Lastly, he examined the bite on his arm. The limb was tenderthe hound's teeth had broken the skin, nothing worse-the flesh swollen and sore, but the ragged half circle of raised red puncture wounds did not seem to be festering. He bathed his arm in the brook and washed the dried blood from his chest and stomach. He tried to bathe the spear cut on his upper back but succeeded only in dribbling water over his shoulders and making himself cold. He drew on his clothes and contemplated the choices before him.

So far as he could see, he had but two courses: return to Elfael and try to find someone to take him in, or continue on to Gwynedd and hope to find help somewhere along the way before he reached the mountains.

The land to the north was rough and inhospitable to a man alone. Even if he had the great good fortune of making it through the forest unaided, the chances of finding help were remote. Elfael, on the other hand, was very nearly deserted; most of his countrymen had fled, and the Ffreinc were seeking his blood. It came to him that he could do no better than try to take his own advice and go to Saint Dyfrig's to seek sanctuary with the monks.

The decision was easily made, and he gathered what strength he could muster and set out. With any luck, he allowed himself to think, day's end would find him behind friendly walls, resting in the guest lodge.

Bran's luck had so far proved as irksomely elusive as the trail. It served him no better now. The forest pathways crossed one another in bewildering profusion, each one leading on to others-over and under fallen trunks, down steep grades into rills and narrow defiles, up sharp-angled ridges and scrub-covered hillsides. Hunger had long since become a constant, gnawing pain in his stomach. He could drink from the streams and brooks he encountered, but nourishing food was scarce. There were mushrooms in extravagant overabundance, but most, he knew, were poisonous, and he did not trust himself to recognise the good ones. Finding nothing else, he chewed hazel twigs just to have something in his mouth.

Hungry, pain-riddled, he allowed his mind to wander.

He imagined himself received into the safety of the abbey and wel comed to a dinner of roast lamb, braised leeks, and oat bread and ale. This comforting dream awakened a ferocious appetite that refused to subside-even when he tried to appease it with sour blackberries gobbled by the purple handful from a bramble bush. In his haste, he bit the inside of his cheek, breaking open the wound afresh and driving him to his knees in agony. He lay for a long time on the ground, rocking back and forth in misery until he became aware that he was being watched.

"What?" asked a voice somewhere above him. "What?"

Raising his eyes, Bran saw a big black rook on a branch directly over his head. The bird regarded him with a shiny bead of an eye. "What?"

He dimly remembered a story about a starving prophet fed by crows. "Bring me bread."

"What?" asked the bird, stretching its wings.

"Bread," Bran said, his voice a breathless groan. "Bring me some bread."

The rook cocked its head to one side. "What?"

"Stupid bird." Angered by the rook's refusal to aid in his revival, Bran dragged himself to his feet once more. The bird started at the movement; it flew off shrieking, its cry of "Die! Die!" echoing through the wood.

Bran looked around and realised with a sinking heart that he had dreamed most of the day away. He moved on then, dejected and afraid to trust his increasingly unreliable judgement. The wounds to his chest and back throbbed with every step and were hot to the touch. As daylight deteriorated around him, his steps slowed to an exhausted shuffle; hunger burned like a flame in his gut, and it hurt his chest to breathe. The long day ended, leaving him worse off than when it had begun, and night closed over him like a fist. He closed his eyes beneath the limbs of a sheltering elm and spent an uncomfortable night on the ground.

When he rose again the next morning, he was just as weary as when he lay down. Climbing to his feet on that second day, he felt fear circling him like a preying beast. He remembered thinking that if he did not find a trail out of the wood, this day might be his last. That was when he had decided to follow the next stream he found, thinking that it would eventually lead to the river that ran through the middle of Elfael.

This he did, and at first it seemed his determination would be rewarded, for the forest thinned and he glimpsed open sky ahead. Closer, he saw sunlight on green grass and imagined the valley spreading beyond. He limped toward the place and, as he passed the last trees, stepped out into a wide meadow-at the centre of which was a shimmering pool. Dragonflies flitted around the water's edge, and larks soared high above. The stream he had been following emptied itself into the pool and, so far as he could tell, did not emerge again.

It had taken him the better part of two days to reach another dead end, and now, as he gazed around him, he knew his strength was gone. Hope crushed to a cold cinder, Bran staggered stiff legged through the long grass to stand gazing down into the water, too tired to do anything but stand.

After a time, he lowered himself painfully down to kneel at the water's edge, drank a few mouthfuls, then sat down beside the pool. He would rest a little before moving on. He fell back in the grass and closed his eyes, giving way to the fatigue that paralysed him. When he woke again, it was dark. The moon was high above a line of clouds moving in from the northwest. Exhausted still, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

It rained before morning, but Bran did not rise. And that was how the old woman found him the next day.

She hobbled from the forest on her stout legs and stood for a long time contemplating the wreck of him. "Dost thou ever seek half measures?" she asked, glancing skyward. "Whether 'tis meet or ill, I know not. But heavy was the hand that broke this reed."

She paused, as if listening. "Oh, aye," she muttered. "Aye and ever aye. Your servant obeys."

With that she removed the moth-eaten rag that was her cloak and placed it over the wounded man. Then she retreated to the forest the way she had come. It was midday before she returned, leading two ragged men pulling a handcart. She directed them to the place where she had found the unconscious young man; he was where she left him, still covered by her cloak.

"We could dig a grave," suggested one of the men upon observing the wounded stranger's pale, bloodless flesh. "I do believe 'twould be a mercy."

"Nay, nay," she said. "Take him to my hearth."

"He needs more than hearth care," observed the man, scratching a bristly jaw "This 'un needs holy unction."

"Go to, Cynvar," the old woman replied. "If thou wouldst but stir thyself to action-and yon stump with thee"-she indicated the second man still standing beside the cart "methinks we mayest yet hold death's angel at bay."

"You know best, hudolion," replied the man. He motioned to his fellow, and the two lifted the stranger into the cart. The movement caused the wounded man to moan softly, but he did not waken.

"Gently, gently," chided the old woman. "I have work enough without thee breaking his bones."

She laid a wrinkled hand against the pale young stranger's wounded cheek and then touched two fingers to his cold brow. "Peace, beloved," she crooned. "In my grasp I hold thee, and I will not let thee go."

Turning to the men once more, she said, "Grows the grass beneath thy feet? About thy business, lads! Be quick."