“Derelei seems a little better this morning. He’s breathing more easily; the herbs help. Try not to worry too much, dear one.”
Bridei bent to kiss her on the brow; to touch a finger to his son’s cheek, where
the soft skin was hectically flushed. Then he left. His face was drawn and pale; it seemed to Tuala that he had reached that point of weariness where one scarcely understands what people are saying, and where one’s own words, too, seem to have little sense. At least, at Caer Pridne, he might get a few nights’ sleep.
The matter of Broichan had not been raised between them. Broichan, being a druid,
was steeped in learning and skilled in herb lore. He had kept the old king alive for many turnings of the moon beyond what had seemed to all others the appointed time of his passing. Thus had he ensured that his foster son Bridei would be ready for the kingship when the opportunity offered itself. Tuala knew Broichan had been tending to other victims of this malady. He was a powerful seer and
had the ear of the gods. Why not ask him for help? But Bridei had made no such suggestion, even with his little son burning in his arms. There was no need for him to say it. Tuala was afraid of Broichan. There were reasons for that, old reasons and new ones. She could not bring herself to trust him, especially with her son. She would not ask him and, knowing this, Bridei would not ask, either.
With Bridei gone, Tuala felt very much alone, even though White Hill was full of folk. She longed for Ana. Ana’s presence was restful; she went about her business quietly, spreading a feeling of warmth and calm, and she loved Derelei as if he were her own son. If Ana had been here, Tuala could have let go and wept, and not felt as if she were somehow letting everyone down. She wished with all her
heart that Bridei had not sent Ana away. And she wished he had not sent Faolan, either. Breth had traveled to Caer Pridne as Bridei’s bodyguard, but Tuala did not think her husband’s personal safety was ever really assured unless Faolan were somewhere near at hand. With the assembly almost upon them, she feared knives in the dark, sudden arrows, poisoned chalices. Even the bestloved king has his
enemies.
It was a bad day. Derelei would not feed, and Tuala’s breasts were aching and engorged with milk. She used a rag to dribble a few drops of cool water into the child’s mouth, but what he swallowed came back up again not long after in a retching, painful spasm that left him limp and exhausted. Mara came and this time stayed, keeping up a supply of cooling cloths and tending the fire while
Tuala paced with Derelei in her arms. The chamber had a sick smell, the smell of despair. From time to time Tuala tried the child on the breast, and from time to time he snuffled and moved his head as if he were hungry, and hope arose in her, only to be dashed as his head rolled away, the little mouth too weary to suckle. They tried the water again. They sponged him down, Tuala holding him while
Mara patted the damp cloth over the hot skin. Tuala could see how her son’s features were changing, the eyes growing sunken and distant, the skin taking on a grayish hue, the plump cheeks hollowing. He looked like a ghost of a child. The water in Mara’s bowl rippled as the housekeeper dipped her cloth in. Quickly, Tuala averted her gaze. Mara said nothing at all, but it seemed to Tuala there was
a message in her eyes.
Ask him. You’re a fool if you don’t, for you’ve nothing to lose
. And it came to Tuala that, if she did no more than this, the patient walking, the baths, the herbs, her son would not see another dawn.
“I’m going to fetch Broichan,” she said. “I’ll go as soon as we’ve got Derelei wrapped up again.”
“Aye,” said Mara. “You do that. Chances are he’ll be ready for you. Go now;
I’ll tend to the child. You’ve waited overlong. I never thought you’d be foolish enough to let pride rob you of your only son.”
And when Tuala stared at her, cold with shock, Mara said, “Open your eyes, lass. You’re not the only one that loves the little lad. Bridei would have had Broichan in here two days ago, if he hadn’t known you’d be set against it. Don’t look like that. Go on, fetch him.
Maybe there’s still time.”
It was the longest speech Tuala had ever heard Mara make. Swallowing the tumult of feelings that arose in her, she made her way from her own quarters to Broichan’s private chamber without being aware of moving at all.
It was not necessary to tap on the door. It opened as Tuala approached, and there stood the druid, tall and somber in his dark robe, with a flat basket
over his arm in which various items were neatly packed: a sheaf of herbs, candles, birch sticks, small vials and stoppered pots. Tuala looked up at him and saw on his features the selfsame look of exhaustion and anxiety that had shadowed Bridei’s face in the moment of leaving. She saw that Mara had been right. Broichan had been waiting for her to ask for help; waiting in despair that she would
leave it too late for him to be able to save Bridei’s son.
“I need your help.” It came out in a whisper.
Broichan nodded without speaking and fell in beside her as she turned to walk back to her own quarters.
“I’ve done everything I can,” she said. “Everything. And he’s still no better.”
“Everything?” Broichan’s tone was mild. “You have looked into your scrying mirror to examine his future?
You dared that?”
Tuala shivered. “No. Not that. You know I do not use those arts now; it is not fitting, as queen, that I draw attention to myself in such a way. Besides, I could not. Not for this. Not if I might see …” A terrible thought came to her. Was this why Broichan had not appeared before? “You … you have done this? You have seen—” She would not say it aloud.
You have seen my son’s death,
and will not pit yourself against the will of Bone Mother?
“No, Tuala.” Broichan’s voice was a dark music, deep and resonant. “I am not so strong. If I am to fight a battle for this child, I will go armed with hope. My scrying bowl is covered; thus it will remain until this scourge is gone from White Hill.”
“Can you save him?” Tuala heard her own voice shaking. They were at the door of her chamber;
within, Mara could be heard moving about, muttering to herself. There was no sound from Derelei.
“The question is not so much, can I save him,” Broichan said, opening the door, “as, will you allow me to treat him so that he can be saved? What lies in our past has been the cause of deep distrust between us, I know that. Why else would you leave this so long, until the ill is almost past mending?”
He was standing now beside the pallet where the infant tossed in restless half-sleep. Mara, wringing out a cloth, watched with carefully neutral eyes. Broichan laid his hand on Derelei’s brow. “This is beyond herbs and potions,” he said. “The flames of this fever scorch him; his heart is pushed to bursting point. Will you trust me?”
“Yes.” A whisper.
“Very well. I need to put the child into
a deep sleep: a sleep so profound it may seem to you that Derelei is on the point of slipping away from us. Don’t be alarmed. I will remain by his side and retain control. This will allow his small body the rest it so desperately needs, Tuala. He has almost exhausted his strength fighting this. I will pass him into the hands of the Shining One for a little. It can be difficult to watch. You may wish
to retire and seek a period of rest for yourself. Mara can provide what assistance I need.”
“No,” Tuala croaked. “I’m not leaving him.”
Broichan regarded her soberly. “Very well. You will see a shadow pass over. You may feel a chill. That is to be expected. Trust me, Tuala. I will not let him go.”
She looked again at his shuttered features, the dark impenetrable eyes, the stark planes of cheek
and jaw. Broichan seldom revealed what he felt. He laid his long hands, now, on either side of the child’s flushed face and spoke in a voice that was soft and low, almost like singing.
“Derelei. Sleep now, little one. Dove and owl fly with you; salmon and otter swim by your side; deer and hare show you the secret pathways. Sleep now, Derelei. The Shining One watch over you and give you good dreams.”
His thumbs moved against the little face; his eyes were different, soft with love yet bright with the power of the charm. Watching him, Tuala knew how cruel she had been to shut him out. She saw that her child was, indeed, as dear to the druid as he was to her and to Bridei. What the reason was for that she did not know, but she knew it had nothing to do with power or ambition or the playing
of games. It was a true thing, an honest thing, and she had no right to stand in its way.
“Sleep now, valiant one. Rest from your great battle. Rest now, sheltered and secure. Save your strength. There will be good times ahead.”
Derelei was relaxed, lids shut, neat mouth slightly open. His arms were outstretched, the small hands closed on themselves as if he held secrets there. Broichan began
to make signs in the air above the infant’s face and to chant rapidly in a tongue unknown to Tuala. The room seemed to darken and the air grew chill as if an icy breath had penetrated the solid walls. Tuala clenched her teeth, remembering a night of Gateway, when the dark thing she saw in her scrying bowl had been almost too much to bear. Broichan was not infallible. What if he were wrong about
this? She could almost feel the clutch of Black Crow’s claws in the quiet chamber; she could almost hear the beating of her dark wings. Lying defenseless on the pallet, Derelei looked very small. His face seemed to pale, as if the life were being sucked away before her eyes, and she saw the labored rise and fall of his chest slow until his breathing was hardly discernible. One by one, the candles
set about the room guttered and died of themselves. In the gloom, Derelei’s skin looked gray and dead. He seemed now not so much relaxed and peaceful as sprawled like a victim awaiting the knife. Mara poked the fire, whose fitful light barely touched the dark corners of the chamber.
Broichan’s chant went on, weaving its way into Tuala’s head, filling her mind with its insidious power until she,
too, felt an overwhelming weariness, a profound wish to give herself into the goddess’s keeping, to rest, to heal, to enter a time of darkness that was like a little death. Her legs would no longer hold her.
“Here, lass,” Mara said, pushing a stool into place at the foot of the pallet, and Tuala collapsed onto it as the invocation continued. Now, as he chanted, Broichan was performing a ritual
around the deeply sleeping infant: scattering herbs on Derelei’s chest and groin and over his hands, anointing his brow with a pungent oil and setting a single small flower on each of his eyelids. Tuala shivered, thinking of death. She had to trust; she had seen the love in Broichan’s eyes.
Now the druid opened a tiny pot and, taking out a pinch of a reddish powder, made an outline all around
the child’s sleeping form, a ward against intruders, a safe barrier. The smell of the herb made Tuala want to sneeze. Derelei did not stir; he lay as if he would never move again. In the. half-dark Tuala could not see the tiny rise and fall of his breathing. She reached out to touch him for reassurance, for he seemed like a discarded toy, limp and helpless. Broichan’s hand came out, fastening on
her wrist, holding her back. His chant flowed on without pause. Tuala felt hot tears slipping down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and sent her own prayer to the Shining One. The goddess had always watched over her, always, even when she had believed herself quite friendless. How could the Shining One do less for Derelei?
Hope,
Broichan had said.
I will go armed with hope.
The chant slowed, taking
on the rhythm of a lullaby, and Broichan, his ritual complete, settled on his knees by the child’s side. Mara touched a taper to the fire and began to light the candles, one by one. In a little while there was a warm glow in the chamber, and silence.
“We must let the child rest now,” Broichan said. “Do not touch him; see, he breathes still, but slowly. This is a sleep deeper than man or woman
knows; a sleep on the very margin of death. We must wait. I will watch over him. You should rest. There is nothing you can do here. Not until he begins to stir.”
Angry words were on the tip of Tuala’s tongue, but she bit them back, swallowing the hurt. “I will stay, all the same,” she said quietly. “You need not keep vigil alone.”
Broichan glanced at her and away. There was no reading what was
in his eyes.
“How long?” Tuala asked.
“I cannot tell you. You look exhausted. It has been a testing time. Rest while you can.”
“You, too, seem weary,” Tuala said. “I think it is not only I, and Bridei, and our son who have been put to the test. I will stay with you. Mara, will you ask one of the women to bring mead and some food for us? And thank you for being here. For being so patient. You
must go to your bed now.”
“Patient?” Mara echoed. “Don’t know if I’d call it that. I know when to speak and when to keep my mouth shut, that’s all. I’ll be away, then. Some of us know better than to refuse a rest when it’s offered. I’ll send someone with a bit of supper for the two of you.”
DEEP BELOW THE fortress of Caer Pridne, ancient seat of the kings of Fortriu, there was a place
of dark ritual. The god whose power inhabited this chilly cave had no name, or none that might be spoken. He stood beyond the pantheon of deities who ruled the daily lives of Bridei’s people: the Shining One, whose journey across the night sky governed the tides in all living things; the Flamekeeper, who loved men of courage and loyalty; the fair maiden All-Flowers and Bone Mother, keeper of dreams.
This god had his small reflection within every man, hidden away in a part of them few would acknowledge. He was the Flamekeeper’s other side, the shadow without which the substance cannot be, the chaos beneath the order, the turmoil at the very heart of existence. Year upon year, the Well of Shades had witnessed the death of a young woman in recognition of the Nameless One’s hunger. Year upon
year, the head priestess of Banmerren had prepared the victim and the king of Fortriu, with his druid by his side, had enacted the sacrifice. Until Bridei became king.