Caradoc of the North Wind - By Allan Frewin Jones Page 0,46

was not possible. She must have misunderstood. She was no healer. She knew nothing of such things.

She must fetch Rhodri!

Branwen broke in through the closed doorway to their long house, panting, her heart hammering, her head swimming.

Rhodri and Blodwedd were there with the others, sitting around the fire-pit, talking and laughing a little. Not knowing. Not even imagining the horror.

Branwen stumbled to a halt, swaying, dizzy, unable to speak.

‘What is it?’ asked Iwan, jumping up before any of the others had moved. ‘What’s happened?’

Branwen tried to gather the wounded remnants of herself. ‘Linette,’ she gasped, gesturing back the way she had come.

Rhodri was on his feet in an instant and out through the doorway in a breath, Blodwedd bounding along behind him, her hair flying.

The others rushed past Branwen, fear and anguish in their faces. Only Iwan stayed with her, his hands on her arms, his face agonized as he looked into her eyes.

‘Is she dead?’ he asked, his voice cracking.

‘No, she cannot be …’ She struggled weakly to get away from him, refusing to look at him. ‘She cannot be!’

His hands gripped her upper arms. ‘Branwen? Be still, now. Is she dead?’

Branwen hung between his hands, all strength, all faith, all hope gone from her.

‘Yes,’ she choked. ‘The Shining Ones let her die!’

The small hut was a place of horror and grief and despair. Rhodri was crumpled at Linette’s side, weeping as he desperately spoke his healing rhymes over her in a broken whisper, his two hands holding hers, pressing her flesh and kneading it as though to force life back into her unmoving body.

Blodwedd stood behind him, silent as a stone, staring into Linette’s white face with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

Aberfa knelt at the dead girl’s head, stroking her hair, her face constricted with grief, her lips a tight, thin line.

Dera and Banon stared on in devastated silence, tears spilling over their cheeks.

Branwen stood in the doorway, stupefied with disbelief, hardly able to draw breath, while white flames danced around the rim of sight. Iwan was silent at her side, one arm circling her shoulders, taking her weight as she leaned against him, the world pitching and spinning around her.

The grievous scene floated like a nightmare in front of Branwen’s eyes. Her friends had turned to stone before her, their tears condensed on their cheeks into hard, sharp diamonds. She felt as though she was falling. Falling and falling and falling. Mouths opened and closed all around her – black mouths opening into nothing. Into Annwn. The faces of her companions melted into hideous shapes. Sickness heaved through her. Her bones were water, her blood was ice.

Rhodri looked up, his face contorted with remorse and wretchedness. ‘She’s gone,’ he said. ‘I can do nothing.’

Banon let out a choking cry. Aberfa’s tears dripped into Linette’s hair.

‘But she is so small,’ Aberfa groaned, staring up at Branwen as though expecting her to be able to do something to change the harshness of the world. ‘So delicate. Look – look. See how fine her skin is.’ She traced fingertips over Linette’s temples. ‘How can she be dead?’

Dera turned towards Branwen, her face stiff with anger and pain. ‘We are alone,’ she said. ‘This is proof. The Shining Ones have deserted us.’

‘No!’ Blodwedd’s voice was strangely shrill. ‘They would never do that.’

Branwen stared at her, shaking uncontrollably, trying not to hate this messenger of the Old Gods – the Old Gods who had turned their backs on her and let Linette die. ‘They have … abandoned me …’ she croaked. ‘They have … failed … me …’

‘No!’ shouted Blodwedd. ‘It is you who failed them. You brought us here – you turned away from the true path—’

‘Blodwedd! Enough!’ cried Rhodri.

Branwen stared again into Linette’s poor dead face. An unquenchable anger boiled up in her. Flames roared behind her eyes. Black clouds filled her brain.

She turned, wrenching herself out of Iwan’s grip and running from the hut.

She knew whose fault this was! She knew who to blame.

She began to run pell-mell through Pengwern, racing up the gentle incline towards the two Great Halls, drawing her sword as she ran, red rage clouding her vision.

A guard stepped across the closed doors of the Hall of Araith, his spear raised in warning.

‘None may pass!’ he said.

But he was not prepared for the fury that struck him. Branwen brought the hilt of her sword up in a hard blow at the side of his head, grabbing his tunic and dragging him aside even as he fell. She