“You speak in riddles,” said Tharan. “How can this man help us? He’s
a stranger. He’s Caitt; he’s the brother of a man it seems may have been in league with Dalriada. How could we trust him, even assuming he can do the impossible?”
Faolan did not answer.
“Faolan?” Tuala ventured. “Time is short. What should we do?”
“I will speak to them.” His tone was reluctant, his gaze averted. “If they want to help, it is for Ana and Drustan to explain to you; to tell their
story. He can reach Bridei in time. Whether we should lay this task on him is another matter.”
THEY WAITED ONLY until daybreak. Drustan, reticent and nervous now that he was among strangers, did not wish to effect his transformation in public. Ana herself had observed it for the first time only a day or so since, and it had been evident to her that he still saw his ability as both gift
and burden, something that would always mark him out as different, odd, and, for some folk, threatening. She had thought it wondrous and beautiful to watch. When he had made love to her, she had sensed his dual nature in the vibrant power of his body, the feather-soft touch of his hands, the fluid, restless elation that possessed him afterward. The energy of their coming together had been such
that, at dawn the morning after, he had been compelled to enter his other world, to become his other self a while, and she had marveled at the sight of the tall man standing in a clearing, arms outstretched in a pose like that of prayer, bright eyes open to earth and tree and pale sky, and then, in a whirl of sudden movement, the hawk soaring upward to the endless expanse of blue. He had come back
to her in that other form; she had gentled him with her voice, with her soft hand, and had borne him home on her glove with such pride and awe and tenderness that her heart had no room for misgiving.
Now, bidding him farewell in the privacy of a little courtyard at White Hill, she wrapped her arms around him, willing herself to believe this was not the last time. She made her voice as strong
as she could. “Fly safe, my heart. Fly true, and find him. I’ll be here waiting.”
Drustan’s lips were against her hair. He said nothing at all, his body already moving toward that state where he would have the energy, the capacity for the transformation. He held her a moment, then released her and moved away. Ana watched in silence as he turned once, twice, the edge of the rising sun drawing
fire from his tawny hair; watched as the wide pinions of the bird swept out and up, and a single bright feather drifted down to settle on the flagstones by her feet. He wheeled above the summit of White Hill and winged away southwestward toward Dalriada. In the time it took for Ana to stoop and pick up the red-gold plume, and for hoodie and crossbill to appear from nowhere to alight, one and two,
on her shoulders, Drustan was gone from sight.
Ana stood in the courtyard, reluctant to retreat inside for all the chill of the early morning. She knew Drustan’s unease with this mission; sensed its cause, although he would not speak of it. He was only a messenger. All the same, he was flying into the middle of a war, to find a man who might be fighting for his life. And there had been something
more, a look in his eye as they described the assailant to him. She did not know what it was, but she knew he was no fighting man, for all the skills Deord had taught him. Drustan had no will for vengeance or punishment. All he wanted was wife, home, freedom.
She could not make herself go indoors. If she were here where she had seen him, held him, spoken her farewell, then the distance to Dalriada
would not seem so long, nor the many dangers that lay between White Hill and the battlefields of the west so insurmountable. A bird was such a fragile thing, a miracle of bone and feather and quickbeating heart. Even a great hunter such as an eagle or hawk was vulnerable to storm, to cold, to an arrow or hurled stone. Besides, he had not only to fly that long distance, but to find Bridei when
he got there; find him in the midst of a land in conflict, dotted with encampments of warriors. Perhaps he would need to find him in the turmoil of battle. Bridei was king. Bridei, however, wore none of the trappings of his status into war. How would Drustan know where he was? How would he identify who he was? This was indeed a desperate mission. No wonder Faolan had been so reluctant to put it
to them.
Drustan had listened calmly as Tuala gave the most detailed description she could of time, place, the king’s appearance and that of his would-be assassin. He had asked questions about the young Caitt warrior, such as the style of his hair and the color of his eyes—a pale, unusual blue—and had simply said yes, he would do it. He would warn Bridei.
Ana knew why he had agreed without hesitation,
for all the risk. Perhaps there was a general wish to aid them, to repay Ana and Faolan for their friendship and trust. The other reason was more powerful, and could only be put into words when the deed was done. To speak of it too early seemed to mock the gods. But Ana had seen it in Drustan’s eyes, in that glance that went straight to her face the moment Faolan told them what Tuala and
the others wanted. Drustan was doing this for his own future, and Ana’s. He hadn’t wanted to reveal the full truth about himself so soon after reaching White Hill. When it came to it, there had been no choice.
Now he was gone, and the sun was rising, and as the day grew gold and bright, shadows crept into Ana’s heart. Perhaps she had presumed too much, wanted too much. Had her sudden decision
to abandon duty set the gods against her? Perhaps, this very day, Bone Mother would rob her of her wondrous gift, her great adventure, the vibrant creature with the power to fill her every breath with happiness. Ana did not think, if it came to it, she would have the capacity to be stoical. If she lost him, her world would turn to ashes.
“You’re sad.” Faolan had come up the stone steps to the
upper court; she knew he had been waiting below, watching Drustan go, keeping back so the two of them could say their farewells. “He will be safe. He’s strong.”
“I hope so, Faolan. And I hope he will be able to warn Bridei in time. I wonder if our lives will always be like this: a moment of safety, then suddenly plunged into terror again, the gods testing us and testing us.”
“Maybe,” he said,
coming to stand by her and look down over the dark pines that clothed the hillside below. For all the brilliance of the morning, there was a chill breeze; the year would soon turn to the dark. “For me, that has long been the expected pattern. I hope your own path will be smoother. The two of you have challenges to face before that can come about. It won’t be easy for Drustan to regain his lost territories.”
“As you said, he’s strong. And we can afford a little time for him to recover and to come to terms with all these changes. I don’t think we will stay here at court, Faolan. We’ll seek a home elsewhere until he’s ready to go back. I’ve already asked Tuala, if Broichan would let us stay at Pitnochie in his absence. Drustan is not comfortable in enclosed spaces, nor among large gatherings of folk.
It’s possible that may never change.”
There was a pause.
“You would not leave court because of me, I hope,” Faolan said.
“My reasons are all good ones, based on love,” said Ana, laying a hand on his arm. “Please don’t go yet, Faolan. Bridei’s in such danger. If he is killed, everything will change here; it will change for all of us. You’re badly needed. Your strength means a great deal to
Tuala. And if Bridei comes home safely, he will expect you to be here waiting. He relies on you. You know how few true friends he has.” She could hear the wobble in her voice; her throat was constricted. She did not look up, but felt the weight of his gaze on her.
“At such a moment you concern yourself with me?” Faolan’s tone was both incredulous and tender. Ana could no longer stop the flow
of her tears, and after a little she felt his arms come around her, and she laid her head on his shoulder and wept. And whether he embraced her like a friend, or a brother, or like a lover who understands this is the one and only time he will ever hold his heart’s delight so close, was a thing she never told anyone, not for the rest of her life. When she had shed her tears, Faolan wiped her cheeks
with his hand, his eyes on hers, and she sensed he was drinking his fill, storing up memories to sustain him in lonely seasons to come.
“I …” he began, and halted, his mouth twisting in a grimace.
“Shh,” Ana said, touching his lips with her fingers. “Don’t say it. I know already. Now I’m going inside. It’s getting cold, and Tuala’s been down in the garden keeping an eye on us since before Drustan
left. Just don’t go away right now. Just wait a little and think about it. Promise me, Faolan. At least stay until we know they are safe, Bridei and Drustan.”
He gave a crooked smile. “I find myself unable to refuse you,” he said. “I will stay at White Hill until Bridei gives me leave to go. That much I promise.” And he lifted her hand, but did not kiss it, simply held it against his cheek a
moment, then released her and stepped away. Ana knew she would remember his expression forever: the mouth drolly self-mocking, the eyes desolate.
“Ana! Faolan!” Tuala’s voice came up the steps, carefully light, though she of all of them had most at hazard in this testing time. “I thought we might have an early breakfast in the garden; will you join me? With Derelei gone, I just can’t get used
to the quiet.” It was a brave attempt at calm; Ana saw through it immediately. Tuala was desperately worried, and feeling very alone.
“Of course,” Ana said, descending the steps to link her arm through her friend’s. “Drustan is on his way; we must wait now until news comes back to us. Faolan and I have more to tell you. Yesterday’s account was just the first taste of it. I’m afraid you will be
quite shocked at me, Tuala. I went away one person and have returned an entirely different one.”
Tuala and Faolan exchanged a glance. Ana could not quite read it.
“That’s not the way I’d put it, Ana,” Tuala said quietly. “It seems to me more that you have discovered who you are.”
“We are all changed,” Faolan said. “Forged in the fire; stripped bare and made anew. Our sinews stretched into harp
strings, our hearts made beating drums. Fate plays a different tune on each of us. Love, loss, betrayal, fulfilment.”
Tuala’s eyes widened. “You speak like a bard, Faolan,” she observed.
“We are all stronger for what we have been through,” Ana said. “Now we must pray that Drustan is strong enough for this journey, and that the gods still smile on Bridei.”
So they went down to the garden, the
three of them, and the long time of waiting began.
THE ARMY OF Fortriu moved on the Gaels at dawn. Gabhran’s forces were massed along the southern flank of a wide strath down which flowed a stream of considerable size, broad, stony, and swift but for the most part no more than knee deep. It was inevitable that this watercourse would see the heaviest action. Bridei’s men had moved up
in darkness and at first light they began a frontal assault: a mounted charge, a quick withdrawal, then a steady onslaught by men on foot, holding the pike-block formation. The opposition, who had still been scrambling into defensive positions when the line of spear-wielding riders had galloped toward their encampment, suffered heavy losses in that first attack. The pike-block assault that followed
was disciplined and deadly, the front rank with shields held in a solid defensive wall, the thrusting spears of the second rank jutting over the shoulders of the first like the prickles of a hedgehog, and the third rank equipped with throwing spears to hurl over this formidable barrier into the mass of enemy foot soldiers.
Carnach and Bridei, seated side by side on their horses and breathing
hard after that first heady charge and retreat, watched the triple line of men make a steady progress forward, the roar of their challenge, “Fortriu! Fortriu!,” punctuated by the purposeful tramp of booted feet, the splintering crunch of iron spear on wooden shield, the whirr and thud of Gaelic arrows loosed too late to turn this relentless tide.
Hargest had ridden at the king’s side, along with
Cinioch, and dispatched his first Gael with an efficient sweep of the sword. The mounted charge over, Cinioch had gone to change places with Enfret, down where Carnach’s horsemen were regrouping. Hargest waited now, every part of him tense with battle fever, while Bridei and Carnach surveyed their progress and reviewed their strategy. The Gaels were re-forming up the rise near their camp. They
had not been caught unprepared. The Priteni advance had simply come somewhat earlier in the day than they anticipated. It would not be long before they gathered themselves into a spirited defense. Their numbers were substantial.
“At a certain point we let them push us back to the river,” Carnach was saying. “Still agreed? Our men should advance no farther than the stone wall up there or they
risk being trapped, that’s if Gabhran’s chieftains know what they’re doing. We must give the Gaels the advantage, lure them forward.”
“But not too readily,” said Bridei, his eyes on a particular point where a banner had been raised, perhaps that of the king of Dalriada. “It must look convincing. This could take a while, Carnach.”
“We’ll weather it.” The chieftain of Thorn Bend threw a glance
Hargest’s way. “Guard the king well, boy. This will be ugly before the morning is over.”
“I know what I’m doing!” Hargest snapped.