wheezing like a wounded bear, Bran shuffled the last hundred paces to the cave, staggered in, and collapsed on his bed. He lay a long time, shivering, too weak to pull the fleeces over himself.
This was how Angharad found him sometime later when she returned with a double brace of woodcocks.
Bran sensed a movement and opened his eyes to see her bending over him, the birds dangling in her hand and her brow creased with concern. “You went out,” she said simply.
“I did,” he said, his voice husky with fatigue. He clenched his jaw tightly to keep his teeth from chattering.
“You should not have done so.” Laying aside the birds, she straightened his limbs in his bed, then arranged the fleeces over him.
“I am sorry,” he murmured, sinking gratefully beneath the coverings. He closed his eyes and shivered.
Angharad built up the fire again and set about preparing the woodcocks for their supper. Bran dozed on and off through the rest of the day; when he finally roused himself once more, it was dark outside. The cave was warm and filled with the aroma of roasting meat. He sat up stiffly and rubbed his chest; the wound was sore, and he felt a burning deep inside.
The old woman saw him struggle to rise and came to him.
“You will stay abed,” she told him.
“No,” he said, far more forcefully than he felt. “I want to get up.”
“You have overtired yourself and must rest now. Tonight you will stay abed.”
“I won’t argue,” he said, accepting her judgement. “But will you still sing to me?”
Angharad smiled. “One would almost think you liked my singing,” she replied.
That night after supper, Bran lay in his bed, aching and sore, skin flushed with fever, barely able to keep his eyes open. But he listened to that incomparable voice, and as before, the cave disappeared and he travelled to that Elder Realm, where Angharad’s tales took life. That night he listened as, for the first time, she sang him a tale of King Raven.
CHAPTER 21
Angharad settled herself beside Bran on her three-legged stool. She plucked a harp string and silenced it with the flat of her hand. Closing her eyes, she held her head to one side, as if listening to a voice he could not hear. He watched her shadow on the cave wall, gently wavering in the firelight as she cradled the harp to her breast and began to stroke the lowest string—softly, gently releasing a rich, sonorous note into the silence of the cave.
Angharad began to sing—a low whisper of exhaled breath that gathered force to become an inarticulate moan deep in her throat. The harp note pulsed quicker, and the moan became a cry. The cry became a word, and the word a name: Rhi Bran.
Bran heard it, and the small hairs on his arms stood up.
Again and again, Angharad invoked the name, and Bran felt his heart quicken. Rhi Bran. King Raven—his own name and his rightful title—but cast in a newer, fiercer, almost frightening light.
Angharad’s fingers stroked a melody from the harp, her voice rose to meet it, and the tale of King Raven began. This is what she sang:
In the Elder Time, when the dew of Creation was still fresh on the ground, Bran Bendigedig awakened in this worlds-realm. A beautiful boy, he grew to be a handsome man, renowned amongst his people for his courage and valour. And his valour was such that it was exceeded only by his virtue, which was exceeded only by his wisdom, which was itself exceeded only by his honesty. Bran the Blesséd he was called, and no one who saw him doubted that if ever there was a man touched by the All Wise and granted every boon in abundance, it was he. Thus, he possessed all that was needful for a life of utter joy and delight, save one thing only. A single blessing eluded him, and that was contentment.
Bran Bendigedig’s heart was restless, always seeking, never finding—for if it was known what would satisfy his unquiet heart, that knowledge was more completely hidden than a single drop of water in all the oceans of the world. And the knowledge of his lack grew to become a fire deep inside him that burned his bones and filled his mouth with the taste of ashes.
One day, when he could endure his discontent no longer, he put on his best boots, kissed his mother and father farewell, and began to walk. “I will not stop