They had gathered themselves for another onslaught
when rain began to fall: the light, drizzling rain that bathed these hills once or twice on most days even in summer. The fire started to hiss. Within the forest, birds made restless sounds from their myriad perches. The wolves began to move in again, padding closer on every side, a hungry gray tide. To die like this would be cruel indeed. The gods were playing a strange sort of game with them.
Why had she and Faolan survived Breaking Ford, why had Drustan escaped his brother’s grasp, why had they been allowed to love one another if they were destined to die bloodily and painfully, for no purpose but to provide some creature’s supper?
“This can’t go on,” Drustan muttered, taking a new brand from the fire. “There must be another way.”
“If the three of us could fly,” Faolan said bitterly,
as the rain grew heavier, “no doubt there would be. Failing that, we must fight on as best we can.”
Drustan eyed him. “We can’t keep this up if the fire goes out,” he said. “I’m going to try something else. Give me your fire stick.”
“What—”
Before Faolan could say more, Drustan had seized the flaming brand from his hand and was striding off alone, down toward the forest, straight into the ring
of wolves.
“No—” Ana screamed, launching herself after him and coming up short as Faolan grabbed her arm.
“Don’t,” he hissed. “If he wants to get himself killed, fine, but he’s not taking you with him.”
She could hear, then, her own wordless sobbing; she could feel the hard grip of Faolan’s hand around her arm as, from every side, wolves began to move. They streamed after the red-haired man
as. he made his way toward the trees, juggling fire with his graceful hands. What was he doing? Surely he would not sacrifice his own life so she and Faolan would be safe, just as Deord had done? What could provoke a man to such reckless courage?
They watched until Drustan’s tall form almost merged into the shadow of the pines. Despite the rain that was dousing their fire, his torches still flamed
as they rose and fell, the pattern of them now a wheel, now a web, now a flower, dazzling and strange. The wolves were gathered all around him; Ana could hear their growling. She waited for the first to leap, the others to follow. She waited for the man she loved to be torn apart before her very eyes. When they were done with him, they could take her; she would no longer care.
The wolves sensed
what was coming before Ana heard or saw anything. The growls changed to a thin whining; bellies were lowered to the ground, ears flattened. There was an eldritch sound from the forest, an immense stirring and rustling as if the very trees were about to lift roots from the soil and march forward. A moment later, flying out from the dark pines, came birds: a great, dense flock of birds, more than
any Ana had ever seen gathered together before, even at the spring arrival of geese to the wetlands by Banmerren. They were a whirring cloud, a chorus of shrill voices, the perilous sweeping of a sorcerer’s cloak. They dipped low over the heads of the cowering wolves, making a fluid circle whose center was the man standing with fire in his hands, the man who, somehow, had conjured this strange army
of owl and swallow, dunnock and siskin, thrush and redstart to his aid.
Faolan’s hand released its viselike grip; his arm came around Ana’s shoulders, perhaps for reassurance, perhaps merely so he could keep his balance. As she stared, stunned into silence, the birds swept once more in their circle and vanished back into the depths of the wood. In the darkness down the hill, she could see Drustan
returning, his torches smoking in the rain. Of the wolves there was not a sign. She looked the other way, up the hill to the rocky outcrops where more creatures had sheltered, ready to attack. Nothing stirred; the silence was absolute.
Then, sudden as the sun peeping from parting clouds, two small forms flew out of the night to alight on Ana’s shoulders: crossbill on the right, hoodie on the
left. She waited for the hawk, but it did not come, only Drustan, walking up to the dying fire with raindrops on his auburn hair. His shoulders were stooped with the weight of utter exhaustion.
“They’re gone,” he murmured and a moment later his tall form folded up on the ground, head in hands.
“Drustan! Are you hurt?”
“No, Ana. I need a little time, that’s all.”
The rain was passing over,
and the pine log was still smoldering. What to do first: tend to Faolan’s wound, try to build up the fire, stay on guard in case the wolves came back? Begin to ask Drustan all the questions that tumbled through her mind, or simply put her arms around him and thank him for saving their lives?
“The fire,” Faolan muttered as if reading her thoughts. He took his arm away from her shoulders and made
to shift the log, to stir up the embers that sizzled in the rain. Ana heard his gasp of pain as he squatted down. The firelight touched the bloodstains on his ragged clothing.
“Were you bitten? How bad is it? We should try to clean the wounds, bind them up—”
“It’s nothing.”
“Show me.”
“Fire first,” Faolan said. “If it goes out, they’ll surely return.”
They tried to shelter the heart of their
dwindling blaze from the worst of the rain. In a little, Drustan got up and went to fetch more wood from down the hill, near the edge of the forest where it might be drier. This time Ana made no move to stop him, just watched him go with wonder. “They didn’t even try to hurt him,” she said.
“He’s a dab hand with fire, I’ll give him that.” There was a dour note in Faolan’s tone; she could not
put it down entirely to the fact that he was in pain.
“You called him,” Ana said. “I heard you. You called him and all of a sudden he was here. How could that be? Where did he come from?”
“I’m not the one you should be asking.” Faolan had rolled up his trouser leg and was inspecting the wound in the fitful light; a dark bruise stained the flesh of the inner thigh, and his knee was a mess of
drying blood. Ana felt sick. Dog bites were difficult to deal with even if one had clean water and healing herbs at hand. Ill humors commonly entered such wounds, and the fever that accompanied them was generally fatal.
Faolan must have seen her expression. “I’ve had worse than this in my time,” he said. “Forget it. It’s stopped bleeding. I can still walk. Be glad we’re alive. That was too close
for comfort.”
“Faolan?”
“Mmm?”
“What did you mean, you’re not the one I should be asking? You must have known he was nearby, to call him thus. Have you been keeping something from me?”
“Ask your precious Drustan. I think you’ll find he hasn’t been entirely truthful with you. Now he’s here, you’ve got what you want, and it’s time for him to give you the full story.”
This was odd; but perhaps
not so very odd, save that it meant Faolan had knowledge of Drustan that he had kept from her. A suspicion was creeping up on her, one that was strange and wondrous, and made sense of a great many things.
There was a little silence as they watched Drustan approaching in the dwindling rain, the moon touching his damp curls to silver. He bore a heavy armload of fallen branches.
“He’s strong,”
Faolan observed. “That’ll come in handy.”
“You’re so angry. I can almost feel it. He just saved our lives.”
“Ask him for the truth. Ask him where he was and why he didn’t make an appearance until we were looking death in the face. Ask him if that’s what a man puts a woman through if he really loves her.”
Drustan came up to them, dropping his load and stooping to help with the fire. “We must
keep it burning,” he said. “I don’t think they will come back. But you have no warm clothes, Ana, and the two of you look half-starved and worn out. Here—” He shrugged off his tunic and the fine wool shirt he was wearing beneath, passed the shirt to a wordless Ana, slipped the tunic back over his head. “Wear this, please. Your gown is ruined. You must be freezing. I’m afraid there’s still a long
way to go.”
“You know the way?” she asked him, feeling again that curious tension between them that was partly the stirrings of physical desire, not wholly dulled by hunger, cold and shock, and partly a kind of reticence, a shyness that held back the words she longed to say. To speak what was in the heart, what awoke every moment in the body, seemed somehow dangerous. It was too soon.
“I can
guide you to the east coast,” Drustan said. “I can lead you to a meeting of two rivers, from which it will be easy to make a way south to Bridei’s court. I will find shelter soon, good food, warm clothing. In these parts there is nothing. I’m sorry.”
Ana snuggled into the shirt, which was still warm from his body and long enough to cover her almost to the fraying, cut-off hem of her tattered
gown. She looked up at Drustan; his bright eyes regarded her, solemn, a little wary. “Thank you,” she said. “This is wonderful. And thank you for saving us. I don’t know how you did that, but it was … it was like magic. Beautiful and mysterious.”
“You have something to tell the lady.” Faolan glanced at the other man. “An explanation.”
Drustan was staring into the fire now. “That is for tomorrow,”
he said quietly. “It is for a place other than here; for a place of safety, in sunshine, when Ana has rested and eaten. I will tell her. But not tonight. Not yet.” He reached out and took Ana’s hand in a firm grasp, drawing her down to sit beside him, next to the fire. The rain had abated and the blaze cast welcome warmth on her chilled hands and face. Opposite them, Faolan seated himself awkwardly,
stretching his injured leg out straight. Drustan’s arm came around Ana’s shoulders. She felt his touch all through her body, she who had for so long been too tired and sad and hungry to desire anything beyond the next day’s meager supper, the next night’s uncomfortable sleep. The blood surged to her cheeks; she laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.
“Drustan,” Faolan said, “I
have to tell you that Deord is dead. Alpin killed him. He fell bravely.”
Drustan nodded, as if he had known this already. “A grievous loss,” he said. “He deserved a life; he deserved the freedom he won for us.”
After a little, Faolan said, “You mentioned guiding us to the coast. Does that mean you don’t intend to come all the way to White Hill with us?”
“It depends.” Drustan’s voice had gone
very quiet.
“On what?”
“On what Ana wants. It depends on tomorrow.”
Ana took a deep breath. The two men seemed lost in some cryptic game of which she had no understanding. There was nothing for it but to speak quite honestly. “I want you to come with us, Drustan,” she said. “I don’t ever want you to go away again.”
A wave of tension ran through him, startling in its intensity. Then he said,
“If you can say that tomorrow as we sit by our fire and watch the birds fly in to roost at nightfall, then I will tell you yes, I will never leave you, not in all the days and nights of my life. If you cannot, I will guide you to the safe path southward, and then go home to Dreaming Glen and tend to my land alone. No—” as she made to protest, “say no more now. We are all weary. Let us wait for the
sun, and then we should move on to a place of shelter. A place where wolves cannot reach us.”
AT DAWN THEY quenched their fire and moved on. Crossbill and hoodie accompanied them, darting off from time to time in their usual manner. Ana did not ask where the hawk was. She had gone very quiet; Faolan wondered what she was thinking and how much she had guessed at.
They did not go far.
After that night of fear and struggle and no sleep, they were all weary. Faolan’s injured leg had stiffened alarmingly and he was finding it difficult to walk. Ana’s stumbling progress suggested she was asleep on her feet.
They followed a stream that gurgled through the forest, and in a clearing where sunlight filtered down through the interlacing of alder and willow, they stopped to rest. Faolan’s
knee did not want to bend, and when he had eased himself to the ground, he found that the others were both staring at him. “It’s nothing,” he snapped.
“All the same,” said Drustan, “a poultice of healing herbs can relieve this greatly. We still have a long way to go. Along this stream there’s likely to be found a number of useful plants, including something to stave off fever.”
“There’s no rush.”
Faolan winced as he reached to remove his pack; the shoulder was a mass of fiery pain.
“You need this now, Faolan,” Ana said. “Don’t be foolishly brave about it. Let Drustan help you.”
“You know what’s required?” Faolan eyed Drustan skeptically.
“I have sufficient knowledge not to harm you, yes,” Drustan said, smiling. “Rest now; I won’t be long. When I return I will stand watch a while. Of
us all, my need for sleep is least.”
He walked off, footsteps silent on the forest floor. Ana and Faolan settled as best they could. It should be easy enough to stay awake until the bird-man got back, Faolan thought. This pain was sufficient to keep the most placid of men on edge. He listened to Ana’s soft breathing; glanced across at her still form, head pillowed on hands, eyes closed, the small
blanket spread over her. He looked up into the canopy of leaves; saw hoodie and crossbill perched together, utterly still. A moment later, he was asleep.