Faolan woke to a pair of hands at his throat, squeezing; a man kneeling astride him, a hoarse whisper, “Now die, Gael!” and, through the miasma of sleep, a sudden fierce urge to stay alive. He twisted, his heart thudding, his knee in agony.
He bucked and kicked even as Alpin’s furious face swam in and out of focus above him. Unconsciousness was close; he had been slow to wake. Beyond those mad eyes, that contorted mouth, he saw movement: Ana waking in silence; Ana getting to her knees, eyes wide with shock; Ana seizing a piece of fallen wood and lifting it to strike …
Faolan made himself suddenly limp; against all instinct, he rolled
back his eyes, then closed his lids. An instant later his assailant let go, jumping to his feet and out of the way of Ana’s makeshift weapon.
“Oh, so
you’ll
fight me now?” Alpin sneered, turning toward her. “Well, your Gael’s done for and my brother’s nowhere to be seen, so it’s just you and me, my dear. By all the gods, I’ve waited too long for this—” And as she swung the branch again he seized
the other end and tore it from her grasp.
Faolan, behind him, reached out for his knife. His knee would not take his weight; he could not get to his feet, and he would not be able to fight. The moment Alpin turned and saw him, he was dead meat. The knife was by his pack, close, so close … He could not reach it without sliding along the ground, making a noise … If Alpin heard him, if Alpin killed
him, Ana was lost.
Run,
he willed her.
Don’t try to fight, run. Find Drustan. Get away.
She ran. It had been a waking from too little sleep to sudden terror, and she stumbled. For a moment, Alpin stood with hands on hips, laughing at her, and then he set off in pursuit. Faolan rolled to his side; stretched out his arm. Just a little farther …
“You!” It was Drustan’s voice, the tone astounded, and Faolan, his fingers closing around the weapon at last, saw Drustan emerging between the trees, a sheaf of foliage in his hands, a bird now on each shoulder. He was staring at his brother as if struck by a dark revelation; as if looking into an abyss.
In the middle of the clearing, Alpin reached Ana, seizing her from behind, one arm around
her waist, the other across her neck. “Make one move, bird boy,” he said, “and I’ll snap her in half.”
“You …” Drustan was frozen, his expression that of a seer in a trance. “It’s the same as Drift Falls,” he breathed, “just the same … shouting … Erisa running … you after her …
I saw you …”
Abruptly, his eyes became focused, his expression ferocious, and his tone a war cry. “By all that’s holy,
it was a lie!
You
killed her. I saw you. Let Ana go! Let her go at once or I’ll strangle you with my bare hands, brother or no brother!”
“No you won’t,” Alpin said, backing away with Ana still captive in his arms. “You won’t kill me because, if I die, I’ll take her with me. As for Erisa, you’ll never prove that. Who’d take the word of a mad freak against mine? A delusion, that’s all it is.”
Drustan took a slow, deliberate step toward him, and another. His eyes, now, were deathly calm.
Back him up toward me,
Faolan willed him,
give me a clear target.
“You think I wouldn’t do it?” said Alpin. “I don’t want her as much as that, little brother. Not after the two of you have been there before me. If you come any closer I’ll just tighten my grip like
this—”
Drustan launched himself forward,
hurtling through the air with hands outstretched like talons.
A brother should not kill his brother. That stain sits too heavily on a man’s spirit. Faolan threw the knife. Before Drustan could touch him, Alpin crumpled to the ground, the weapon protruding from his back and Ana pinned beneath him. For one chill moment, Faolan thought his knife had pierced her body as well. Then Drustan rolled
his brother’s limp form over and, shakily, Ana got to her feet. There was a red stain on her gown.
“I’m all right,” she said before either of the men could speak. “Gods … How did he … He came from nowhere …” Then, clapping a hand over her mouth, she staggered to the clearing’s edge and retched up the contents of her stomach into the undergrowth.
“A clean kill,” Faolan said, managing to stand
and hobble forward, his knee on fire. “Better than he deserved. More merciful than he meted out to Deord. I must offer you both an apology. I fell asleep on watch. I have no excuse.”
Alpin’s eyes were open. Even in death, their baleful glare was disturbing. Drustan knelt and closed them, gently enough. “Any one of us would have killed him,” he said. “For Deord; for Ana; for Erisa …”
“What did
you mean?” Ana had returned, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. She looked wretched, sheet-white, with eyes like saucers. “About Drift Falls, and Erisa? You remembered at last? Did you say
he
was responsible?”
“He lied.” Drustan was still kneeling by his brother’s side, as if unsure what should come next. “All those years, he lied to save himself. When they called me”—he glanced at the two birds—“when
I came back and saw him running after you … it was the same, just the same … They argued, and she ran from him, and he pursued her … and then she fell. He did not intend murder. Even he would not wish to kill his unborn son. It was an accident. But his doing. His, not mine … Gods, to remember now, after all those years … He’s right. Who will believe me? There is no way to prove my innocence.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” Ana said. “Find the old woman, Bela. Hear her story. With Alpin gone, she may be prepared to tell it. Do that and folk will at least listen to you.”
“A remarkable tale,” said Faolan. “I’m sad Deord cannot hear it; he believed in you, Drustan. He said you could be something. This death”—he touched the body with the toe of his boot—“will make things still more complicated for
you.”
“What do we do now?” Ana asked shakily. “Go on? Go back?”
The two men looked at her.
“We bury him,” Faolan said. “Then we go on. You and I do, at any rate. Wild horses couldn’t drag me back to that place. Drustan’s choice is up to him.”
“I will accompany you to the coast, at least,” Drustan said. “For now, nothing changes. For the future, everything changes. It is too much to come to
terms with.” He had taken his brother’s lifeless hand in his. Faolan saw in his pose both love and disgust, relief and anguish.
“At such times,” Faolan said, “practical work is useful. I still need those herbs; my knee feels as if it’s about to split apart. Ana probably knows how to make a poultice. She was educated by wise women, after all. You and I must dig a grave. And Ana must rest before
we go on; indeed, we all should do so. You may wish to say prayers; to speak formal words of farewell. I don’t know. I don’t know if you are a man of faith.”
“I would have killed him,” Drustan said, getting up. “If you had not acted in that moment, my brother’s blood would be on my hands.” His odd, bright eyes were fixed, unwavering, on Faolan’s.
“Exactly. Be glad one of my trades is that of
assassin,” Faolan said.
“And I would have killed him.” Ana’s voice held both horror and a certain pride. “If I had been a little stronger … We’re all responsible for this. I think we must bury him, say a prayer, and be on our way. A tale might be told later, at Briar Wood, of our discovering his body in the forest. Folk suffer mishaps in these parts all the time.”
Faolan was astonished at her
coolness, her presence of mind. “This journey has surely changed you,” he said. “You’re suggesting Drustan lie about it?”
“Not exactly,” said Ana, putting her hand on Drustan’s shoulder. “There are times when not all of the truth need be told. Times when it’s best to get on and let certain things go. If Alpin had followed that advice he would still be alive.” She shivered. “You don’t think he
has others with him, do you? A hunting party, so far from Briar Wood?”
“One would have thought that likely,” said Faolan. “But it seems not, or they’d be here, surely. All the same, your advice is sound. We’d best get this done and move on.”
After that, little was said. Drustan dug out a shallow grave; Ana and Faolan collected stones. If prayers were spoken over the fallen man, it was done in
silence. Then Faolan submitted to the application of herbal poultices for knee and shoulder. Later, Drustan said, he would brew a draught as well, to stave off fever and allow Faolan to rest. Not now. They no longer wished to stay in this place.
They did not walk much farther that day. It was clear to Faolan that he was holding them back, and he gritted his teeth and did his best to maintain
a steady pace, with limited success. When they had reached the far side of the woodland, where an open valley lay before them and rocks provided shelter from the wind, they halted. Drustan made fire and, true to his word, brewed a herbal concoction of bitter taste and muddy appearance. He stood over Faolan until it was all gone.
As drowsiness crept over him, mingling with the dizzy, hot feeling
in his head, Faolan wondered what Drustan’s choice would be: let Ana go hungry, or reveal his other form so he could hunt and provide for her. Before there was a chance to find out, Bridei’s right-hand man sank into sleep.
THE NEXT DAY the sun shone, the clouds vanished, and the travelers made their way down into the valley. Drustan seemed tireless. The herbal remedies had eased Faolan’s
discomfort, and he could walk more freely. All the same, today he would almost have welcomed the pain; anything to distract him from the sight of Drustan and Ana together. He watched them as the day wore on and they came to a sheltered stretch of lakeshore, where sunlight bathed the pale trunks and glinting foliage of birches and spread its warmth over the silvery water like a blessing. With
every step they took, it seemed to Faolan that the distance between himself and the two of them increased, a distance not to be measured in strides or steps, but in something far less tangible. Drustan and Ana were walking in a different world from his, a world in which everything was good and joyful and easy to understand. They did not talk much; they did not walk hand in hand; they did not embrace.
It was the smallest things that spoke to him: the not-quite-accidental brushing of fingers together, the brief touch of bodies in passing, the way Drustan’s hands lingered at Ana’s waist as he helped her down a steep drop. The color in their cheeks and the brightness in their eyes. Their drowning glances.
Once or twice they did move on ahead of him, for his leg was still slowing him down. Crossbill
and hoodie stayed close to Faolan. He wondered if, when Drustan was not keeping an eye on him, these two were bound to perform that duty. It was a good thing, Faolan conceded. Despite the dark jealousy Drustan aroused in him, accepting the fellow’s help was a lot better than being left behind for the wolves.
Late in the afternoon, Drustan and Ana went ahead along the shore to look for a place
to camp, for Drustan had suggested they stop their day’s walk early and rest. It was evidently plain to him that Faolan could not manage much more. It was a bitter feeling to become the weak link. Faolan hoped his wounds would mend quickly. He was still Bridei’s emissary. It was bad enough to be returning to White Hill with news of a mission turned to disaster. He would rather not be carried in burning
with fever and owing his survival to this eldritch bird-man, this creature who was even now taking Ana away from him, step by inevitable step. No, that was foolish. She could never have been his. He was a Gael. He was an assassin, a man whose very existence relied upon his personal obscurity. He had destroyed his family; he had shattered all he held dear. And he was kin to the king of Dalriada.
Like it or not, he was an Uí Néill. It made an impressive list of reasons not to think of her the way he did. Unfortunately, the heart took no account at all of logic. The heart whispered that, when he had had the opportunity, he should have thrown that stone.
Faolan came around a stand of birches and saw the two of them by the water, close together but not touching. Both had taken off their
boots and were standing ankle deep, soaking weary feet. They had been talking, but they fell silent as he approached. He tried to minimize his limp.
“Look, Faolan,” Ana said, smiling, “along the lake, that way—there’s smoke rising. Drustan thinks there’s a little settlement there. We’ll be able to clean up your wounds and sleep under proper shelter. It’s been so long, I can hardly remember what
that feels like. Are you all right? Does it hurt badly?”
He shook his head, observing with wonder the change in her. Though gaunt and weary, her face was suffused with happiness and her eyes had regained all their old serenity. Even her stance was different, her back straight, her shoulders held proudly. It was Drustan who had worked that magic; Drustan who now stood by her side, a flush in
his cheeks and something of the same quiet radiance about his own bearing.
“Let’s rest here awhile,” Drustan said. “You should take the weight off that leg. I thought I saw some hazelnuts higher up; we could procure a meal of sorts.”
“As long as they are fit for men and not only for birds.”
“They are fit for men, Faolan. Would I try to poison you? You have been Ana’s friend, her guardian, her
lifeline. But for you, she and I would not be together. I honor you as a brother.”
Faolan was wordless. The weight of Dubhán’s death, and Alpin’s, and a lifetime of might-have-beens hung in the air between them, stilling his tongue. He looked across at Ana, who had settled herself on the grass of the lakeshore, the scarlet-feathered crossbill perched on her hand. She was stroking its head with
a finger and whistling softly. Her cropped hair, for all the lack of care, gleamed dark gold in the afternoon sunlight. She was cross-legged, her pale, bare feet showing below the long shirt Drustan had given her. There was a rosy color in her cheeks; her lashes screened her eyes as she turned her attention to the little bird.