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 wont 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
~ngharad settled herself beside Bran on her threelegged 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 Blessed 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 walking until I have found the thing which will quell my restless heart and fill this hunger in my soul.'
Thus, he began a journey through many lands, through kingdoms and dominions of every kind. At the end of seven years, he reached a distant shore and gazed across a narrow sea, where he beheld the fairest island that he or anyone else had ever seen. Its white cliffs glowed in the dying sunlight like a wall of fine pale gold, and larks soared high above the green-topped hills, singing in the gentle evening air. He wanted nothing more than to go to the island without delay, but night was coming, and he knew he could not reach the far shore in time, so he settled down to spend the night on the strand, intending to cross over the narrow sea with the next morning's new light.
Unable to sleep, he lay on the beach all night long, listening to the fitful wash of the waves over the pebbles, feeling as if his heart would burst for restlessness. When the sun rose again, he rose with it and looked out at the many-splendoured island as it lay before him in the midst of the silver sea. Then, as the rising sun struck the white Cliffs, setting them aglow with a light that dazzled the eyes, Bran struck out. Drawing himself up to full height, he grew until his head brushed the clouds, whereupon he waded out into the narrow sea, which reached only to the knot of his belt. He reached the opposite shore in nine great strides, emerging from the water at his normal height.
He spread his arms to the sun, and while he stood waiting for the bright rays to dry his clothes, he heard the most delightful music, and he turned to see a lady on a milk-white horse approaching a little way off. The music arose from a flute that she played as she cantered along the water's edge in the sweet, honeyed light of the rising sun. Her hair shone with the brightness of a flame, and her skin was firm and soft. Her limbs were fine and straight, her gown was yellow satin, edged in blue, and her eyes were green as new grass or apples in summer.
As she came near, she caught sight of Bran, standing alone on the strand, and she stopped playing. 'I give you good greeting, sir,' she said; her voice, so light and melodious, melted Bran in his innermost parts. 'What is your name?'
'I am Bran Bendigedig,' said he. 'I am a stranger here.'
'Yet you are welcome,' said the lady. 'I see that you are beguiled by the sight of this fair island.'
'That I am,' Bran confessed. 'But no less than by the sight of you, my lady. If ever I boast of seeing a fairer face in all this wide world, may I die a liar's death. What is your name?'
'Would that you had asked me anything else,' she told him sadly, 'for I am under a strong geas never to reveal my name to anyone until the day of Albion's release.'
'If that is all that prevents you, then take heart,' Bran replied boldly, for the moment she spoke those first words in his ear, he knew beyond all doubt that the thing required to bring contentment to his restless heart was the name of the lady before him-just to know her name and, knowing it, to possess it and, possessing it, to hold her beside him forever. With her as his wife, his heart would find peace at last. 'Only tell me who or what Albion might be,' Bran said, 'and I will achieve its release before the sun has run its course.'
'Would that you had promised anything else,' the lady told him. 'Albion is the name of this place, and it is the fairest island known. Ten years ago a plague came to these shores, and it is this which now devastates the island. Every morning I come to the seastrand in the time-between-times in the hope of finding someone who can break the wicked spell that holds Albion in thrall.'
'Today your search has ended,' replied Bran, his confidence undimmed. 'Only tell me what to do, and it will be done.'
'Though your spirit may be bold and your hand strong, Albion's release will take more than that. Many great men have tried, but none have succeeded, for the plague is no ordinary illness or disease. It is an evil enchantment, and it takes the form of a race of giants who by their mighty strength cause such havoc and devastation that my heart quails at the mere mention of them.'
'Fear for nothing, noble lady,' Bran said. 'The All Wise in his boundless wisdom has granted me every good gift, and I can do wonderfully well whatever I put my hand to.'
