The morning passed, and they paused to rest and drink from a brook no wider than a man's foot. Angharad passed out handfuls of hazelnuts from the bag she carried. "A good day," observed Bran. He owed his life to the old woman who had saved him, and as much as he wanted to part on good terms, he also wanted her to understand why he had to leave. "A good day to begin a journey," he added.

"Aye," she replied, "it is that." Her answer, though agreeable, did not provide him the opening he sought, and he could think of no way to broach the subject. He fell silent, and they continued on a short while later, pressing ever deeper into the forest. The farther they went, the darker, wilder, and more ancient the woodland became. The smaller trees-beeches, birch, and hawthorn-gave way to the larger woodland lords: hornbeam, plane, and elm. The immense boles rose like pillars from the earth to uphold tremendous limbs, which formed a timber ceiling of intertwined branches. It would be possible, Bran imagined, to move through this part of the forest without ever setting foot on the ground.

Deeper they went, and deeper grew the shadows, and more silent the surrounding wood with a hush that was at once peaceful and slightly ominous-as if the woodland solitude was wary of trespass and imposed a guarded watch on strangers.

Bran's senses quickened. He imagined eyes on him, observing him, marking him as he passed. The impression grew with every step until he began darting glances right and left; the dense wood defied sight; the tangles of branch and vine were impenetrable.

Finally, the old woman stopped, and Bran caught the scent of smoke on the air. "Where are we?" he asked.

Extending a hand, she pointed to an enormous oak that had been struck by lightning during a storm long ago. Half-hollow now, the trunk had split and splayed outward to form a natural arch. The path on which they stood led through the centre of the blast-riven oak. "I am to go through there?"

A quick nod was the only answer he received.

Drawing himself up, he stepped to the fire-blackened arch, passing through the strange portal and into the unknown.

tepping through the dark arch, Bran found himself holding his breath as if he were plunging into the sea, or leaping from a wall from which he could not see the ground below. On the other side of the oak arch was a hedge wall through which passed a narrow path. Two quick strides brought him through the hedge and into an enormous glade-a great wide greensward of a valley in the heart of the wood, bounded by a ring of towering trees that formed a stout palisade of solid oak around the mossy-banked clearing.

And there, spread out across the floor of the dell, was a camp with dwellings unlike any Bran had ever seen, made of brushwood and branches, the antlers of stags and hinds, woven grass, bark, bone, and hide. Some were little more than branches bent over a hollow in the ground. Others were more substantial shelters of such weird and fanciful construction that Bran was at once entranced and a little unsettled by the sight. He did not see the people who inhabited these queer dwellings, but having heard him coming a long way off, they saw him.

Moments before Bran emerged from the arch of the hedge wall beyond the shattered oak, women whisked children out of sight, men disappeared behind trees and huts, and the settlement that only moments before had been astir with activity now appeared deserted.

"Is anybody here?" called Bran.

As if awaiting his signal, the menfolk emerged from hiding, some carrying sticks and tools for weapons. Seeing that he was alone, they approached. There were, Bran estimated quickly, perhaps thirty men and older boys, ragged, their clothes patched and worn-like those the farmers gave the stick-men in the fields to frighten the birds.

"Pax vobiscum," Bran called. When that brought no response, he repeated it in Cymry, "Hedd a dy!" The men continued advancing. Silent, wary as deer, they closed ranks, dark eyes watching the stranger who had appeared without warning in their midst.

"Sefyll!" called Angharad, taking her place beside Bran. Her appearance halted the advance.

One of the menfolk returned the greeting. "Hudolion!" He was joined by others, and suddenly everyone was calling, "Hudoles!" and "Hudolion!"

Ignoring Bran, they hurried to greet the old woman as she scrambled gingerly down the mossy bank into the shallow basin of the glade. The respect and adulation provoked by her appearance impressed Bran. Clearly, she had some place of honour in this rough outcast clan.

"Welcome, hudolion," called one of the men, advancing through the knot of people gathered around her. Tall and lean, there was something of the wolf about him; he wore a short red cloak folded over his shoulder in the manner of a Roman soldier of old. The others parted to let him through, and as he took his place before the old woman, he touched the back of a grimy hand to his forehead in the ancient sign of submission and salutation.

"Greetings, Siarles," she said. "Greetings, everyone." Lifting a hand to Bran, she said, "Do you not recognise Prince Bran ap Brychan when you see him?"

The man called Siarles stepped nearer for a closer look. He peered into Bran's face uncertainly, cool grey eyes moving over the young man's features. He then turned to those behind him. "Call the big'un," he commanded, and a slender youth with a downy moustache raced away. "I do not," Siarles said, turning once more to Bran and Angharad, "but if it is as you say, then he will."

The youth ran to one of the larger huts and called to someone inside. A moment later, a large, well-muscled man stepped from the low entrance of the hut. As he straightened, Bran saw his face for the first time.

"Iwan?" cried Bran, rushing to meet him.

"Bran? Mary and Joseph in a manger, Bran!" A grin spread across his broad face; his thick moustache twitched with pleasure. Seizing Bran, he gathered him in a crushing embrace. "Bran ap Brychan," he said, "I never thought to see you again."

"If it had not been for Angharad, no one ever would," Bran confessed, gazing up into the face of his father's champion. "By heaven, it is good to see you."

Iwan raised his hand high and called out in a voice that resounded through the glade. "Hear me, everyone! Before you stands Bran ap Brychan, heir to the throne of Elfael! Make him welcome!"

Then, turning once more to Bran, the warrior dapped 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."