“Tell me the rest of the story. What did this family do?”
“By the time the younger son came home, the men of the district had already formed a ragtag force to guard their land, their possessions, and their loved ones. Their weapons were scythes and pitchforks. What fighting skills they had were those they’d picked up in friendly bouts of wrestling
on fair day. The elder son of the brithem was their leader. He was clever, and he was angry. He’d seen the despair that was overtaking his father after the loss of what would have been the first grandchild. This young man, he—”
“What was his name, Faolan?”
“Dubhán.” He had to force this out; the word was harsh with pain. “He executed a coup. They heard Echen was to visit the district, to extract
tenancy payments from the farmers who worked his land. While Echen was being entertained to supper by one of the wealthier local landholders, the young men stole ten fine riding horses from his encampment, as well as some weaponry. One guard was killed, the other trussed up and left for his master to find. Dubhán was his father’s son; in return for one life, that of his brother-in-law, he took
one life. A subtlety lost on Echen, unfortunately. By the time the Uf Néill’s men came out searching, the horses had been spirited away out of the district. It was a triumph, audacious, clever, in keeping with what folk knew of Dubhán. He was always … he was …”
“The younger brother looked up to him?”
Faolan nodded, momentarily unable to speak.
“I know this must end in tragedy, Faolan. Will
you tell me the rest?”
His voice had become a halting monotone. “Echen pulled in some of the young men of the community, those he suspected might have had a part in it. His methods were brutal. Eventually one of them broke and named Dubhán as the ringleader. That night … that night the family was gathered around the hearth, as was their habit, for singing and storytelling. Mother, father, brothers,
sisters, old folk. Echen came with armed men, a great many men. They laid rough hands on the brithem and on his elder son. Accused of the offense, Dubhán did not deny responsibility. He stood tall and attempted to set out Echen’s own crimes against his father; to use logic against vengeful fury. His father, held by a pair of thugs, watched him with tears of pride in his eyes. The younger brother,
whose hands were more apt to pluck harp strings than to use a sword, whose voice was sooner raised in song than in valiant defiance, longed at that moment to be Dubhán, for it was a demonstration of true courage. Then Echen’s men beat Dubhán in front of his family, his weeping mother, his younger sister screaming protest, his father tight-lipped and gray. The younger brother did not know which
was strongest in him: fear, hate, or pride.”
Ana squeezed his hand, not saying anything.
“Dubhán would not grovel. Bruised and bloody, gasping for breath, he would not give Echen the apology he sought. It must have become evident to Echen that his tactic wasn’t working. So he began to threaten the others.”
A chill ran through Ana.
“Not what you might think,” Faolan said, “that he might hurt
the father, or another of the family, if Dubhán did not apologize. Perhaps he saw, in all their eyes, the integrity that was the very backbone of the upbringing their father had given them, the core of what made this quiet family so strong. And perhaps he saw a … a weak link. Echen’s followers moved in. Suddenly, an armed man stood by each of them, the grandmother, the young widow, the little sister;
knives were held across throats, daggers poised to enter hearts. There was no weapon aimed at Dubhán himself; he was kneeling in the center of the chamber, hands bound behind his back. There was no weapon trained on his younger brother, the one who had gone away to be a bard and come home to a nightmare. Then … then Echen stepped forward to address the musician. He put a knife in the young man’s
hand. He … he offered him a choice. Dubhán, Echen said, was marked for death; an example needed to be made, so nobody else got it into his head to defy the Uí Néill, thinking he could get away with it. The question, therefore, was not whether the miscreant would die or not, but how many he would take with him. Echen’s eyes went around the chamber as he said this. The young bard followed the chieftain’s
gaze, seeing his mother’s ashen face, his grandmother with her neat clothing rumpled and her white hair disheveled, a man’s big fist gripping her cruelly by the shoulder. His older sister had her hands over her face; a red-faced fellow was holding his younger sister, fourteen years old and quivering with rage and shame as the wretch’s hands groped her through her demure gown. The grandfather
was trying to stand tall, his gaze on his distressed wife. The father’s jaw was set, his eyes dark with the premonition of horror. Perhaps he had seen before any of them what was coming.
“‘It’s not my choice, lad,’ Echen said to the younger son, ‘but yours. Slit your brother’s throat and I’ll order my men to release every person in this chamber and do them no more harm, provided your family never
meddles in my affairs again. Refuse and I’ll do the job for you. Then my men will make an end of all the others.’”
“The mother gave a terrible cry, a moan from deep in the belly; the grandfather cursed, and was rewarded with a cracking blow to the jaw, which sent him crumpling to his knees.
“‘Perhaps not all,’ Echen added, his eyes on the younger sister, sweet and rosy as a new season’s apple.”We’ll
take
her
to keep us company tonight; pity to waste such obvious promise. And we’ll spare you, of course.’ His gaze was on the young bard who stood trembling by his brother, the knife shaking so violently in his hand that he could scarcely have used it even if he’d had the will to. ‘Kill him, and you save their lives. Balk at it, and you’ll watch them die, one by one. You’ll live on to see it,
over and over, every night in your dreams. Show us what you’re made of, pretty boy.’”
“The bard looked wildly at his father, seeking guidance, but his father had closed his eyes. The wisest brithem in all the world could not make such a judgment. Tears were rolling down the lawman’s blanched cheeks. His lips moved in a prayer.
“‘Don’t do it, Faolan!’ the young sister shouted. ‘Don’t give that
scum the satisfaction!’ Then she, too, was silenced with a blow.
“The bard looked down at the knife. He could not hold it still; it jerked and shuddered in his hand as a wave of nausea went through him.
“Then his brother spoke. ‘Stand behind me. Set the point of the knife below my left ear. Draw it across in one steady stroke, and make sure you press hard. You’re strong, Faolan. You can do it.’
“‘But—’ All the bard could manage was a strangled croak. His throat was tight, his head felt as if it were going to explode, his heart was hammering fit to split asunder. His palms were slick with sweat. His mind sought desperately for solutions: attack Echen instead, try to run for it, turn the knife on himself … It was evident none of these things would save his family. But this—this was Dubhán.
“‘Hurry up,’ Echen said, and he gave a little nod toward one of his men. A moment later the grandmother slumped to the ground, a knife protruding from her ribs.
“‘You’re a man, Faolan,” Dubhán whispered. ‘Do it now.’”
Ana had her teeth clenched so tightly her head ached.
“The bard … the bard looked into his brother’s eyes, bright with courage. Dubhán was his hero. He would have followed him
into the gates of hell. What his brother asked of him, he had always done. So he tightened his tenuous grip on the knife and drew the blade across Dubhán’s throat. The blood spurted hot and red over his hands. He heard his sister’s scream; he heard the sound his mother made. His father was silent. The young man stood there in the center with his brother’s body by his feet, and waited for Echen and
his men to go.
“But Echen wasn’t quite finished. His men released the family when he bade them, standing by with weapons drawn as the women tended to the dying grandmother.
“‘Search the house,’ the Uí Néill chieftain said lightly, as if it were an afterthought. ‘Look for our missing knives and bows, and bring out anything else of interest, will you?’
“The family was frozen, silent. They waited.
The grandmother’s blood drained out into the cloths they pressed to her chest. The grandfather held her hand against his cheek. In a little, Echen’s men came back, holding between them the third sister, the one who had gone to bed early that night … Aine, the youngest, a child in her long nightrobe, eyes dark and scared, hair tumbling down over her shoulders.
“‘Ah,’ Echen said, and his smile
was cruel. ‘Hidden treasure. We’ll take her; I recall promising to spare all in this chamber, nothing about the rest of the house. A little pearl. How old is she, twelve? Fresh. Tantalizing. Fetch the poppet a cloak, Conor, we can’t have her catching cold. Farewell, brithem. I think your son here has a future, and it’s not as a musician.’ His expression as he glanced at the bard was of surprise, almost
of admiration; it was clear the result of his experiment had not been the one he expected. He turned back to the father. ‘Don’t let me hear of you again. I’ll be less magnanimous next time.’
“As they left, dragging the girl along with them, the young man hurled himself across the chamber after them, desperate to make it right somehow, to save his sister at least, though the nightmare would indeed
be with him forever. Echen laughed; I can hear it now. Then someone struck the lad a heavy blow on the head, and for a little there was the relief of unconsciousness.”
There was nothing Ana could say. She sat paralyzed a moment, then put her arm around him and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Faolan, that’s … it’s unthinkable. Nobody should ever have to … nobody …” And, a little later,
“What happened afterward? What did you do?”
“I was possessed by hatred.” He had given up the pretense of telling someone else’s story. “When I came to, all that was in my mind was rescuing my sister, and plunging a knife into Echen’s heart. But that was not allowed me. I came out from the sleeping quarters to find my parents waiting. My mother had packed a little bundle with food and drink for
the road. My father gave me a ring he had had from his grandfather, silver with a stone in it. My harp was ready in its bag. I was to go; to go away and not return. They didn’t say much. I saw on my mother’s face that, after what I had done, she did not want me in her house. My father was suddenly an old man. I protested; who would save Áine if not I? Father forbade me to try. He said the violence
had to stop. He said it would already be too late for her. There was a distance in his tone that I had never heard before. My other sisters did not come out when I left. Before the sun had risen I had walked beyond the borders of Echen’s land. I gave my mother’s bread and cheese to a beggar by the wayside, and tied the cloth into a yew tree, though it was no offering to the gods; from that dark
night on I would trust neither gods nor men. I traded my father’s ring for a passage to Fortriu. I left them all behind. I have heard nothing of them since. But they are never far away. When I play the harp I see my little sister in the hands of those men. I hear my mother’s scream. When I go to sleep at night, I feel Dubhán’s blood on my hands, and I hear my father speaking to me as if I were a
stranger.”
“Oh, Faolan … I’m so, so sorry … I can’t think what to say …”
“There’s nothing to say. What I did was unforgivable. I made the wrong choice. I destroyed my family just as effectively as Echen Uí Néill would have done with his armed band.”
“Why didn’t you ever go back? Didn’t you want to make your peace with your folk? To find out what had happened to them?”
Faolan’s tone was bitter.
“I worshipped Dubhán. He was my big brother. I obeyed him to the very last. And I obeyed my father when he told me to go away and not to come back. Since then I haven’t earned my keep by playing music, but by the two things I proved I could do that day: following orders and slitting throats.”
The self-hatred in his voice silenced Ana.
“I have been back,” Faolan said. “Not home, but back to Laigin.
Echen’s henchmen tried to recruit me. He’d heard, perhaps, that the pretty boy had developed certain useful skills. I refused. Hence Breakstone. Men died of despair in that place. I lived. I was already beyond despair; I’d lost any capacity to feel. That made me a worse bard but a better killer. I didn’t work for Echen, but I did work for everyone else: the chieftains of the Ui Néill, both
northern and southern, the princes of Ulaid, the king of Dalriada. And now, for Bridei.”
“You haven’t lost the capacity to feel,” Ana said. “Nor to awaken feelings in others. What about your music? Even Alpin’s huntsmen had tears in their eyes.”
“Until I met you,” he said quietly, “I had lost it. I won’t play again. It’s wrong for me to set my hands to music when they’re tainted with my own
brother’s lifeblood.”
“What utter nonsense!” Ana snapped before she could stop herself. “You said before that you made the wrong choice, but, Faolan, there was no right choice. As a lawman, your father knew that. Whatever choice you made, it had to end in sorrow and death. You were very young. That man had no right to set such a terrible burden on you.”
“I should not have told you. Now you,
too, will dream of this.”
“I have my own troubling dreams. I’m glad you told me, Faolan. It took courage to put this in words. You are the most courageous man I know.”
He made no reply to this.