Foxmask (13 page)

“Long Knife people dwell here on Isle of Storms, on Isle of Streams and East Island,” Einar said, sweeping a hand around. “A few further north. In the south, the others.”

“Others?”

“A scourge; an accursed race.” These words were spoken in a hushed undertone, as if even to name such a threat were perilous. “The Unspoken.”

Thorvald felt the hairs on his neck prickle. “They are—not human?” Stupid question; it was the sort of thing a girl would ask, not a man who had boldly declared himself a warrior not so long ago.

“I will not talk of this here,” Einar whispered. “Not safe. We are at war; there is no time for councils. Come on, we must go.”

Thorvald shouldered his pack and moved on in Einar's wake. The track was steep here, rising to skirt the slope above the lake; some distance ahead, it dropped again toward what seemed to be a small settlement. Sam walked up near the front of the line. Thorvald observed his friend was carrying Creidhe's bag as well as his own, and managing to keep up a lively conversation as he strode on. Thorvald's own legs ached, and his back still felt the strain of that last, desperate effort on the oars. His hands hurt, too, though a fellow
called Skolli had slathered them with some sort of evil-smelling grease last night, and it appeared to have helped a little. He fixed his mind ahead. Ruler of the Isles. The title seemed possible for a man who had once possessed a burning desire to be a king. He rehearsed what he might say, what questions he could ask. He considered what information he might offer. Not much: even his mother's name could give too much away. Perhaps he should play dumb, and hope Sam and Creidhe could hold their tongues when required. Perhaps he should let Somerled do the talking. If it was Somerled. Would he know? Was there something in the blood that called, this is my father, this is my son, some instant recognition that went beyond a voice, an appearance, matters of probability and logic? He shivered. Soon enough he might get his answer, and he might regret the wild impulse that had drawn him here. What if you sought out your father and found only a monster?

There was a sudden, sharp cry from one of the men behind and below him. The line came to an abrupt halt, strung out along the narrow pathway. Thorvald turned, and felt his heart leap to his throat. Creidhe had stepped off the track. She was standing on a tiny shelf that protruded from its outer edge, an uneven, slippery surface scarcely large enough for her two feet. She was gazing westward, seaward, her eyes fixed on that far-off, cloud-swathed island as if it had the power to draw her through the air toward it. The smallest move and she would plunge down the sheer hillside to be smashed on the protruding rocks, or swallowed by the lake waters far below. The man behind her was shouting in alarm; the one above her was running back. She reached out her arms, not for help but as if to fly, as if to embrace the very air separating her from the vision that held her, some wondrous thing nobody else could see. Thorvald knew she would fall the moment anyone touched her.

“No!” he called, his tone urgent but low, so as not to startle her. “No, not like that! Let me!” He began to edge down the track; the islanders pressed back to let him pass. His heart was hammering, his brow ran cold with sweat. He knew such trances, and the danger of breaking them abruptly. There were wise women in Creidhe's family, priestesses; one did not grow up as a neighbor of such folk without some understanding of the power of the seer and the havoc it could wreak. He made himself go carefully, suppressing the instinct to run. Behind him he could hear the sounds of Sam's descent—who else would be scrambling back down the path so fast, sending a shower of small stones over the edge?—though what Sam could do to help him he could not imagine.

“Stay back,” he hissed over his shoulder. Now he was quite near Creidhe,
moving slowly closer, making sure he did not let his shadow fall on her face, or frighten her with sudden movements, unexpected noises.

“Creidhe?” He kept his voice quiet, calm. “Creidhe? What do you see?”

Her face was turned away, eyes still rapt on that distant island. It seemed numinous, otherworldly, its slopes of gray-blue, dusky violet and moss-green rising gracefully from a wide expanse of mist-shrouded water. A shawl of white clung close about its upper reaches.

“What is it, Creidhe? What do you hear? Tell me. It's Thorvald. Tell me.”

He sidled closer, easing his feet silently across the rock. It would be so easy to get this wrong, to lunge and grab, to miss by a hairsbreadth; he could see her falling, the wide, terrified eyes, the bright hair like a banner, the wind snatching away her last scream. “Creidhe?”

Behind him, Sam had slid to a halt and now stood motionless. The other men had fallen silent. Even the gulls that had followed their path, circling and calling, had stilled their cries; it was as if the whole island held its breath.

“Creidhe?” Thorvald took another step forward. Now he was close enough to touch her, but he would not touch, not yet. He could see her eyes, wide and strange; perhaps a man could glimpse her vision in them, if he looked deep enough. Her cheeks were flushed; the wind had teased out strands of her fair hair from the cloth that swathed her head and tossed them across her brow. There was a kind of radiance in her features that terrified Thorvald; it was as if she belonged in another realm entirely, one that he could never reach. He saw her draw a deep, shuddering breath, and then another, and he saw the change in her face, the doubt and confusion suddenly overtaking the vision as she returned to herself. She put her hands up to cover her eyes and began a stumbling step forward. He moved then, quicker than he had known he could, seizing her around the waist and hauling her back to safety. He could feel her trembling; she was crying now, shielding her face with both hands as if, while she could not see what was before her, she might still return to whatever strange realm had captured her. Thorvald gripped her tightly by the arms; might she not simply walk away from him and over the edge if he let her go? The islanders had moved in closer, before, behind, silent no longer. The buzz of talk seemed to have a note of approval in it. Thorvald could think of easier ways to earn their acceptance.

“Creidhe! Wake up! Come on now!” He gave her a little shake; their position was still precarious, and now that the worst danger was over, he found sudden anger had replaced his terror. He swallowed the next words that came for, after all, they still had to get down to the settlement.

“That's enough, Creidhe. Wipe your face and get going. You're slowing us down.”

Shivering, she did as she was told, though a flood of tears was rolling down her cheeks. Thorvald could not tell if it was the vision, or the loss of it, that made her weep. Perhaps it was no more than artifice. Women did these things for their own reasons. “Come on,” he said, pushing her ahead of him along the path.

“Here.” Sam's voice sounded odd, gruff. “Take my hand. It's not much farther. So they say anyway. Lovely island, that. Wouldn't mind going there myself, taking a look.”

“Huh!” The exclamation came from a stocky, weathered-looking fellow with a bristling beard, who stood next to Sam. “Isle of Clouds? You won't be going that way in a hurry. Worst patch of water this side of the snow lands, between Council Fjord and that place. Fool's Tide, they call it. Lucky if you can get across once a year, at hunt time.”

“Really?” asked Sam, making a steady way along the path with the two bags on his back, and one arm stretched out behind him to clasp Creidhe's hand and guide her. “So it's uninhabited? Looks a fair sort of place. But strange.”

“It's strange all right. Home to freaks and sorcerers. They call that peak over there the Old Woman. Old Witch, more like. Nobody goes near the Isle of Clouds. It's forbidden even to the Unspoken. A death place; cursed.”

“Except at hunt time,” another man put in.

“That island gobbles up men,” said the first. “Chews them up and spits out the pieces. Keep your woman's eyes off that place; it's evil. We don't sail out that way.”

“Only at hunt time.”

“I see,” said Sam thoughtfully. “When is hunt time?”

But there was no answer. Einar had barked a stern command; his men fell silent, and they made their way slowly down the track till the slope flattened out at the lake's edge and a cluster of turf-roofed cottages came into view, squeezed together between a gushing stream and the rising, grass-clad hill. The western fjord with its view of the mysterious Isle of Clouds could not be seen from here. Creidhe walked now with her gaze on the path before her, following in Sam's steps. If she'd done that all the way, Thorvald thought grimly, she'd have saved them a lot of trouble. It was odd: she had never had visions before, not that he knew of. Indeed, it had always been Creidhe who was the practical, sensible one, busy with cooking or sewing while her older sister Eanna learned the ways of the spirit. Creidhe did not go into trances
and step off cliff paths as if she expected to take wing. He must hope it would not happen again, or she would be even more of a liability than he had imagined. His heart was still thumping, even now; he must be less fit than he had thought. And they were almost there. He must collect his thoughts; he must be ready.

“Remember,” he hissed to the others. “Remember what I said. Leave the talking to me.”

They were on level ground now, and the path was wide enough for two to walk side by side. Sam was supporting Creidhe with his arm; both turned their heads back toward him. Thorvald saw, to his surprise, that big, burly Sam was pale as a ghost. Creidhe's face was marked with the tracks of tears; she seemed exhausted and sad. They looked at him, then turned away, walking on. There had been something like reproach in their eyes. What was wrong with them? He'd saved Creidhe, hadn't he?

They entered the settlement, if that was the right name for such a ramshackle collection of tiny dwellings and narrow, twisting paths. Someone was ringing a bell from higher up the hill: a welcome, perhaps, for rare travelers. Why was it, then, that it seemed to him like a warning tocsin? Thorvald gritted his teeth. This place was getting to him, and he must not allow that. He was leader of this expedition, and a leader must be strong. He squared his shoulders and held his head high, addressing the men who had brought them here. He made his voice firm and confident: not a plea, but a challenge.

“Take me to this Ruler of the Isles,” he said. “I would speak with him.”

It was not quite so easy, for it transpired one did not seek out this potentate but waited for him to arrive in his own time. In due course, their escort told them, they would be sent for. Meanwhile there would be a place to rest, and food. The girl would go elsewhere; it was not appropriate she be housed with them. Briefly, Sam and Thorvald protested. Creidhe was not well, she needed her friends close by, they were responsible for her safety. As for Creidhe herself, she was unusually silent, clutching her bag with both hands. Her eyes were oddly vague, as if the last shreds of her vision still lingered there. At length a couple of women appeared, and Thorvald, reassured by their practical, down-to-earth look, allowed them to lead Creidhe away to one of the little houses. It was one less thing to think about.

The two men were led to a building somewhat larger and better maintained than the others. They waited in a small anteroom. Islanders stood casually at either door, but whether to prevent others from entering or the new arrivals from departing, there was no telling. An attempt to engage these men in conversation proved fruitless. All Thorvald discovered was their
names: the man with the bristling beard was Orm; the other, younger fellow, Svein. Food was brought: a blood sausage, rich and dark, and a dish of eggs. They ate gratefully. Water was provided; they'd have welcomed ale. Perhaps these folk were without the wherewithal for brewing, for it did not seem a promising terrain for crop yields. They waited longer, as the day wore on. There was plenty of time for thinking: too much time. In the end Sam stretched out on the floor, head pillowed on his bag, and fell asleep. He muttered from time to time, perhaps dreaming of storms. Thorvald knew his friend was anxious about the
Sea Dove
; it had been a wrench to leave her unguarded.

Dusk was falling when they were finally summoned. There had been good signs: water brought for washing, more dry clothes, a warm cloak apiece. All the same, Thorvald recalled the talk of fates being determined here. He must take control from the start; he must not forget that this was his own quest, to make of what he could. These islands were a proving ground. Here, he would find out who he was. Maybe his father was here, and maybe not. Perhaps Somerled was still the man he had been, ruthless, driven, cruel. Maybe he had changed. Could such a man change? Could he break free of that dark legacy and make himself anew? And if that were so, could not his son, too, strive to do well, to make his mark in the world, to find his true purpose and calling? Thorvald shivered. Possibly the truth he would discover might only confirm what he already suspected: that his father's blood was tainted, his spirit irretrievably steeped in evil. That this was the legacy he had passed down, an inescapable shadow, rendering Thorvald, too, incapable of fine deeds, of worthy thoughts. Still, at least he would know, one way or the other. He would know the truth.

“My greeting to you.” The man who stood in the lamplit chamber, waiting for them, was not surrounded by courtiers or warriors, nor by fishermen or folk of his household. He had just one guard by him, a very large man with shoulders like a bull's and small, alert eyes. Thorvald and Sam walked the length of the room, two islanders behind them. Thorvald noted the low roof, the small hearth, the lack of wall hangings. If this were the Ruler's domain, it was a poor thing indeed beside the grand council chambers and assembly halls of the Light Isles. As for the man himself, he was formidable enough. He regarded them levelly as they approached, his dark eyes assessing, his mouth a thin line, giving nothing away. He was of middle height, not strongly built but wiry and lithe-looking. He was the right age, or could be: the hair dark as a crow's wing, with a thread or two of gray at the temples, the right cheek marked with the same parallel scarring they had seen on the
other men, a five-line pattern drawn with neat precision. The robe he wore was not kingly, but of plain wool, its only trim a narrow, patterned border, lighter gray on darker. His hair was tied back with a strip of the same woven braid. The impression was austere. They halted a few paces away. The big guard shifted slightly, fingers moving on the haft of his axe.