time, perhaps,” said Branwen. “I don’t
think Merion of the Stones would want me to turn from my path at this point.” She looked at her gathered companions. The only one who stood slightly apart was Iwan, his arms folded, his eyes on her as though his head was full of unasked questions.

“I have made my decision about who shall come with me to Chester,” Branwen said. “Aberfa and Linette will stay behind with the horses. With them we will leave our weapons and any other gear that will mark us as other than humble travelers come to do business in the markets of Chester. Asta will stay with them.”

“I thought Blodwedd was to be the Viking’s keeper,” complained Aberfa. “I would go with you into Chester.”

“Asta will be in
your
charge for this time,” said Branwen. “It is pointless giving this task to Blodwedd; she would refuse it and give me an endless list of reasons why she must stay always at my side. I do not have time for such an argument.”

“It’s true,” said Rhodri, his hand on Blodwedd’s shoulder. “She would.”

The owl-girl said nothing; but her eyes glowed like amber flames, and there was a glad smile on her face.

Aberfa frowned deeply but said nothing more.

“We will guard her well, do not fear,” said Linette. “And as a reward, all we ask is to be in your vanguard when other dangers appear.”

“There will be plenty of opportunity for that, I’m sure,” said Branwen. “Let’s get ready now. A quick breakfast is all we have time for, and then we must be on our way.”

Once everyone had divested themselves of their war-gear, quite a collection of shields and swords and knives and bows were heaped up in the middle of their camp. Skur’s ax lay on its own, as did a long knife that had been taken from his belt and his yellow and black shield.

“I wish you could take Skur’s ax to Chester and display it so that all would know of their champion’s death,” said Linette.

“They shall learn of it soon enough,” said Branwen. “The next time our two armies meet, we shall carry the ax with us, and our foes will be dismayed to see that their Viking warrior is slain. Maybe that will give us advantage in the field.”

Iwan smiled at her. “You think like a general,” he said.

“Perhaps,” Branwen replied softly.

She turned and laid her white shield apart from the others, resting it against a tree trunk. She straightened up, noticing that Iwan was now looking at the shield and frowning.

“What’s the matter?” she asked him. “You’ve hardly spoken since I returned. Are you envious that the gods have not favored you with such a gift?”

He gave a crooked smile. “I am conceited enough
to enjoy special treatment, I’ll grant you that,” he said. “And usually I deserve it. But I’m not sure that being a favorite of the Shining Ones is something I’d covet.” He looked at her, and there was concern in his eyes. “Be careful, Branwen,” he murmured, his voice oddly serious. “Be wary of the cost of such gifts. Do not let them …” His words trailed off.

“Say what you’re thinking,” said Branwen.

He was silent for a while as though choosing his words very carefully.

“I find your company mildly agreeable, barbarian princess,” he said at length, the teasing tone back in his voice. “I would not wish for you to be changed overmuch by your contact with the Old Gods—for you to become more like them. I would not want to have to start worshipping you!” He laughed, turning and walking away from her. “At least no more than I do already!”

She stared after him, her throat suddenly tight, her heart skipping in her chest.

Why does he say such things? What does he mean by them?

But the riddle of Iwan ap Madoc would have to remain unsolved for now. Branwen had urgent matters to attend.

Fain came and perched on the rim of her white shield, cawing as if to let her know that he would guard her new gift with his life.

“Nobly done, my friend,” she said, lightly stroking
the bird’s chest feathers. “Keep your vigil here—I will not be overlong, and I cannot take you into the town. Such a lordly creature as you would draw too much attention.” She turned and stared out over the plain. “And that is something we cannot risk—we few among so many enemies.”

In the full light of day, Branwen found the age-old town of Chester and the army camp that sprawled at its side even more astonishing and impressive than she had when it had been no more than an unsettling cluster of lights in the dark of night.