F
AOLAN’S LENGTHY MORNING drills, conducted in rain or shine, seemed to Ana excessive. She learned to mount and dismount at a click of the fingers and to rein her pony in instantly at a near-inaudible whistle. She strongly suspected he was taking out his annoyance on her; it was plain the man thought he should be elsewhere, perhaps in the thick of a battle shedding other people’s blood,
or more likely lurking in the shadows somewhere with a big knife in his hand. Wasn’t that what assassins were supposed to do? This one, however, possessed a singular talent for standing about with eyes narrowed and lips tight, emanating a hostility that was almost palpable.
It took only one day of the journey for Ana to realize the necessity of what he had done. Dismounting at the edge of the
clearing where they were to set up camp, she felt dull pain spreading across her lower back. She could walk, but her legs felt like jelly. Faolan was issuing crisp orders to the men of the escort, and Ana caught his eyes on her, assessing. She met his gaze coolly, then turned to attend to her mount. It had not been possible to bring her own pony, Jewel, from White Hill; Faolan had pronounced the
creature insufficiently strong to weather this particular ride. He had allocated her a shaggy, sturdy animal with a certain stolidity of temperament, and Ana had said nothing. She had vowed to herself that she would not utter a single word of complaint; she would not give him the satisfaction. It was plain enough what he thought of her: that she was pampered and weak, and knew little of the world
outside the sheltering walls of court.
Nearby, the serving woman whose job it was to attend to Ana was standing immobile, grimacing, hands pressed to her back. She had shared a horse with one of the men, and looked considerably the worse for wear. Ana kept her thoughts to herself. They’d insisted she have a female attendant. It was regrettable that none of those considered capable of looking
after her wardrobe could ride. They’d better have allocated her a farm girl; no matter if she could not clean and mend a lady’s fine garments, as long as she could make herself useful when it really mattered. “Never mind, Darva,” Ana said grimly. “You’ll get used to it.”
Darva responded with a whimper. Sighing, Ana led her pony over to the others, hobbled it, and began to rub it down. One of
the men had the process of feeding and watering in hand. The fodder would not last long, but these stocky creatures were used to gleaning what they could from the woodland tracks and the bare fells, and would weather the journey well enough.
“One of us can tend to the creature, my lady,” the man said, indicating the sacking she was using on the pony’s damp coat.
“I’m almost finished,” she said.
“Best if one of us does it.” He took the cloth from her hand and she sensed that she had broken the rules of the encampment. She smiled and backed away, not wanting to argue.
A couple of the men set off with bows in hand, evidently to procure supper. The camp had been speedily made: a small, tentlike shelter for herself and Darva, a fire among stones, a place for the provisions and packs. The
men would unroll a blanket apiece and sleep in the open.
A question occurred to Ana, one that would be a little delicate to ask. Before she had the time to consider it further, Faolan appeared by her side so abruptly he made her start. Another one of those things that spies were good at, she thought sourly.
“You’ll want somewhere to perform your ablutions in private,” he said. “Down there between
the trees there’s a stream. I’ve a man on guard some thirty paces farther into the woods. Go now while there’s still light.”
“Do you ever make polite requests, or do you only give strings of orders?” She regretted these words as soon as they were spoken; she had sounded discourteous and lacking in self-control. This man seemed to bring out something she had not known was in her. “I’m sorry,”
she muttered.
“Go now,” Faolan said, as if she had not spoken. “Take your woman with you. That’s if she can walk. Make it quick.” He turned away, striding across the clearing to supervise some other task. The men-at-arms moved obediently to his command.
Scooping out a makeshift privy in the bushes, quickly washing face and hands, roughly tidying up clothing and hair was all that was possible.
Darva had to hobble along leaning on Ana’s arm; she would be hard put to climb into the saddle in the morning. There were to be three days like this, then a respite, for the fourth morning should see them arrive at the stronghold of Abertornie, home of the chieftain Ged; there would be beds and warm water. Ana doubted very much that Faolan would allow a stay there of more than a single night.
He was taking no chances, even so early into the journey. There were ten men-at-arms, and it was evident a watch was to be maintained through the night, on every side of the camp. Ana could not imagine what danger they expected a mere day’s ride from White Hill; it seemed to her they’d be better to get a good night’s sleep while they had the opportunity.
They ate their meal around the fire; the
bread and cheese brought from White Hill were supplemented with hare cooked on the coals. There wasn’t much talk. Faolan watched her as she took out a clean napkin from her bag and wiped the grease from her mouth and fingers. Then she and Darva retired to bed, if bed it could be called; there was little more than a folded quilt between her and the hard earth, and her body, protesting from the day’s
ride, seemed to have no corner in it that was entirely free from pain. The exhausted Darva fell quickly asleep.
Ana looked out between the folds of the shelter’s opening. Five of the men were lying by the fire while five had gone to keep watch. Faolan sat staring into the flames, his somber features transformed to a flickering pattern of red-gold light and shadow in the night. As Ana tossed and
turned, restless and wakeful, he maintained his still pose. From time to time she looked out as the night wore on, but did not see him move; the eyes, perhaps. There was something there, a look that she did not understand, a bleakness that chilled her.
She drowsed fitfully, waking now and then with a start. In the middle of the night, when creatures came alive in the woods, hooting, screeching,
crying, rustling about the campsite, she saw him get up in a fluid movement, stretch, and wake the others. The watch changed; five men came in to settle in their blankets and five went out, knives or spears in hand. Faolan remained by the embers, standing now, his face in shadow. Ana realized that his particular task must be guarding her. She found that deeply unsettling. Close to dawn, she fell
asleep to the sound of Darva’s steady snore.
They traveled north and inland. The third day saw them ford a substantial river, the water rushing about the horses’ legs and soaking the riders’ boots. Faolan rode downstream of Ana, keeping a close watch on her pony. At the far side, she dismounted to wring the water from her skirt and, seeing him nearby, said testily, “I can ride, you know.”
“Just
as well,” Faolan said. “That’s only the first.”
She climbed back on the pony and the journey continued. Another woman might have demanded a fire to dry herself by, she thought, or a rest, or food and drink. Another woman might be deciding, already, that Abertornie was as far as she was prepared to go, and that if Alpin of Briar Wood didn’t want her enough to come and fetch her, he could do without.
Ferada, for instance, would already have put her foot down, Ana was sure of it. Ana would not do so. Eyeing the straight, somehow disapproving back of Faolan as he rode ahead to assess the safety of the track, Ana felt she had something to prove, not just to him but to herself. She had been brought up with a strong sense of duty. There was her duty to Bridei and Tuala, who had provided her
with a home and family of sorts. More importantly, there was her duty to Fortriu. As a woman of the royal line she was bound to marry and produce children: sons who could contest the kingship in future years, daughters to make strategic marriages such as her own. Her family in the Light Isles would expect this of her. Her family … She had hardly seen them since she was a child. Her cousin, vassal
king to Bridei; her older brothers, who had been distant presences in her childhood world. The aunt who had raised her after her parents died. A little sister, Breda; her, she missed most of all, remembering summer days at the tide’s edge, the two of them gathering shells under a wide, pale sky; winter afternoons by the hearth fire, embroidering linen kerchiefs; Aunt pretending not to be snoozing
in her chair, and Ana surreptitiously fixing Breda’s wobbly stitches. Breda would be sixteen now, old enough to have a husband of her own. It was not so very far from White Hill over to the isles. Yet, when you were a hostage, it was a whole world away.
Ana spent most of the day trying to distract herself from the chill of the wind through her damp clothing and the aching in her bones with stories
of heroes and dragons and strange forest creatures. She sang songs under her breath, just so her mind did not dwell on her misery. She went through the repertory of little tunes she had sung to Derelei, counting-rhymes, lullabies, songs for seeding or harvest or hauling in nets. The isles were full of such melodies, each with its particular purpose.
The ride continued; the path was steeper now,
the horses picking their way on stony ground. A vista of pine-clad slopes opened to the west. Beyond the forest she could see high, dark mountains, snowcapped and lonely. Ana began to hum a longer piece to herself, the ballad of a traveler in faraway lands and the strange and wondrous folk he encountered on his journey. With luck, its dozens of verses would last her until they reached level ground
and Faolan decided they could stop.
A considerable time later, just as Ana reached the part where the hero slew the dragon, they came to the foot of the hill and the men reined in their mounts, gathering around Faolan. As Ana rode up, she heard him speaking.
“ … made good progress. I judge there’s time to reach Abertornie before dusk if we keep up a brisk pace. That way we’ll avoid the need
to make camp again. It means we can be on our way across the borders while the weather still holds.”
The men were nodding. Ana glanced across at Darva, who sat white-faced behind a tall man-at-arms on a broadbacked pony. Darva’s eyes were shadowed with purple; she looked barely conscious.
“We must rest a little,” Ana said firmly. “We’re cold and tired. We need to stretch ourselves and have something
to eat and drink. It needn’t be long. I understand we must reach our destination while it’s still light. We’re doing our best, but not all of us are warriors.”
Faolan looked at her, looked at Darva, who was swaying in the saddle, then back at Ana. “You prefer to camp here?” he asked, surprising her. “To add a day to the journey? Surely you’re eager to have this over as quickly as possible.”
Ana blinked in surprise. It was a long way to Briar Wood: a journey of more than a full turning of the moon, he had said. “Are you offering me a choice?” Ana asked, raising her brows.
“If we go on today, we’ll be ahead of time.”
“And you, I’m sure, are anxious to be relieved of this particular duty.”
Faolan’s expression did not change. “Your musical repertory could begin to pall if repeated
too often,” he said.
To her profound annoyance Ana felt herself Hush scarlet.
“Don’t let it trouble you,” Faolan said. “Who am I to judge? Now what’s it to be? Camp or go on?”
“Go on,” said Ana grimly. “As long as we rest first. The prospect of civilized company makes Abertornie look better by the moment.”
“I’D GET YOU extra men if I could,” said Ged of Abertornie in apologetic tones,
reaching to refill Faolan’s cup from a jug of good ale. “Never know what you’ll come up against in those parts. Clan against clan, friend against friend, brother against brother. Sometimes they seem to fight for no better reason than because they can. Think what Bridei could do with some of that manpower behind him. But Umbrig’s the only one to show any real interest in cooperating. The others
are like a pack of wildcats. Or would be, if such creatures moved in packs. Up there in the north it’s every man for himself; a land of solitary hunters, each with his own little domain to protect. Only in Alpin’s case, it’s more of a big domain. Big and well manned. That’s a meager escort, Faolan. The girl’s vulnerable.”
Faolan studied his goblet, saying nothing. The two of them were seated
in an antechamber off the hall of Ged’s house at Abertornie, after supper. The door was secured, with a guard on the other side.
“As I said,” Ged went on, “I’d have helped you if the timing had been different. I’ve men here who know the territory quite well, though none that have traveled all the way across to Alpin’s holdings. Reliable mountain guides. You need one of those. But I can’t do it
now. Headed south within days. Those few not coming with me, I need back here to keep watch on the house, the women and children.” He sighed expansively and took a mouthful of ale. Ged was a man of robust build, and was dressed tonight in a tunic and trousers woven in a startling pattern of squares and lines, vividly dyed in scarlet, green, and blue. His men, who had been in evidence in the yards
of Abertornie, busy with preparations for an expedition of warlike nature, had all been clad in garments of similar brilliance. If his mountain guides wore the same kind of uniform, Faolan thought, at least they’d be visible at a distance. The only place where it would provide good camouflage would be a riotous flower garden.