Authors: Juliet Marillier
She used a trick her mother had taught her, breathing to a pattern, slowing her heartbeat, summoning strength of purpose and clarity of mind. She considered the situation as she marched on, with her grim captors maintaining their relentless, silent progress all around her. There was no point in screaming. Who would help her? They were all in this together, Long Knife people and Unspoken. She must make her way out of the trap alone and unaided.
It was a long walk, on top of the distance she had already traveled with Breccan from the hillside hermitage above Brightwater. Creidhe tried to keep track of where they were, knowing such knowledge would be vital if she
managed to escape, but the thick mist clung close in the air, blotting out all useful landmarks, and she had to resort to guesswork. She judged they had crossed a high pass and come back down toward the shore of the western fjord, if shore it could be called: steep cliffs fringed the narrow waterway for most of its length. Today the mist veiled that lovely isle to the west, the mystical, cloud-swathed realm that still called to her in her dreams. She could catch a glimpse of other, closer islands: a narrow, improbably steep one, and by it a squat, sturdy arch. Now they were coming down to a place across the fjord from those small isles, a place where there was a narrow strip of flat land by the water and a couple of crude cottages on the hillside above it. The small dwellings looked bleak, deserted. Her captors had begun to whisper among themselves; she could not make out the meaning. There was only one word she caught clearly, and that word was Asgrim. That did not surprise her. She had seen already that among the tall, disheveled figures of the Unspoken walked one who was not of their kind, one who was familiar to her from a morning at Brightwater, when the Ruler had come back in a hurry and Jofrid's small son had been laid in the cold ground. This hulking warrior was none other than Asgrim's personal bodyguard, and his presence here among the enemies of the Long Knife told her Niall's suspicions had been well founded. She wasn't being abducted. She was being traded: peace for Asgrim's tribe had been bought, and the price was her own future.
Unfortunately for the Ruler, Creidhe thought grimly, she had no intention of letting herself be anyone's captive for longer than was strictly necessary. She'd better come up with a plan soon, for she could see now that on the narrow strip of ground below them, perhaps the only landing place in all this sheltered waterway, lay a long, low boat of tarred skins over a wattle framework. Beside it more men of the Unspoken waited. Each was tall, lean and ghostly pale of visage. Each stood utterly still. It was a stillness that spoke of ancient things, of an identity that was part of the very bone of these stark islands, enduring and deep-rooted. A dark power seemed to emanate from them. They wore weapons: spears of bone, bows and quivers, short clubs. There was nothing made of iron. Their garb was of crudely cured skins over coarse wool, with here or there a tattered cloak, a strand of shells around the neck, a small bone threaded on a cord. The tight discipline of their mouths stood at odds with the hunger in their eyes, shadowed, feral eyes that returned, over and over, to Creidhe's own figure, well covered though it was by gown and cloak, boots and scarf. The wind had teased a lock of her hair from under its neat wrapping and it drifted, golden and fine, across her face. It was this, above all, that drew their gaze, and Creidhe saw in their mask-like faces
that disturbing blend of awed veneration and open desire. For a moment, terror and revulsion came close to overwhelming her. She must disregard that; she must not let fear paralyze her. Only weak people did that, and she was strong.
A plan, that was what she needed. Nothing immediate presented itself. The boat was being readied to depart under oars, with seven men to accompany herâsix to row and one to guard her, she supposed. Brother Niall had spoken of the Isle of Shadows, to the south. On the shore, the big bodyguard stood still, watching. His face might have been carved from a lump of stone, so little did it reveal as the wild men bundled her into the boat and settled her in the stern with one fellow seated beside her.
The options darted through Creidhe's mind, to be discarded each in its turn. Try to run for it: she wouldn't even get off the boat before they stopped her. Scream for help: a wasted effort, she knew that already. Probably every single one of the Long Knife people knew what was happening to her and welcomed it. Gudrun had known, and Helga, for all their smiles and their little gifts. She made an exception for Jofrid, a woman of surprising courage. That big guard had known even when he ran his eyes over her, back at the settlement. Niall and Colm were far away, beyond reach, and Breccan lay injured up in the mist somewhere. As for Thorvald and Sam, they seemed almost like ghosts from another life, so long it was since she had seen them. All the same, the moment seemed to call for some expression of what she felt.
“Shame on you!” Creidhe yelled at the bodyguard. “You're nothing but Asgrim's puppet, and Asgrim is not fit to hold the title of Ruler! How can you do this to me? I only came here by chance!”
The big warrior strode toward the boat. For a brief, heart-stopping moment she thought he was coming to help her, to make them let her go. Then he and several others set their hands to the prow, pushing with all their strength. The low craft ground over the shingle and out into the water. The men of the Unspoken clambered in over the sides and took up their oars. They turned the vessel expertly and began to row steadily out into deeper water.
One of her father's early lessons had been in keeping calm in difficult situations. Creidhe sat quietly awhile, listing in her mind what advantages she had. She was not tied up. They were not holding her, not anymore: now that they had her safely in the boat, they probably thought any restraints unnecessary. After all, apart from her initial struggle and brief outburst, she had appeared compliant. She had her bag on her back, and in her bag were some useful items, only getting to them unobserved was not possible. Unfortunately
there were seven of the Unspoken and there was only one of her, and now they were well off shore, and the small craft was bouncing and bucking in a distressingly familiar way, putting Creidhe sharply in mind of her arrival in these lonely isles.
The mist was dissipating now, and as she looked westward, she saw it in the moment the veil parted, rising like a distant, lovely vision: the Isle of Clouds, still wearing its shawl of clinging damp, still somehow calling, crying out to her,
Here! Here!
And that, of course, was the answer. That was the one place where they could not follow, the one realm they could not enter to fetch her back. There she would be safe from Long Knife people and Unspoken alike. In order to make a southerly course to their home islands, these boatmen must first row out of the fjord, close to those two small isles, the tall, jagged one and the squat archway. They must skirt the edges of the Fool's Tide.
Very well; she would forget, for now, what she'd heard about the body of water separating that western island from the Isle of Storms; she would forget that no fisherman who valued his life went out that way, winter or summer. She would not dwell on the probability that the water would be freezing cold, save to ensure that her plan kept her in it for as short a time as possible. She would not think of sharks or sea serpents, nor of currents that might drag one down to the depths or sweep one away beyond the intended destination and over the rim of the world.
She watched the sea. Gudrun's brother had been drowned in the Fool's Tide, just one of many men of the islands lost to its fickle currents, its capricious gusts of wind and sudden, sucking whirlpools. She watched the rowers, observing how they struggled to maintain a straight course. Even here, on the far rim of the sea path between the fjord and the Isle of Clouds, the current still drew them hard to the west, as if the Fool's Tide were demanding a tribute, warning them that they were close enough for a toll to be exacted. She blessed the childhood summers in the Light Isles, when she had played in the lake waters with Eanna and Thorvald and learned to swim. Never mind that the lake waters had been warm and sheltered. She could do this. She had no choice.
Behind them, the landing place had shrunk to a smudge at the foot of the steep, rock-layered cliffs. The small figure of Asgrim's guard could be discerned on the shore, gazing after them. The boat was level with the tall, narrow islet; the crew were attempting to change their course, skirting the western margin of that island and making for the south. Out of the corner of her eye, Creidhe watched the movement of the oars. She sensed the pull of
the current, recognizing the same tug, the same insistence she had felt as Thorvald and Sam had labored to bring the
Sea Dove
safely to shore against impossible odds. Had she been a wise woman steeped in ancient lore, as her sister was, she could have sought help from the powers beneath the surface, the Seal Tribe perhaps, for no doubt even here they had their dwelling places under the waves, and might come to the call of a priestess in time of direst need. Lacking those special skills, Creidhe made use of what she had. She judged her moment finely, waiting until the swell picked up and the men of the Unspoken were fighting hard against that strange current. One of them spoke harshly, snapping an order, and for just a moment the fellow who sat beside her was distracted. Creidhe stood up; the light-fashioned boat rocked violently. The men shouted; her guard sprang to his feet, grabbing for her arm as the vessel tilted in the swell. He was too late. Snatching a breath, Creidhe jumped.
The sea's touch was like a hard clamp around the chest, squeezing out the air; it was only after she struggled to the surface, gasping for breath, that she realized how cold it was. Already the current had carried her some distance away; now the tribesmen of the Unspoken were ignoring the danger and turning the boat to row hard after her. The vessel drew closer; Creidhe sucked in another desperate breath and dived, trusting the ocean to hide her, to carry her beyond her pursuers' reach. By all the powers, this was a chill beyond any she had known before; no wonder so many had been lost in these waters. She held her breath as long as she could. Her skirts were dragging her down; she fought to shed the sheepskin boots. Her bag, not to be discarded, was like a leaden weight on her back. Again she sought the surface, coughing, choking, her hair plastered over her face. The boat was close by, and they gazed this way, that way, oars held poised, eyes ferocious: such a loss would be bitter indeed for the Unspoken, and more bitter still for Asgrim's people. Her strength was already flagging; she could not keep this up for long. The current that carried her westward was pulling pursuit after her; that was not the way she had intended it to be. They still hadn't seen her, though they were very close now, the blade of that first oar almost within reach of her hands . . .
The water swirled, a gust of wind shivered the surface. Creidhe reached up and, grasping the oar shaft, tugged with all her might. Taken by surprise, the oarsman let go, and the length of pine tumbled into the sea. There was a shout, followed by a general movement to the side of the craft, which listed perilously. Clutching the oar, Creidhe gritted her teeth and gave herself up to the current, and the Fool's Tide bore her away. Looking back, she watched
what unfolded through scarce-believing eyes, for it had the quality of some ancient tale of nightmare deeds and monstrous consequences. A wave arose: not a big wave at all, quite a moderate swell of water, but moving as if guided by an inexorable will. The sky darkened; the wind began to howl. The water lifted the boat, slowly turned it and tipped it gently over, and the tribesmen of the Unspoken were cast out into the ocean. Creidhe did not see what happened to them after that. Maybe they drowned; certainly, they disappeared from view almost instantly. Maybe they swam toward the shore, but if they did, there was no sign of them. All she knew for a time was the thudding of her heart, the rasp of her breathing, the weight of her clothing pulling her down, the fierce pain in arms and hands as she clutched at the oar, desperate for its aid to keep her afloat long enough. The water pulled strongly now, its westward current moving her in a kind of helpless dance; here a circle widdershins, here a circle sunwise, here an arc, a loop, a spiral, as the shadowy form of the Isle of Clouds drew gradually nearer, and her body grew colder and colder, and her mind clouded and wavered, refusing to obey her will. She chanted to herself, over and over, a charm of survival:
I won't die, I won't die
.
As the numb feeling spread through her arms and crept up her legs, so that she could not kick anymore, she recalled what Nessa had said after Kinart died. Creidhe had been very small herself, not quite four years old, but she remembered. Kinart had drowned: a simple matter of wandering off and not being found until it was too late. It was an accident, folk said. But Nessa was sure the Seal Tribe took her little son as the price for a favor they had once done her. If that were true, Creidhe wondered what it was she was paying for now. Her own foolishness, perhaps, in thinking her presence on this cursed voyage could have been of any assistance to Thorvald at all. Thorvald . . . she would never see him again, nor her parents, nor her sisters . . . she would never go home . . . byalltheancestors, shewascold . . . maybeitwouldbe easier simply to let go, for this was really starting to hurt quite a lot, and nobody knew where she was, and all she wanted to do was sleep . . . easy really . . . just let go . . .
Something loomed up beside her. Her heart contracted; she was suddenly, sharply awake, anticipating any moment the rending bite of some voracious sea creature. But no: what lay in the water by her was a familiar construction of wattles and hide, floating upside down, buoyed by trapped air and festooned with a network of tangled cords. The boat floated alone; no men, dead or alive, clung to its hull or lay twined in its ropes. None could be seen in any direction on this wide sea. Now the shore she had left seemed more distant than the graceful, cloud-capped shape of the isle to which she journeyed.