resignation. “What do you want from me?”
“What do I want?” she threw back at him. “Only this—I want you to be the man you were born to be.”
“How do you know what I was born to be?”
“You were born to be a king,” Angharad replied simply.
“You were born to lead your people. Beyond that, God only knows.”
“King!” raged Bran, lashing out with a fury that surprised even himself. “My father was the king. He was a heavy-handed tyrant who thought only of himself and how the world had wronged him. You want me to be like him?”
“Not like him,” Angharad countered. “Better.” She held the young man with her uncompromising gaze. “Hear me now, Bran ap Brychan. You are not your father. You could be twice the king he was—and ten times the man—if you so desired.”
“And you hear me, Angharad!” said Bran, his voice rising with his temper. “I do not want to be king!”
The old woman’s eyes searched his face. “What did he do to you, Master Bran, that you fear it so?”
“I am not afraid,” he insisted. “It is just . . .” His voice faltered. How could he express a lifetime of hurt and humiliation, of need and neglect, in mere words?
“I don’t want it. I never wanted it,” he said, turning away from the old woman at last. “Find someone else.”
“There is no one else, Master Bran,” she said. “Without a king, the people will die. Elfael will die.”
Bran uttered an inarticulate growl of frustration and, turning away again, strode quickly to the cave entrance.
“Farewell, Angharad. I will remember you.”
“Go your way, Master Bran. But if you think about me at all, remember only this: a raven you are, and a raven you will remain—until you fulfil your vow.”
Bran stopped in the cave entrance and gave a bitter laugh.
“I made no vow, Angharad,” he said, her name a slur in his mouth. “Just you remember that.”
With swift strides, his long legs carried him from the cave.
Angry and determined to put as much distance as possible between himself and Angharad’s unreasonable expectations, he walked far into the forest before it occurred to him that he had not the slightest idea where he was going. As many times as he had been out gathering materials to make arrows, he had paid little heed to directions and pathways; and last night when Angharad led him to the valley overlook—from which he would certainly be able to find his way—it had been dark and the pathway unseen.
Already tired, he stopped walking and sat down on a fallen log to rest and think the matter through. The simplest solution, of course, would be to return to the cave and demand that Angharad lead him to the valley. That smacked too much of humiliation, and he rejected the idea outright. He would exhaust all other possibilities before confronting that disagreeable old hag again.
After trying to work out a direction from the sun, he rose from his perch and set off once more. This time, he walked more slowly and tried to spy out any familiar features that might guide him. Although he found no end of pathways— runs used by deer and wild pigs, and even an old charcoal burners’ trackway—the trails were so intertwined and tangled, crossing over one another, circling back, and crossing again, that he only succeeded in disorienting himself further.
He moved with more deliberate care now, reading direction from the moss on the trees. Certainly, he thought, if he kept moving north, he would eventually reach the high, open heathlands, and beyond them the mountains. All he had to do was get clear of the trees.
Morning lengthened, and the day warmed beneath a fulsome sun, and Bran began to grow hungry. How had he forgotten to bring provisions? Despite months of thinking of nothing but escape, now that the day had come, he was appalled to discover how little he had actually prepared. He had no food, no water, no money, nor even any idea which way to go. He looked at the bow in his hand and marvelled that he had remembered to bring that.
Well, he could get something to eat at the first settlement— just as soon as he found a way out of this accursed forest. Shouldering his bow, he trudged on with a growing hunger in his belly to match his unquiet heart.
CHAPTER 26
It was bad enough having to stand by and watch as his beloved monastery was destroyed piecemeal, but the tacit