to Bran, the warrior clapped his hand to the young man’s shoulder. “Humble it may be,”
Iwan said, “but my hearth will be all the merrier with you for company.”
“I would be honoured,” Bran told him.
“Come, we will share a cup,” announced Iwan. “I am that anxious to hear how you fared all this time without me.”
The former champion turned on his heel and started back to his hut. Bran caught Angharad by the arm and whispered, “You did not tell them I was coming?”
“The choice, my son, was always yours alone,” she replied.
“You knew this would happen,” he insisted. “You must have known all along.”
“You said you wanted to go to your people.” Extending a gnarled hand to the bedraggled gathering before him, she said, “Here are your people, Bran.”
How strange she was, this old woman standing before him—at once aged and ageless. The dark eyes gazing out at him from that wrinkled visage were as keen as blades, her mind sharper still. Bran was, he knew, at her mercy and always had been. “Who are you, Angharad?” he asked.
“You asked me once,” she replied, “but you were not ready to receive the answer. Are you ready now?”
“I am—I mean, I think so.”
“Then come,” Angharad said. “It will not take long. Iwan will wait.” She led him to a round moss- and bracken-covered hut in the centre of the settlement. The hide of a red ox served for a door, and here she paused, saying, “If you enter, Master Bran, you must leave your unbelief outside.”
“I will,” he told her. “So far as I am able, I will.”
She regarded him without expression and then smiled. “I suppose that will have to do.” To the others who had followed them, she said, “Go about your business. Siarles, tell Iwan we will join him soon. I would speak to Bran alone a moment.” The people moved off reluctantly; Angharad gave Bran a little bow and, drawing aside the red oxhide, said, “Be welcome here, Prince of Elfael.”
Bran stepped into the dim interior of the odd dwelling.
Although dark, it was surprisingly ample and comfortable.
Light filtered in through a single hole in the roof directly over the stone-lined fire pit in the centre of the room. The furnishings were spare. A single three-legged stool, a row of woven grass baskets along the curving wall, and a bed of reeds and fleeces were the only belongings in the room.
These Bran took in with a single glance as he entered.
A second look revealed another item he did not see until his eyes had better adjusted to the dusky interior: a robe made entirely of feathers, all of them black. Drawn to the peculiar garment, he ran his hand over the glossy plumage. “What is this?”
“It is the Bird Spirit Cloak,” replied the old woman.
“Come, sit down.” She indicated a place opposite her at the fire ring.
“They called you hudolion,” Bran said, settling himself cross-legged on a grass mat. “Are you?” he asked. “Are you an enchantress?”
“I have been called many things,” she replied simply. “Hag . . . Whore . . . Leper . . . Witch . . . I am each of these and none. Banfáith of Elfael . . . True Bard of Britain, these titles are also mine. Call me what you will, I am myself alone, the last of my kind.”
In her words Bran heard the echo of a long-forgotten time, a time when Britain belonged to Britons alone, and when its sons and daughters walked beneath free skies.
The old woman exhaled gently and closed her eyes. She was silent for a long moment and then drew a deep breath.
When she spoke again, her voice had changed, taking on the timbre and cadence of one of her songs. “Not for Angharad the friendly hearth, the silver-strung harp, or torc of gold,” she said, almost singing the words. “In the forest she resides, living like the wild things—the nimble fox, elusive bear, or phantom wolf. Like these, her four-footed sisters, the forest is her shelter and her stronghold.”
She exhaled again, and another long pause ensued. Bran, accustomed to the old woman’s queer moods and eccentric ways, knew better than to interrupt her. He waited in silence for her to continue.
“Oh, beloved, yes, the greenwood is her caer, but it is not her home,” she said after a moment. “Angharad was born to a more exalted position. She was born to bless the hall of a king with her song, to adorn and