Foxmask (19 page)

Creidhe struggled to comprehend, her head dizzy from lack of sleep. “An item of great value? What sort of item? Treasure? Weaponry? A talisman of some sort?”

Niall gave his thin-lipped smile. “The last is closest to the truth. The Unspoken lost the very core of their faith: their lodestone, their key to wisdom. They lost what can keep their wild powers in check. It was Asgrim's kin took it from them and placed it beyond anyone's reach, though not with Asgrim's blessing. Now his folk are bound to this, until they find a solution.”

“Why didn't they tell me? Why wouldn't they explain anything?”

Niall's eyes narrowed. “I've a theory on that; it's something I must discuss with you, but not here where others might hear us.” The sounds of Gudrun tending to her stock could still be heard. “A knowledge of the true
situation, I suspect, would not have changed your actions in the slightest. Am I right?”

Creidhe felt her cheeks flush. “You think me a fool,” she said, chastened.

“Foolish in your courage, perhaps.”

“You mentioned a solution. The Ruler spoke of war. That worries me. My friends have gone away with him. They are not warriors; one is a fisherman, the other a—a scholar, I suppose you'd call him. What war? Do Asgrim's people fight against these Unspoken, the ones who can wield such terrible magic? What chance have ordinary men against such evil charms?” The thought of Thorvald in battle was bad enough; Thorvald at the mercy of some kind of demon was unthinkable.

“Evil? It's all relative.” Niall gave a little frown. “Asgrim should open his mind to the possibilities, expand his view a little. He spends a great deal of time sharpening his men's skills for the hunt. He makes no effort to investigate alternatives, to find another way.”

“The hunt: they speak of it often, yet they tell nothing. What is it they hunt?”

He widened his coal-dark eyes at her, raising his brows. “Asgrim's folk hunt what was lost and cannot be found, yet must be, if they are to survive. They seek that which the Unspoken desire yet cannot reach, since the island is forbidden to them. Their—what was the word you used? Their talisman.”

“Oh.” She tried to imagine what this might be: a stone, a jewel, a sacred bone in the shape of an animal. “So, it is more of a—a treasure hunt, than the tracking and killing of animals? I thought—”

He smiled; it was an expression quite without mirth. “Both,” he said. “Two in one.”

There was a rustling, the creak of the half-door from the back of the cottage. Gudrun was returning.

“I really should be going,” Brother Niall said, rising easily to his feet. He had shown no signs of weariness. “There's no point in flagellating yourself. One cannot stop the inevitable. These folk have brought it on themselves.”

Creidhe was shocked. “That is a strange view for a Christian priest,” she could not help saying to him.

“You think?” He was putting on his long cloak; it had not dried much and hung about him heavy and dark. “Creidhe?” His voice dropped suddenly to a whisper. “We must speak privately in the morning. It may not be safe for you here. You should consider—” He broke off; Gudrun was back, yawning widely as she moved to damp down the fire. “I'll bid you goodnight, then,” the hermit said smoothly, making for the door. “I might look in tomorrow
early, before we set out for home. These are sorry times, Gudrun.” And with that, he was gone.

Dark thoughts kept Creidhe wide-eyed and wakeful until the first traces of dawn were creeping into Gudrun's cottage, and then, abruptly, exhaustion won the battle and she slept. She had intended to be up early, walking the length of the settlement according to her usual pattern. She had hoped to catch the hermit alone, out of doors; his words of warning had worried her. Besides, it was sheer relief to be able to conduct a conversation that made sense, even if Brother Niall's comments sometimes cut a little close to the bone. As it was, a web of troubled dreams held her fast until much later, when she was aroused by the sound of angry voices. She rose quickly, donned her overdress, slipped on her shoes and tidied her hair as best she could in the darkened sleeping quarters. She was alone there: Gudrun's voice was one of those she could hear from the outer chamber. Creidhe made to walk out, then froze where she stood, hearing what they were saying.

“I should have banished you from the isles long since!” This voice was sternly authoritative: Asgrim was back, too late for the child, but returned nonetheless and, from the sound of it, furiously angry. “You're a pack of ignorant fools. What did you hope to achieve here? I made it clear Brightwater is forbidden to you, yet you walk straight in here regardless, spouting your foolish doctrines of tolerance and forbearance. What good could that possibly be to Jofrid, or to any of us? Has a single one of the Long Knife people turned to your holy cross in all the years you've clung on here like an irksome parasite? Last night's episode merely serves as another illustration of what we've all long known: your prayers are entirely powerless. Our enemy still harries us, and another child succumbs even as you mouth your meaningless litanies. As for you, you should have known better. There are rules, and rules are to be obeyed unless we are to sink into total lawlessness. It's for your own protection.”

“The girl persuaded us.” Creidhe barely recognized Gudrun's voice, it was so subdued. The woman sounded almost frightened.

“The girl?” Asgrim's tone was scathing. “How could she influence such a choice? Her part in this is already mapped. You know what is right; you know the way this unfolds.”

“Since we knew you could not take action in time,” Gudrun said, “there seemed no harm in a prayer or two, for Jofrid's sake.”

“Rules, Gudrun,” Asgrim chided. “None of us can afford to weaken on this.”

“It won't happen again,” said Gudrun.

There was a polite cough. “To the matter in hand.” This voice was calm and measured: Brother Niall's. A wave of relief flooded through Creidhe, and she stepped out from the sleeping quarters. They were standing, the three of them, Asgrim still in heavy outdoor cloak and muddy boots, with a knife at his belt, Gudrun by the fire, the hermit caped and tranquil near the door, ready for travel. There was no sign of Brother Breccan or the youth, Colm. Surely the Ruler had not come here alone. He must have brought a few men with him. Perhaps . . .

“Thorvald and Sam,” she burst out, “are they here? Have they come back?” Home; she could go home, and the nightmare would be over. Brother Niall was regarding her somewhat quizzically; she realized she had forgotten her manners.

“I'm sorry.” Creidhe addressed the hermit. “I overslept. Are you leaving now?”

“Ah,” said Asgrim before Niall could reply. “Creidhe. I'm told you did your best to help in the sad events of last night. We're indebted to you. I'm afraid I've come alone, but for Skapti, my guard. Your young men are much occupied. Brother Niall was just going. Then, I think some breakfast would do us good.”

Gudrun turned her back and began purposefully clanking pots and pans.

“Don't let us keep you,
Brother
.” There was ice in Asgrim's voice.

“Ah.” Niall's tone was an echo of the other's. “We have a little unfinished business; I don't recall your responding to my suggestion, save by losing your temper. I find silent meditation an excellent aid to self-control. You should try it some ti—”

“Enough!” Asgrim thundered. Platters rattled on the table. “Leave now! Your suggestion does not deserve an answer, it is patently ridiculous. A young unwed girl, alone up on that hilltop in a household of men? Sheer lunacy!”

“We are sworn to celibacy, every one of us,” Niall said mildly. “Creidhe's safety would be assured in the hermitage, far more so than it can be here. What about last night? Such visitations do not cross our own threshold. You should at least give your young guest the choice.” He was looking straight at Creidhe, trying to convey some message with those cryptic, dark eyes.

“Oh,” she said, taken aback. “Oh—could I go there?” This was a reprieve from imprisonment: no more strange silences, no more eerie manifestations, no more glum Gudrun and grim Frida. Best of all, there would be folk she could talk to, honest, good men in the mold of the brothers of Holy Island.
“I don't mean to sound ungrateful,” she said to Asgrim, “but I would like that. Just until Thorvald and Sam come back. I will go, I think; thank you so much.” She gave the hermit a smile; he inclined his head courteously.

There was a quality in the ensuing silence that made her very uncomfortable indeed. Gudrun had ceased pretending to cook and now stood very still; Asgrim was drawing a deep breath.

“That's settled then,” said Brother Niall calmly. “I'll wait while you pack a bag. We live frugally, but you'll be warm and well fed. As you say, it's just until your friends return. This is much more suitable.” He set a hand to the door.

“I don't think so.” Asgrim was not shouting now: he held his voice very soft. “Creidhe,” he said, turning toward her and taking her hands in his, “would you not wish to be here in the settlement when your friends arrive? It can be only a day or two until their return. Why not stay with us a little longer? I'm sure Jofrid would like that; I'm told she has taken a fancy to you, and of course she will be in need of comfort after her sad loss.” He sighed. “Another fine boy; another future snatched away. Jofrid weeps without cease. Creidhe, I know you will not want to miss your friends' homecoming. They'll have so much to tell you.” He glanced at Gudrun.

“Asgrim's right,” Gudrun said. “Besides, you've helped us beyond what anyone would have expected; what happened wasn't your fault. You did your best. Let us repay that if we can. Stay a while longer; won't your menfolk be expecting to find you here?”

Creidhe had never heard her make such an extended speech before. “Oh,” she said. She thought of Thorvald's long journey back to Brightwater; she imagined his smile when he saw her again, safe and well. That, surely, was worth a day or two of waiting. And yet Brother Niall had said it wasn't safe here; what about those voices that brought death on the very heels of life? What if they came again? He had not had the chance to tell her what he meant. “I don't know. Will Thorvald and Sam really be here so soon?” It felt as if she'd been waiting forever.

“Undoubtedly, my dear,” Asgrim said, smiling. “I have this very night come from the encampment where they're staying. They speak of you often, and with affection. I'll take pleasure in relating their exploits over a little breakfast, if Gudrun hasn't forgotten how to cook, that is.”

“Creidhe should come with me,” Niall said firmly. “I am certain that is the best course. It isn't so very far, after all; I'm sure we—”

“Enough.” This time the Ruler's voice had an edge as sharp as a blade. “Let the girl wait for her sweetheart; she's been patient enough, don't you
think? Besides, there'll be plenty of time after they return for her to come up and visit your establishment if she chooses. The young men can accompany her: nothing improper in that. What do you say, Creidhe?”

“Please stay, Creidhe,” Gudrun said. “Jofrid needs you.” This was so unexpected, Creidhe could hardly summon a reply.

“I think you've outstayed your welcome, Brother Niall,” said Asgrim, and at that moment the door opened to reveal a very large man clad in garments of leather and armed with a thrusting-spear. “Good-bye, Brother Niall,” the Ruler added.

“I'm sorry.” Creidhe found her voice. “I would have liked to come; I would have liked to talk to you and the others. But I must be here when Thorvald and Sam get back; that's what they'll be expecting.”

Brother Niall nodded. He seemed quite unperturbed by the fierce-looking giant at his back and the grim glare of the Ruler. “Remember,” he told Creidhe quietly, “we're there if you need us. Our door is always open. Just take the track up the eastern side of the valley and you'll find us. Good day to you, Gudrun.” The white-haired man turned and went out; the big guard stepped back to let him by. Beyond him, Creidhe glimpsed Brother Breccan and young Colm waiting on the path. The rain had abated to a fine drizzle. She turned back to the Ruler.

“Tell me,” she said eagerly. “Tell me about Thorvald and Sam.”

On the Isle of Clouds, the rain came in a cool, refreshing whisper, blanketing the slopes, silvering the grasses and setting small birds chattering. Keeper stood on the eastern hillside with Small One at his heels, looking across to the Isle of Storms. His eyes were keen: small boats hugged the far shore, driven hard before the gale as they made their way in from fishing. Smoke came sideways from the shelter at Council Fjord. Gulls screamed above Dragon Isle, competing for the best spots. Here on the island, the birds had no need to war thus. Here, they understood him, and he them. They gave him what was necessary to keep Small One alive: a few eggs, carefully chosen; their own bodies, taken gently, with love. There was a way to do the killing, a right way, with soft, strong hands and words of respect for the sacrifice made. Men were different. They came in anger, came where they did not belong. When he killed a man, he saw no reason for mercy.

Later, Small One stirred in his sleep, whimpering. Keeper did not sleep. He sat by the remnants of the cooking fire, still glowing red in its stone-lined pit, and listened to the voices. There was a storm over Council Fjord, but his
ears were a hunter's, finely tuned. This song carried far and deep, threading through the turmoil of gale and deluge. He laid his hand over Small One's ear where it showed above the threadbare blanket. His other hand went to his own neck, touching the ornament he wore, a narrow circle of plaited hair, once brightest gold, now soiled and faded to no color, but strong: the strongest part of him.
Sula
. Her name was a talisman to keep them safe. The voices keened on the wind, ebbed and flowed with the waves, sobbed their bereavement deep inside him. He would not heed them.
Sula, I keep my promise still. I am true
.