“Faolan?”
A nod.
“You need to go back. You know that, don’t you? If you’re ever to come to terms with it at all, you need to make your peace with them.”
“It’s not a fairy tale.”
“I’m not saying the
memories will disappear, or that all the hurts will be instantly mended. I understand it’s too complicated for that. What I do know is that they would want to see you: your father and mother, your sisters … A long time has passed since you left. The way you tell it, they sound like fine people, strong, just people. They will understand, by now, the impossible choice you faced, and why you did what
you did. You were bound to it by love. You need to go back. Your long absence will have hurt them, your father especially.”
“I’ll never go back.”
“Then you are less courageous than I thought. The greatest courage is to go ahead and do what you must, even when the prospect of it turns your insides to jelly.”
“Was that how it felt when you pulled me out of the water at Breaking Ford?”
Ana shivered,
remembering. “For a bit, yes; once I saw you, there didn’t seem to be any choice in the matter. I had to salvage the one thing left; the one good thing. If I were a crueler woman, I would say you owe it to me, as well as to Deord, to come to terms with the past. To give yourself a future.”
“I have a future. I am still Bridei’s man.”
“Without this, you will never be true to yourself.”
“When I told you my story, I wasn’t expecting instruction on how to live my life.” He edged away from her, releasing her hand.
“We’re friends, Faolan,” Ana said quietly. “True friends. I will never instruct you. But there is a path I want to see you take, so you will not be eaten up by self-loathing.
I see the man beneath the armor of indifference. I want the world to see him, too. I want you to be fulfilled and happy.”
In the moonlight, she saw his twisted grimace of a smile. “You ask the impossible,” he said.
“I thought,” she whispered, “that you might be the kind of man for whom nothing is impossible. I’m hoping that, in time, you’ll prove me right.”
AT THE END of a third day’s
searching, Alpin called off his hunting party and headed back home. There, he filled a pack with supplies for a man traveling alone a fair distance, and put the affairs of his household in the hands of the capable Orna. He left certain instructions with Dregard, and others with Mordec, who headed his men-at-arms. He took his sword, his knives, and his crossbow, and he headed back into the forest
alone at dawn next morning. Where a hunting party with dogs and horses could not easily go, a skilled man on foot might travel quickly and quietly, tracking another. The Gael and the royal bride might have slipped beyond his borders, and his brother vanished into the concealment of the wildwood. But Alpin was not yet defeated. He wanted Ana, soiled goods as she’d likely be by now. She was his;
she’d been sent here to be his wife and he’d have her by whatever means it took. He owed it to himself to enact vengeance on that freak Drustan, and on the wretched turncoat Gael, and, ultimately, on the upstart king of Fortriu who had sparked this off with his ill-considered attempt to woo Briar Wood to his alliance.
Well, the alliance would keep, Alpin thought as he made a good pace along the
treacherous tracks of the deep forest, retracing his own path to the place where Deord had died, observing with a certain amusement the care with which the fellow had been laid to rest, then picking up a new trail back toward the high tarn below the waterfall, a place his hunting party had dismissed as without any exit a woman might essay. He had them; he was onto them.
It would take time to
track the fugitives down and to move in on them by stealth. No matter. He could afford to be absent from home for a while. There was no longer a need to mobilize his army, his fleet, his considerable forces; not yet. Perhaps not at all. The answer to that problem, he sensed, was not in an armed assault, but in his alternative plan, the one he’d put in place some time ago: the deployment of the secret
weapon nobody knew about save himself and Dregard and his most trusted men-at-arms. And, of course, the son who had, against the odds, finally proven to be of some use to him.
It had become increasingly clear as first Ana, then Faolan had spoken of Bridei’s powerful presence, his leadership, his iconic status to his people, that the success of any Priteni venture against Dalriada depended heavily
on this one man, this so-called Blade of Fortriu. Too heavily, in Alpin’s estimation. Remove Bridei and the whole thing would come tumbling down, he was sure of it.
So he’d sent the young king a little present; how convenient that the lad had already attached himself to Umbrig’s forces. Hargest had been only too willing to oblige; the boy was desperate for Alpin’s approval. He probably saw himself
as the rightful heir to Briar Wood. The way things had worked out with Ana, at the moment he was the only heir. That would change soon enough, Alpin thought grimly. He’d have his royal bride and he’d keep her. She’d give him as many sons as he wanted, and through those sons he’d wield a power unrivaled in all the lands of the north.
“
Q
UITE AN ENTOURAGE,” remarked Fola as Tuala’s party dismounted before the gates of Banmerren. The queen had brought not only a waxen-faced Broichan, but also the bodyguard Garth, his wife Elda and their twin sons, as well as a young maidservant. And, of course, Derelei, now being helped down from the cart that had conveyed nursemaid and children.”You’ve remembered, I hope, that
druids are the only men permitted in our sanctum?”
Tuala smiled at her old teacher. “How could I forget?” she said, recalling a time when Bridei had scaled the wall on a rope in order to visit her. Was that really only five years ago? It seemed a world away: the two of them high above the ground, perched in the oak tree, and that first kiss … “I was thinking the rest of us might be lodged in
Ferada’s domain. I’ll go and speak to her while Garth and Elda unload the baggage.” As she turned down the little path skirting the high stone wall, she saw Fola take Broichan’s arm and lead him through the gate to the wise women’s sanctuary.
Down the pathway the wall had been extended to shelter a new enclosure, where a long dwelling house stood within a fledgling garden. An iron gate set in
the wall opened at Tuala’s push; across a grassy sward, an archway in the side wall opened through to the grounds of Fola’s school. Tuala walked quietly into the new garden. She was not alone there; Ferada was sitting on a bench with a little book open in her hands, and by the archway could be seen the brawny figure of the royal stone carver, Garvan, who was balanced on a wooden platform beside a
huge slab of rock, doing something delicate with a chisel. A youth, apparently his assistant, was sorting tools on a bench. It was a fine day; the quiet, industrious scene was bathed in warm summer light. In the grass small flowers made bright points of pink and blue. Ferada’s feet were bare and she had one leg drawn up under her on the bench while the other foot dangled. Her hair was unbound, flowing
down her back in a fiery stream. Garvan, a man whose features had something of the look of an untouched lump of stone themselves, was whistling under his breath as he worked.
“I’m sorry to disturb such a peaceful scene,” Tuala said, advancing across the grass with a smile. “I’m afraid you have visitors: four adults and three rather active small boys. We’ll try to keep them away from the tools.”
THERE WERE NO easy ways between Briar Wood and White Hill. Where there was not trackless forest, there were high fells and craggy peaks across which chill winds laid a constant scourge even in summer. Where there were not broad streams and rushing falls to get across, there were cliffs and ravines and crumbling escarpments. There were bogs. There were wild pigs. At night, there were wolves.
Once Faolan was confident that Alpin had lost their trail, he allowed a small fire at night. He had not long finished laying and lighting the first of these, while Ana used her knife to divide up a strip of the dried mutton that was their only food, when the hawk flew off a while, returning in the twilight with a fat rabbit dangling from its talons. Faolan wondered how much Drustan understood
when he was in this form; whether he had a full comprehension of human speech, whether he formed opinions, felt joy or sorrow, planned and strategized and dreamed in the same way as a man. He wondered how much Drustan would remember when he changed back. Right now, he was more use to them in bird form, able to fly high and seek out tracks where a man could not, able to hunt with no weapons beyond
beak and claws. When would Drustan decide the time had come to show himself to Ana? To reveal to her the full truth about himself? Was he really so frightened of her rejection that he would hold back all the way to White Hill? A lover who could not trust seemed to Faolan somewhat lacking. Still, it was an odd thing, a bizarre thing. There was no telling how she might react when she knew.
Ana
did a competent job of cooking the rabbit on the fire. She left a portion raw, putting it on a fallen tree where the bird could take it easily. The hawk ate with precision, the haunch of rabbit held in one foot as the fearsome beak tore off the flesh a strip at a time. Hoodie and crossbill watched from a distance; for them, hunger did not seem to be an issue. Faolan imagined the slow pace of human
feet gave the two of them plenty of opportunity to forage on the way.
Once or twice, as they went on and one day began to merge into the next, Faolan was tempted to catch the hawk on its own, to trust that it could understand and to suggest to Drustan that he tell Ana the truth and put her out of her misery. Once or twice, he got out the single glove Deord had carried in his pack and tried it
on his right hand. But he took the idea no further. Why rush things? The longer Drustan left it, the likelier it was that Ana might see her feelings for him as infatuation rather than love; the impulsive generosity of a woman who finds it all too easy to pity the unjustly treated. The longer it took Drustan to reveal his secret to her—if he ever did—the more time Faolan had alone with her. And while
his mind understood all too well that there could never be more than friendship between them, his heart cherished these precious days as a flower welcomes the sun’s warmth. Never mind that the two of them were filthy, cold, and exhausted; that home had never seemed so far away. For now, for this small span of time, he had her entirely to himself. He was warier now, not trusting himself to lie
by her at night, but he could look at her, talk to her, store up every moment for a future in which, as surely as the sun set in the evening, their paths would go separate ways. He had opened the darkest part of himself to her, the part that he had thought would remain locked away forever. She had accepted his offering; even knowing the terrible thing he had done, she had remained his loyal friend.
If this fragile happiness must be shattered by Drustan’s return, let it be not yet.
Ana was doing well, keeping up, not complaining even when her feet hurt her. When she took off her boots and he saw the blisters, Faolan ordered a day’s rest. She protested; he insisted. It was clear to him that they would not be back at White Hill until summer was over. He hoped the bird knew what it was doing.
Perhaps Drustan was playing a game of his own.
Bouts of rainy weather had slowed their progress and the season was passing swiftly. It did not help that their guide had a disconcerting habit of disappearing without warning, leaving them to wait for a day, two days, until he flew back and the journey recommenced.
They had been two nights in a derelict shepherd’s hut on a high corrie, waiting
for the hawk’s return from one of these absences. Faolan had little idea of which path to follow, and the terrain was perilous. Nonetheless, he was close to losing patience completely and assuming the role of guide himself from this point on. Ana had been growing increasingly withdrawn, and he had noticed a hollowing of her features and a change in her eyes that disquieted him. She had become markedly
thinner, unsurprising on the diet of one meal of meat a day. The hawk had left them a brace of hares before it vanished this time, as if it knew it would not be back for a while.
“We’ll wait one more night,” Faolan told Ana as they sat in the shelter of a boulder, looking out over the hillside under the strange half-dark sky of the summer night. “If he’s not back by then, I can find a way for
us. Head roughly southeast and we must strike the coast near Abertornie eventually.”
“Faolan?”
“Mmm?”
“It’s going to take a long time, isn’t it? To walk all the way back, I mean.”
Faolan considered all the things he hadn’t told her: the difficulty of providing food without bow or spear, the fact that the dried meat would last, at best, another seven days, the undeniable truth that, even in
summer, there would be broad rivers to cross. “It will be slower than riding, of course,” he said. “But we’ll manage. How are your boots?”
Ana showed him. The left was holed right through the sole; the right was splitting apart where the upper met the heel. No wonder her feet were sore. The wedding gown was stained and tattered to rags. His own garments were hardly better.
“Mm,” he said. “A
pretty picture we’ll make walking into White Hill, the two of us.”
There was a silence, then the unmistakable sound of suppressed weeping. “Sorry,” Ana muttered.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Faolan asked flatly. “Drustan. You’re still crying over him. A pox on the man.”
“I can’t help it, Faolan. I want him to be here, with us. With me. I hoped … I had so hoped … never mind.”
Faolan observed that
her belt was so loose on her now that she had to wind it several times through itself to keep it around her waist. Her lovely hair fell in lank, lifeless strands to her shoulders; she no longer held herself as straight as a queen. He ached to put his arms around her and hold her close.
“I worry about him, Faolan,” she said in a small voice. “He’s so vulnerable. If he’s gone back to his own place,
Dreaming Glen, he could be imprisoned again, even killed. Alpin’s men are in control there now. What if—”
“Ana,” Faolan said, “we can’t do anything about that. Trust the man; he can sort out his own problems.” Privately, he was beginning to doubt this. He had no idea at all where Drustan was right now, or what he was playing at.
“I wanted to help him.” She was staring up at the night sky as
if it might provide answers. “I still want to. He’s terribly alone. Wherever he chose to go, whatever he chose to do, I wanted to be with him, by his side, so he need not be alone anymore. It must be both a blessing and a curse to be born different. His grandfather understood that. Nobody else seems to have done. Deord, maybe.”
“Different?” Faolan wondered exactly what Drustan had told her.
“Like a seer, I think. These spells he has, what Alpin called frenzies or fits, it seems that when they come upon him Drustan experiences a kind of vision; walks in a different world for a while. He had them even as a child. Some people can’t tolerate such oddity.”
“Indeed,” Faolan said, thinking she had no idea of just how odd the man really was. How would she feel about the prospect of bearing
children who might at any moment sprout beaks and feathers?
“Faolan?”
He waited.
“Every day we travel, every step toward the east, I feel as if my heart’s being torn apart just a little bit more. I thought after a while it might start to dull, not to hurt so much. But it keeps on getting worse. How could I leave him behind? Something’s wrong. He wouldn’t have gone away without me. He was telling
the truth when he said he loved me, I heard it in his voice. Why would he lie about something like that?”
“Men do,” Faolan said. “They do it all the time.”
“Not Drustan.”
“A paragon.” He could not conceal his bitterness.
“Stop it, Faolan. Anyone would think you were jealous.” There was a silence. The longer it drew out, the more intense was Ana’s scrutiny of his face and, at a certain point,
he had to look away just to stop himself from some kind of foolish response, a lying denial, a self-revelatory declaration of his feelings, a withering riposte that would hurt her. There was no point in saying anything. It was quite plain to him that, at last, she understood what was in his heart.
“I’m sorry,” she said eventually, her voice low and warm. “I’m so sorry, Faolan.”
“Ah, well.” He
attempted a smile. “I’m just a hired guard, after all. It’s not my place to entertain personal feelings. Forget it. Your life is complicated enough already.”
“You are my dear friend,” Ana said, “and my loyal protector on the road. I should have seen this earlier; I can’t imagine how I missed it. You know I trust you, Faolan, and respect you, and rely on you … I never thought to find such a friend,
and I thank the gods that you have been by my side through all this. But … what I feel for Drustan is quite different. It is too strong to be denied. It’s like a—a wave, a tide—”
“Destructive, you mean.”
“Maybe. He’s gone, and I feel as if I’m breaking apart. I’m sorry it’s making things difficult for you. When I spoke of him, and of how I felt … that must have hurt you terribly.”
Faolan’s
mood softened at her words. Even in such an extreme she remained a lady through and through. “I want you to try something for me,” he said.
“What?”
He reached for his bag; drew out the heavy leather glove. “Put this on and stand up.”
“Why?” She did as he requested, expression mystified.
“Now call him. The hawk. Call him to you.”
“I don’t know how. I don’t know what kind of sound I should
make.”
“Can you whistle?”
“Not very loudly. I can try; just don’t look at me or I won’t be able to do it.”
The sound she made was tiny in the immensity of the folded hills that spread before them; a little two-note tune, falling, falling. It was the kind of call a lady might make to a beloved kitten or well-trained lapdog. She paused a while, listening, then tried it again. It was as if the
night hushed around her, holding its breath.
Then, a movement of wings in the half-dark, a subtle shifting of air, and the bird flew out of the night to her hand, talons gripping the glove, wild eye meeting Ana’s, bright, inscrutable. She held her arm strong, supporting the hawk’s weight; her own eyes were full of wonderment. “He came back,” she breathed. “How did you know he’d do that?”