“Sacrificed …” Drustan’s tone had shrunk to a whisper.
Faolan said nothing. He would not confess, even to a Breakstone man, that a small part of him wanted Alpin to be a turncoat, wanted the treaty to be worthless, just so there would be a reason to stop
this marriage. He would not admit how much he longed to take Ana safely home, home to a place where she could smile and laugh and sing, home to a bed she need not share with that big, crude oaf who would only hurt and degrade her. Those thoughts were never to be spoken aloud, for they made a mockery of the mission Bridei had set him. And, in the end, his loyalty to Bridei was the only thing that mattered.
“You love her,” Drustan said, his bright eyes now fixed unnervingly on Faolan’s.
Faolan felt the words like a cold hand around his heart. For the first time, he saw a look on Drustan’s face that was quite plainly dangerous.
“Tell the truth,” Drustan said. “We will not aid you if you lie to us. We have no patience for such games.”
Faolan drew a deep breath. “I’m a hired bodyguard,” he said,
glancing at Deord. “I work for my keep; Bridei pays me. I undertook this journey as the lady’s protector and as the king’s personal emissary since, oddly, he seemed to think me best suited for the job. For a man such as myself to harbor feelings of the kind you mention, especially when the lady in question bears the royal blood of the Priteni, is …” He was not sure what word suited best:
laughable?
Pathetic?
“Is the truth,” said Drustan. “You have your own reasons for wanting this marriage stopped. Your instincts are sound. But I will not tell you my brother is a liar. I wronged him terribly; I will not compensate him by sticking a knife in his back.”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” Faolan ventured, anger rising in him that the other had, in effect, exposed a raw wound in a part of him
he had believed untouchable, “that it’s very convenient for your brother that you’re considered incapable of managing your own affairs? That it suits him extremely well to have you removed from the world of strategy and trade and alliances? How useful for him to be in control of that well-situated landholding on the west coast as well as his own wide territory and substantial fighting force! No wonder
powerful men court him with gifts. Does that trouble you when you wake at night, Drustan?”
Drustan gazed at him, eyes clear as forest pools under an open sky. The anger was gone. “I long to return,” he said. “For all to be as it was before. But the past cannot be unmade. Once we love, our hearts do not shrink in on themselves again. Once we kill, our spirits bear the stain of it forever. I’ll
never go back to my home in the west. I have banished it from my dreams.”
The hoodie flew in, passing close; Faolan managed not to flinch. It landed with a neat folding of the wings on Drustan’s left shoulder.
“Go now,” Drustan said, “and you have time to rejoin them unseen. Wait longer and Alpin will surely notice your absence and your return. Do not risk that. He is a violent man.”
Faolan
did not ask what silent communication had passed between man and bird. This went far beyond his powers of comprehension. He mounted his horse, then remembered something. “You said you had a favor to ask of me,” he said to Drustan.
“I ask that you do not tell Ana what you saw here today,” Drustan said, his eyes suddenly bleak. “I don’t wish her to know of this … malady.”
This was unexpected and
more than a little odd. “I’m unlikely to have the opportunity to say anything of consequence to the lady,” Faolan told him, “since Alpin takes exception if any man so much as looks at her the wrong way. I haven’t seen her alone in all the time we’ve been at Briar Wood.”
“Do not tell her. Give me your promise.” Drustan’s tone was suddenly iron-hard; the change was alarming.
“Very well, I promise.
If she’s to live here as your brother’s wife she must find out sometime, and I don’t see why this is important … But yes, you have my word.” He could hardly offer less, since Drustan had provided better answers than he might have hoped for. All the same, the whole encounter had made him uneasy, and it was not solely the utter strangeness of what he had witnessed that caused him concern. “You
said murder sets a stain on a man,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “You implied that being shut up for life was a fair punishment for what you did. I spent a few moons incarcerated. Before Breakstone, I had only ever killed one man. Only one. But what I did destroyed a whole family; it put an end to all that had given my life its meaning. It was a crime of the most unspeakable nature. Your own misdeed
is a small thing beside it, Drustan. And indeed, my sojourn in the Uí Néill prison was not for the act of murder, but simply for a failure to cooperate. Your keeper here,” he nodded to Deord, a sign of respect and recognition, “understands all too well from the experience we share how easily a man can fall foul of the powerful chieftains of Ulaid. I bear the mark of what I did. It changed me
forever. It did not stop me from living some kind of a life. Perhaps you judge yourself too harshly. Perhaps your brother is less just than you believe.”
“Go,” was all Drustan said. “Go while you still can.”
As he rode away into the wood, Faolan’s heart was pounding like a war drum. He fought to slow it, to calm his breathing and ready himself for an unobtrusive reappearance among the men of
Alpin’s hunting party. He struggled to push his ghosts back into the locked part of his mind, the part that had been so long unopened he thought perhaps he had begun to forget. Today was the first time in all these years that he had spoken of that day, the very first time, and now they were all here beside him, his mother ashen-faced, his father silent, Aine wide-eyed and terrified in her nightrobe.
And Dubhán. Dubhán smiling and saying,
Do it,
and then the blood.
THEY WERE ON the way home at last, the carcasses of two wild boar carried triumphantly with them, all gaping, long-tusked mouths and rank, blood-crusted pelts. Ludha had come up alongside her mistress, riding a sturdy pony. Her young features wore a look of concern.
“You’re very pale, my lady. Are you unwell?”
What with
the hideous, yelping spectacle of the killing, the daubing of hot blood, afterward, on the cheeks and brows of every man who had taken part, and the undeniable onset of cramps in her belly, Ana thought it unsurprising that she looked less than her best. It was fortunate her bleeding had not yet started; she would at least be able to get back to the fortress before the pain became debilitating.
“I’m fine,” she said and, as Alpin turned back toward them, she summoned a guileless smile for her future husband.
“There should be a fine feast tonight, my lord,” she observed.
“Partial to roast boar, are you?” The smears of blood on Alpin’s broad features were drying to a brown that almost matched his beard. “Yes, it’ll be a grand night of festivity. Pity it can’t end in a little personal
celebration, just the two of us, a warm fire in the bedchamber, a cosy blanket or two, a jug of spiced mead … For that, I’d gladly forgo the roast pig and the trimmings. What do you say?” He reached across from his horse and placed a big hand on Ana’s thigh, squeezing. She managed not to yelp in pain.
“It sounds … pleasant, my lord. Unfortunately I fear I will be indisposed; I feel the onset
of cramps. Women’s business.”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Alpin, clearly embarrassed. “Shame. If you have to miss supper, you’ll miss the music. Your bard—where is he now, ah, there, with the other servants—has promised me a fine account of today’s chase and killings, all sung to the accompaniment of the harp. It’s been years since we had such entertainment here. Not that I wouldn’t prefer the other. You’re
a lovely woman, Ana. I wish that confounded druid would get here; I’m getting tired of waiting.”
“I will make an effort to be in the hall for supper,” Ana said, not liking the look in his eyes. “Your courage in the hunt deserves no less. It’s clear you excel in this.”
Alpin grinned widely and slapped his thigh. “Indeed I do, my dear. And you’ll find out soon enough it’s not the only pastime
I have a particular talent for. Eh, lads?”
Ana scarcely heard the men’s laughter. There was little room in her thoughts for Alpin or the wedding or the treaty that was so important. For all Deord’s calm assessment of Drustan’s situation, and Drustan’s own acknowledgment of guilt, she still could not make herself believe he had done such a thing. Ana had ever believed herself a balanced person,
one who made her choices in a calm and considered manner. She knew she was thinking like a foolish young girl who tosses away her whole life for love, or for what she imagines to be love. Yet she could not stop thinking about it: Drustan, the murder, that strange day … There had been a witness. That old woman, Bela, had been there. If only she could be found … If Bela confirmed Alpin’s account of
that day, Ana would accept it. She would settle down and marry Alpin and bear him the sons he wanted; she would have exactly the sort of future she had always known awaited her. If Bela told a different story … Ana shivered. The future she had just set out was immovable. Drustan’s guilt or innocence had no bearing at all on marriage or treaty or the undeniable fact that sometime soon the druid must
arrive, and there would be no excuse to delay the handfasting any longer. If somehow Drustan was proven innocent, he would be freed from imprisonment; that would gladden her heart. But it would not change her own future; could not do so. She must stop thinking of the other future, the sweet, tantalizing, wonderful future she saw in her dreams, and had done since Alpin’s brother first captivated
her with his gentle voice and bright eyes. With his fine body. Such thoughts were perilous indeed; she must banish them.
K
ING BRIDEI AND his druid Broichan celebrated the feast of Midsummer at White Hill, and folk spoke of that ritual afterward as one of the greatest and most stirring a man or woman was ever likely to see. What better time of year to summon the strength for war than the day when the Flamekeeper reached his peak and the form of the ritual honored all men in their bravery, wisdom, and
vigor?
That ceremony completed, the year turned all too soon toward the festival of Gathering, but it was the old men, the lads, and the women who would bring in this season’s harvest. From every corner of Fortriu, groups of warriors began slow, meticulously controlled moves in the general direction of Dalriada. It was like a gradual tide flowing westward, regulated with what subtlety its various
leaders could apply, for the longer the Gaels remained in ignorance of Bridei’s plans, the more likely the chances of a stunning success when at last the two old enemies came face-to-face.
The scope of Bridei’s endeavor was enough to give even a seasoned war leader pause. Carnach led a massed force out of Caer Pridne, ancient seat of the kings of Fortriu. His own men-at-arms from his holding
at Thorn Bend, on the Circinn border, were among those under his command, but a number of other chieftains had come to join him, bringing well-trained warriors of their own. These men had needed only the sharpening up provided in the northern camp to render them battle ready. Wredech, a cousin of the old king, rode out by Camach’s side, with a band of exceptionally fine archers wearing his colors.
Talorgen had returned to his home at Raven’s Well, down the Great Glen on the shores of Maiden Lake. At the designated time, he took his personal army in the opposite direction from that the Gaels might have anticipated, striking out a little to the northwest across deserted passes and lonely glens toward a certain coastal holding where a chieftain named Uerb had been preparing ships and training
men to sail them. In the wild lands north of the Great Glen stood the high crags called the Five Sisters. From a remote encampment in those parts Fokel of Galany, deposed chieftain of a territory now held by the Gaels, dispatched his far smaller force on a mission of its own. These warriors had developed particular skills during their long years in exile: skills in hunting and tracking; the ability
to cover long distances and difficult terrain with speed and secrecy; a knack for finding original solutions to seemingly impossible problems. Some called Fokel’s methods questionable. His results spoke for themselves.
Bridei left without fanfare. There would be a time for stirring speeches and heroic actions, and when it came he would summon both; a king must be ready for that. From the moment
he made his decision and gave the order to set the advance in motion, he became more war leader than monarch, and he rode away as a seasoned campaigner does, with a minimum of fuss. The major part of Fortriu’s army was already on the move; the king set off with a company of twelve men-at-arms, many of them old friends from Broichan’s household at Pitnochie, and a number of other men with special
skills. As his personal guard, Bridei took Breth. The Pitnochie men could provide backup. Garth had pleaded to go, putting forward the arguments that his combat skills were wasted at White Hill, that he had given more than five years’ loyal service, that any red-blooded man of Fortriu owed it to the gods to be part of such a grand endeavor. That his sword arm was itching for a Gael’s neck or three.
Bridei pointed out kindly but firmly that if Garth went as well, there wouldn’t be a single one of his most trusted men left at White Hill to guard Tuala and Derelei. He could not proceed in confidence unless either Breth or Garth stayed to perform that duty, at least until Faolan came home, and nobody knew when that would be. There was no need for Garth to ask why Breth had been chosen to go
and himself to stay. He had a wife and children; Breth had neither.
“I trust you as a friend. I know you are the best man for this special task,” the king had said quietly. “Guard my dear ones well and look to your own.”
“Yes, my lord.” The bodyguard had given his monarch a quick, hard embrace; they were old friends. With that, it was done.
THE SLOPES OF White Hill were thickly wooded
below the sheer walls of the king’s fortified compound. From the point where Tuala stood with her son in her arms, watching dry-eyed as her husband rode away to the dangers and uncertainties of war, the path could only be seen for a short distance down the hill. She saw Bridei look up toward her and lift a hand in salute and farewell. He smiled. A moment later he was gone, his horse, Snowfire,
becoming a pale blur amid the green. Ban ran from one part of the upper courtyard to another, whining in distress. It was clear that every part of him yearned to disobey his master’s command and follow. His heart, far bigger than his diminutive body, would have had him run by Bridei’s side into the heat of battle.
“Papa,” said Derelei conversationally, wriggling to be set down.
“Papa’s gone,”
Tuala said. “We’ll go indoors now, shall we?” And without waiting for an answer, she turned abruptly and headed off across the courtyard, bearing her son with her.
“She won’t let herself weep in front of anyone,” Fola remarked to her old friend Broichan, who stood beside her watching as the last of Bridei’s party rode out of sight under the shadow of the pines. “Ferada should be here by this
afternoon. I sent for her; she’s riding across from Banmerren with an escort. It’s not good for Tuala to keep everything bottled up. She needs a friend.”
“Mm,” murmured Broichan. It was evident he had not heard a word his companion had said.
“You surprised me.” Fola’s tone was neutral.
“What?” Now he was listening.
“I was certain you would go with him. It’s your dream he’s bringing to reality
here as much as his own. This venture is everything you were working for, all those years when you were bringing him up. You rode to battle often enough at the side of Drust the Bull, and gave him your good counsel. A king needs his druid at such times.”
“Years have passed since Drust was king, and still more years since he rode to war,” Broichan said with finality.
“And yet,” Fola replied,
resting her small, neat hands on the parapet wall before her, “you are not an old man.”
Broichan remained silent, staring out over the trees. He had ever been a man of tight controls, whose thoughts and feelings were locked away even from those close to him. There were few such people; his foster son, Bridei, was one, and Fola was another.
“If you had made it known earlier that you were not
to travel at his side,” the wise woman said, “the druids could have found a younger, fitter man to take your place.”
“Fitter?”
Fola regarded her old friend. Her dark eyes were shrewd; not much escaped her notice. “I think it is not age that prevents you from being part of this heroic push to the west,” she said quietly, “but something else; something you have kept even from Bridei, and are reluctant
to acknowledge publicly, for you see it as a form of failure.”
Another silence. Fola noticed the slight tensing of Broichan’s hands on the parapet.
“We’ve known each other a very long time, my dear,” she said. “If you are ill you should tell me. I might be able to help. We have a highly skilled herbalist at Banmerren. I wish Uist were still with us. His healing hands were unparalleled, save
by your own.”
“I’m quite well. Don’t fuss, Fola.”
“Fuss?” she echoed, brows raised. “When have I ever fussed? I’m simply suggesting you acknowledge what’s becoming clearer every day to me and to Tuala, and take steps to do something about it.”
“Tuala? What has this to do with her?”
“Don’t bristle, Broichan. Haven’t you made your peace with the girl even now, after all these years?”
“I was
not aware we were at war.”
Fola sighed. “Tuala mentioned to me quite some time ago that she thought you might be in pain; that perhaps your health was failing. She was aware that you wished to conceal it from Bridei. She has not spoken of it to him.”
“There were certain words between us concerning Derelei and the prospects for his training. It seems she understood me better than I realized at
the time.”
“I wonder why, even now, the two of you cannot trust each other. Why you cannot become friends.”
“There’s no need for that. We are worlds apart.”
“Nonsense,” Fola said briskly. “You fear one another, not because of that, but for a reason that is entirely the opposite. There is such talent in her; I saw only the first glimmerings of her potential when she was with us at Banmerren.
Because of her position here, she won’t allow herself even the slightest use of her powers in public, and that I fully understand, for she must protect both herself and Bridei from the corrosive influence of gossip and innuendo. Because of you, she won’t use her abilities in divination and augury even behind closed doors and among trusted friends. And that, I fear, may deprive us of a tool that could
make all the difference to the future.”
“Rubbish. What of yourself and the abler of your priestesses at Banmerren? What of the forest druids? Why would we need the intervention of a … of one of the Other Kind?”
“Even I cannot summon the visions of the scrying bowl at will,” Fola said. “My choice lies only in the interpretation of what is shown me. Tuala’s skill goes far beyond that. There is
a certainty in it that is beyond question. One might think her, at such times, a direct conduit for the goddess herself.”
Broichan folded his arms; his bony features formed an implacable mask. “It’s a raw talent,” he said, “uncontrolled, untutored, and dangerous. I recognize her loyalty to Bridei and to the child; I do not deny that bond. But one cannot get past the fact of her origins. She is
not one of our kind. Unpredictability is her very nature. One might as well trust the visions of a will-o’-the-wisp as hers.”
“Where do you think Derelei got his uncanny abilities from, Broichan? Why is it that you are able to find room in your heart for him, not to speak of allotting him a significant part of your time each day, when you dismiss his mother with words of disdain? If Tuala is
ill-tutored, whose fault is that? We had her at Banmerren for less than one year. You had her in your household for close to thirteen. Just think how much you could have taught her.”
After a moment the druid said, “What I can impart would be wasted on a girl. They soak up learning for a while, then lose interest when they’re old enough for a man and children.” His tone was dismissive.
“Talorgen’s
daughter has already proved you wrong,” said Fola evenly. “She has ambitions for her school and for herself, and is busily making up for lost time. She has builders at work now and expects her first students by autumn. Ferada could have married, and married well. She has chosen another path.”
Broichan’s brows rose in scorn. “Were I the kind of man who lays wagers,” he said, “I’d bet you a handful
of silver pieces to a cornstalk that Ferada will accept a proposal from some likely chieftain before two years are out and abandon her entire plan for ladies’ education. If I’d believed she’d stay the distance I’d never have given my consent to her plan. All young women are the same: at heart, it’s hearth and family they want most.”
“That was not what I chose.”
Broichan inclined his head courteously.
“My argument excludes those who enter the service of the Shining One, of course. Besides, Ferada is not only well connected, she’s young and comely.”
There was a pause.
“You’ve such a tactful way of expressing yourself, Broichan,” Fola said. “Believe it or not, in our youth Uist and I came
this
close,” she held up a hand, thumb and first finger a hairsbreadth apart, “to abandoning duty for love.
We were all of us young and comely once. Even you, I suppose.”
He made no response to this, but after a little he said, “You spoke of opening the heart. What better reason need I for teaching the lad, than that he is Bridei’s son?”
Fola began to speak, then halted. She gathered her cape around her shoulders as if preparing to depart.
“What?” Broichan’s tone was sharp. “What were you going to
say?”
She sighed. “Something best not spoken. Come, it’s a. chill breeze. We’ve seen him on his way. The venture is in the hands of the Flamekeeper now.”
“Fola,” said Broichan, “what were you going to say?”
“Something you won’t want to hear.”
He waited, tall and pale in his black robe.
“Very well. He is Bridei’s son. He’s also as like you as two peas in a pod, for all his brown curls and
fey light eyes. He mimics your gestures as if the two of you were one being. He copies the inflections of your voice while still too young to form the words; he even sits the same way you do. This resemblance will become closer as the child grows older, and other folk will begin to comment on it, folk less perceptive than Tuala or myself.”
Broichan neither spoke nor moved. It was almost as if
he had not heard her.
“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” Fola said dryly. “Bear it in mind, that’s all I suggest. It may not be such a bad thing if the child decides to become a druid. Court may well not be the best place for him. I’ve no doubt his early promise will flower into a prodigious talent: a talent something akin to your own. He’ll need to be protected.”