6~ith the onset of warmer weather, Bran felt more and more restless confined to the cave. Angharad observed his discontent and, on fine days, allowed him to sit outside on a rock in the sun; but she never let him venture too far, and he was rarely out of her sight for more than a moment or two at a time. Bran was still weaker than he knew, and his eagerness to resume his flight to the north made him prone to overtax himself. He mistook convalescence for indolence and resented it, seldom missing an opportunity to let Angharad know he felt himself a prisoner under her care. This was natural enough, she knew, but there was more.

Lately, Bran's sleep had grown fitful and erratic; several times as dawn light broke in the east, he had called out; when she rose and went to him, he was asleep still but sweating and breathing hard. The reason, Angharad suspected, was that the story was working on him. His acceptance of the tale that night had been complete. Weak from his wandering in the snow, his fatigue had left him in an unusually receptive condition-unusual, that is, for one so strong-willed and naturally contrary; he had been in that state of alert serenity the bards called the trwyddo ennyd, the seeding time, and which they recognised as a singular moment for learning. This condition of attentive repose allowed the song to sink deep into Bran's being, passing beneath his all-too-ready defences. Now it was under his skin, burrowing deep into his bones, seeping into his soul, changing him from the inside out, though he did not know it.

There would come a day when the meaning would break upon him; maybe sooner, maybe later, but it would come. And for this, as much as for the progress of his healing, Angharad watched him so that she would be there when it happened.

She also made plans.

One day, as Bran sat outside in a pool of warm sunlight, Angharad appeared with an ash-wood stave in her hand. She came to where he sat and said, "Stand up, Bran."

Yawning, he did so, and she placed the length of wood against his shoulder. "What is this?" he asked. "Measuring me for a druid staff?" In his restlessness, he had begun mocking her quaintly antiquated ways. The wise woman knew the source of his impatience and astutely ignored it.

"Nay, nay," she said, "you would have to spend seventeen years at least before you could hold one of those-and you would have had to begin before your seventh summer. This," she said, placing the stave in his hands, "is your next occupation."

"Herding sheep?"

"If that is your desire. I had something else in mind, but the choice is yours."

He looked at the slender length of wood. Almost as long as he was tall, it had a good heft and balance. "A bow?" he guessed. "You want me to make a bow?"

She smiled. "And here I was thinking you slow-witted. Yes, I want you to make a bow."

Bran examined the length of ash once more. He held it up and looked down its length. Here and there it bent slightly out of truenot so badly that it could not be worked-but that was not the problem. "No," he said at last, "it cannot be done."

The old woman looked at the stave and then at Bran. "Why not, Master Bran?"

"Do not call me that!" he said roughly. "I am a nobleman, remember, a prince-not a common tradesman."

"You ceased being a prince when you abandoned your people," she said. Though her voice was quiet, her manner was unforgiving, and Bran felt the now-familiar rush of shame. It was not the first time she had berated him for his plan to flee Elfael. Laying a hand on the stave, she said, "Tell me why the wood cannot be worked."

"It is too green," replied Bran, petulance making his voice low.

"Explain, please."

"If you knew anything about making a longbow, you would know that you cannot simply cut a branch and begin shaping. You must first season the wood, cure it -a year at least. Otherwise it will warp as it dries and will never bend properly." He made to hand the length of ash back to her. "You can make a druid staff out of it, perhaps, but not a bow."

"And what leads you to think I have not already seasoned this wood?"

"Have you?" Bran asked. "A year?"

"Not a year, no," she said.

"Well then-" He shrugged and again tried to give the stave back to her.

"Two years," she told him. "I kept it wrapped in leather so it would not dry too quickly."

"Two years," he repeated suspiciously. "I don't believe you." In truth, he did believe her; he simply did not care to consider the more far-reaching implications of her remark.

Angharad had turned away and was moving toward the cave. "Sit," she said. "I will bring you the tools."

Bran settled himself on the rock once more. He had made a bow only twice as a lad, but he had seen them made countless times. His father's warriors regularly filled their winter days, as well as the hall itself, with sawdust and wood shavings as they sat around the fire, regaling each other with their impossible boasts and lies. For battle, the longbow was the prime weapon of choice for all True Sons of Prydein- and a fair few of her fearless daughters, too. In skilled hands, a stout warbow was a formidable weapon-light, durable, easily made with materials ready to hand, and above all, devastatingly deadly.

Bran, like most every child who had grown up in the secluded valleys and rough hills of the west, had been taught the bowman's art from the time he could stand on his own two unsteady legs. As a boy he had often gone to sleep with raw, throbbing fingers and aching arms. At seven years, he had earned a permanent scar on his left wrist from the lash of the bowstring all summer. At eight, he had brought down a young boar all by himself-a gift for his dying mother. Although hunting had ceased to interest him after that, he had continued to practise with the warband, and by his thirteenth year, he could pull a man's bow and put a fowler's arrow through the eye of a crow perched on a standing stone three hundred paces away.

This was not a skill unique to himself, every warrior he knew could do the same-as well as any farmer worth his salt. The ability to direct an arrow with accuracy over implausible lengths was a common, but no less highly prized, facility, and one which made best use of another of the weapon's considerable qualities: it allowed a combatant to strike from a distance, silently if need be-a virtue unequalled by any other weapon Bran knew.

When Angharad shortly reappeared with an adz, a pumice stone, and several well-honed chisels and knives from her trove of unknown treasures somewhere deep in the cave, Bran set to work, tentatively at first, but with growing confidence as his hands remembered their craft. Soon he was toiling away happily, sitting on his rock in the warm sun, stripping the bark from the admittedly well-seasoned length of ash. As he worked, he listened to the birds in the greening trees round about and attuned his ears to the forest sounds. This became, as she had intended, his principal occupation. As the days passed, Angharad noticed that when he was working on the bow, Bran fretted less and was more content. On days when it rained, he sat in the cave entrance beneath the overhanging ledge and laboured there.

Slowly, the slender length of ash took form beneath his hands. He worked with deliberate care; there was no hurry, after all. He knew he was not yet fit enough for the journey across the mountains. It would be high summer when that day came, and by then the bow would be finished and ready to use.

Bran still planned on leaving. As soon as his wrinkled physician pronounced him hale and whole once more, he would wish her farewell and leave the forest and Elfael without looking back.

But one day, as he thought about his plan, something awakened inside him-a vague uneasiness, almost like a grinding in the pit of his stomach. It was a mildly disagreeable feeling, and he quickly turned his attention to something else. From that moment, however, the discomfort returned whenever his thoughts happened to touch on the point of his leaving. At first, he considered it a form of discontent a daylight manifestation of the same restlessness he often experienced at night. Even so, the subtle anxiety was growing, and all too soon Bran began experiencing a bitter, unpleasant taste in his mouth whenever he thought about any aspect of his future whatsoever.