Destiny's Path (3 page)

“S
TOP THAT NOW
!” shouted Rhodri, stepping between Branwen and the enraged girl. “Enough violence!”

Blodwedd halted, trembling and glowering. She was so small—the top of her head hardly came as high as Rhodri's shoulder—but Branwen sensed a strength in her.

“Were you sent by Rhiannon?” asked Branwen, moving to one side, her slingshot ready.

“Not by her,” said Blodwedd, her voice less ragged now, its tone lower and deeper. “Brother to her—brother of the woods. My Lord Govannon.”

Govannon of the Wood. Branwen remembered the bard's song:

Branwen's eyes narrowed. “What do you want of me?” she asked.

“I was sent to be your eyes and ears on your long journey,” said the girl.

“But…you were one of the owls that attacked us!” Branwen said. “Are you a sorceress—able to change at will into the form of an owl?”

The pain of loss and grief filled Blodwedd's face. “Govannon called me to him,” she said, almost as if speaking to herself. “He said, ‘I have a great duty for you to perform, Blodwedd of the Far-seeing Eye. You must find the Warrior-Child. You must speak with her, guide her—she is lost and wandering in mind, spirit, and body.'” She flashed Branwen an angry look. “‘She will not understand your speech,' he said to me. ‘She has not the skill. You must shed your coat of downy feathers. You must forfeit the
wide fields of the evening sky. You must become…like
her
.'”

“Govannon made you into a human?” gasped Rhodri.

The golden eyes fixed on him. “No,” Blodwedd replied. “Lord Govannon gave me the ugly, spindly, naked body of a human to wear
for a time
—he did not make me human. This form is but a temporary cage.” She gazed up over the treetops. “When my duty is done, my wings will be returned to me.”

Branwen eyed her uneasily. “So I didn't…When I shot you, I didn't…turn you human somehow?”

“Dullard!” hissed Blodwedd. “What power do you have over such things?” She winced and clutched her arm. “I am in pain.”

“You attacked us!” said Branwen. “I was defending myself.”

“You were riding east,” said Blodwedd. “You have no business in the east. I gathered my brothers and sisters to stop you.” She looked past Branwen to where the sword still lay on the ground. “I tore your skin only to rid you of your weapon,” she continued. “What other injury did I do you that you should set sharp stone to my flesh?”

“I thought you were going to kill us,” said Branwen.

“No, not kill. Awaken!” said Blodwedd. “Lord Govannon said to me, ‘The Warrior-Child is willful and wayward—stubborn as tree roots, fickle as
thistledown on the wind. She must be taught to follow the straight path and to heed the call of her destiny.'”

Branwen trembled with anger, her fists clenching and the muscles in her chest tightening. “Go back to your master and tell him he can send all the winds of the world down on me—he can set wolves on me if he wishes—I will not do what he wants me to do. Let him kill me if he can—but I will die on the homeward path.”

Blodwedd frowned. “Stubborn as tree roots indeed!” she said. “You do not listen! I cannot give your message to Lord Govannon. I cannot return to the Great One until my duty is done, Warrior-Child. Until your destiny is fulfilled. That is
my
doom!”

“Then I pity you,” said Branwen. “You had best learn to love your human shape, Blodwedd—because your master has given you a task that you will never fulfill.” She turned and walked away, stooping to pick up her sword and heading to retrieve the two horses. She would continue her journey east.

“Rhodri?” she called back. “Are you coming?”

“Wait,” called Rhodri.

Branwen paused, turning to look at him.

“She's hurt,” Rhodri said mildly. “Let me tend her wound. It could fester and go bad. It won't take long.”

“As you please,” Branwen said grudgingly.

Rhodri turned to Blodwedd. “Will you let me help you?” he asked. “I can take the pain away.”

Blodwedd stared at him for a long while, her inhuman eyes round and full of light. She nodded.

“Stay there, please,” Rhodri urged her. “I won't be long.”

He walked quickly to where Branwen was standing. He stood in front of her, looking unspeakingly into her face.

“What?” she snapped, irked by his silence.

“It seems it is
my
destiny to be forever tending the wounds that you cause,” he said without reproach.

He didn't need to explain further. She knew what he meant. First it was his own leg, cut open in the fall she had caused by hitting him with a tree branch. Then the falcon Fain, injured by a stone in the forest outside Doeth Palas. And now this owl-girl.

“Will you fetch herbs for me to make a poultice?” Rhodri asked.

“I will,” Branwen said. “Watch the horses while I am gone.” She glanced at Blodwedd. “Don't let her scare them away. And don't trust her.”

“Look for comfrey and wormwood,” said Rhodri. “Lobelia is also good, if you can find it. Oh, and mullein. Do you know it?”

Branwen nodded. “A tall-stemmed herb with leaves covered in hairs,” she said. “It has yellow flowers with five petals.”

Rhodri smiled. “You make a fine herbalist's assistant,” he said.

“My brother taught me much woodcraft before…”
She set her jaw. “I will not be long,” she said. “Watch her!”

Branwen headed into the trees. The sooner she returned with the things Rhodri needed, the sooner he could deal with Govannon's messenger—and the sooner they could be on their way again.

 

It took Branwen longer than she'd hoped to gather the plants Rhodri had asked for, and the sun was two handbreadths above the eastern horizon when she finally came running back to the clearing with her hands full of leaves and flowers.

She had half feared to find Rhodri sprawled on the ground with his face raked by claws, and the owl-girl and the horses gone.

Instead, Blodwedd sat cross-legged in the middle of the clearing, gazing up wide-eyed and smiling at Rhodri, who was leaping around in front of her, waving his arms and clearly telling an exciting tale.

“A Saxon warrior was coming at us, bellowing like an angry bear,” Rhodri was saying with high animation. “‘
Gehata! Bana Hel!
' he shouted, which more or less means ‘You're my enemy, and I will kill you and send you to the kingdom of the dead!' He had a sword as long as a roof beam, and I didn't have so much as a stick to defend myself with! ‘Get behind me,' Branwen shouted, and I can tell you, I did just that! Then Branwen and Lady Alis stood side by side on the hill. And Lady Alis called out, ‘Death to the
Saxons! Let us strike as one, my daughter!'” Rhodri slapped his hands together. “And in the blink of an eye, that Saxon devil's head was rolling down the hillside like an apple from the branch!”

Blodwedd laughed. “Ha! That is a good tale! And did you feast on his flesh thereafter?”

For a moment, Rhodri stared at her with his mouth half open. Then he blinked at her, swallowing hard. “Uh…
no
…,” he replied, his forehead wrinkling in distaste. “We don't do that.”

“The Saxon had an ax, not a sword,” said Branwen flatly, finding herself rather disturbed by Rhodri's friendly behavior toward the owl-girl. She walked up to him and thrust the leaves and flowers into his hands. “And my mother said, ‘Strike as one! The throat! Strike as one!'” She glanced at Blodwedd, whose smile had vanished. “The rest is as Rhodri told you.” She looked at him. “Where are the horses?”

“Perfectly safe and very close by,” said Rhodri, his face a little red, although Branwen could not tell whether the coloring was from the exertions of his recent playacting or from embarrassment at being caught entertaining the strange owl-girl. “I found a small stream with fresh grass growing beside it. They will be comfortable there…till we are ready to leave.”

“And how soon will that be?” Branwen asked.

“Soon,” said Rhodri, giving her a slightly uneasy smile. “You did well,” he said, looking at the spoils of
her long search. “You even found lobelia. Splendid. All I need now is water and a couple of flat pounding stones.” He looked at Branwen. “I have been telling Blodwedd about the battle at Garth Milain.”

“So I heard,” Branwen said dryly. She pointed at Blodwedd, keenly aware of the poisonous looks the owl-girl was giving her. “You know what she is!” she said to Rhodri, not caring that the girl could hear her. “You know why she was sent here! Tend her wound, by all means—but then we're going to leave her here and go to my mother—whether her
master
likes it or not.”

Blodwedd got to her feet. “You must not go east,” she said. “Your destiny lies elsewhere—in the place where the Saxon hawks circle above the house of the singing gulls.”

“My destiny lies where I choose,” snapped Branwen. “Come, Rhodri. Lead me to the stream. You may work your skills on her—then we two shall return to Cyffin Tir.” She looked at Blodwedd. “And you will not follow us!”

“I must,” said Blodwedd.

“Try and you will regret it,” said Branwen, her hand moving to the hilt of her sword.

“What will you do?” Rhodri asked gently. “Kill her? This is not her fault, Branwen—you heard what she said. Blame Govannon if you need to blame anyone.”

“Where is the stream?” Branwen asked dismissively.

“This way,” Rhodri said, his voice subdued. “Blodwedd, come with us. I want to wash the wound first.”

The stream was not far away. It ran through a narrow stone gully, splashing cold over boulders and mossy ridges. As Rhodri had said, the two horses were close by, their reins held under a large stone and their heads down as they grazed.

Rhodri got the owl-girl to squat at the side of the tumbling stream while he soaked some of the broad comfrey leaves and gently dabbed with them at the small wound in her shoulder.

“Good, good,” he murmured, wiping the dried blood from her dark skin. “It's not as bad as I feared—and the wound is clean.” He began to shred the plants, wetting them in the stream and laying them on a flat gray stone. “This is wormwood,” he told her, holding up the fernlike leaves with their haze of fine white hair. “It will prevent the wound from becoming inflamed. And this,” he said, showing her the spiral leaves on the long stem, “this is mullein, for the pain.”

Branwen stood behind him, prepared to help if asked, but unwilling to volunteer. A strange anger, like a fist tightening, grew in her stomach as she listened to Rhodri explaining the uses of the herbs to the owl-girl. Why was Rhodri speaking to her as if she was a chance companion met upon the way? She was no such thing. She was a creature of the Old Gods.
She wasn't even human!

I have half a mind to draw my sword and swipe her head off as a warning to the Shining Ones to leave me be!

She eyed Blodwedd uncertainly. The owl-girl looked smaller than ever now, her slim legs folded up under her as she watched Rhodri pound the herbs and grind them to paste.

She looks more like a frog than an owl! A scrawny little frog squatting on a rock. Why is Rhodri taking so long?

“I need something to bind the poultice to your arm,” Rhodri said. “I would rip a length of cloth from my clothes, but they're so ragged I'd be concerned they'd fall to pieces.” Branwen felt a pang—he had said something very similar to her on their first meeting. She had torn the hem of her riding gown for him to bind the wound in his leg.

Not this time. Not for her!

Rhodri's head turned toward her. “Branwen? Do we have anything that we could use as a bandage?”

You're not getting a piece of my clothing!

“The bag you brought the food in, perhaps,” she said aloud. “Do you want me to tear a length off?”

“Please.”

Branwen stepped over the stones to the grassy place where the horses were grazing. Retrieving the bag, she ripped a length from the mouth and brought it back.

“Perfect,” said Rhodri, taking it from her. He smiled at Blodwedd, his voice soft and coaxing. “It
will feel cold and a little strange, but the pain will soon fade. I shall try not to bind it too tightly. You must tell me if it feels uncomfortable. Hold your arm out now.”

Looking straight into his face, Blodwedd stretched out her arm. He leaned close to her. Scooping up the green paste in his fingers, he began very gently to press it against the wound. Spirals of green water ran down under her arm.

“It is cold,” she murmured.

“I told you it would be. Now I'll tie the cloth around it. If it's too tight, say so.”

A hot anger erupted in Branwen.

“Are you finished?” she snarled. “I'm leaving now—the day is wasting away while we linger here.”

“Almost done,” Rhodri answered patiently.

Blodwedd turned her uncanny eyes to Branwen. “You must continue west. Your home is safe, Warrior-Child.”

“How do you know that?” Branwen spat.

“Lord Govannon has seen it,” Blodwedd replied. “The Saxons will not ride upon the hill of fierce warriors—their wrath will fall elsewhere.”