Authors: Juliet Marillier
Thorvald stepped out of the hut. The fellow still lay motionless with the little dog standing anxiously by. Sam was wrapping Creidhe in his cloak. The expression on his face made Thorvald uneasy, for it was the look of a man who has made a decision and has no intention of having his mind changed for him.
Thorvald knelt by the fallen warrior, knife in hand. This would be instant: a simple drawing of blade across throat, and he would be avenged for Creidhe, for Hogni, for Svein and Alof and Helgi, for all of Asgrim's men who had died in the long years of the hunt. Easy: quick. The little dog whined again, staring at him with its odd, deep eyes in the neat, triangular face. By Thor's hammer, it was like no dog he had ever seen in his life, nor like a cat, nor yet quite like any creature he could recognize. It was like something from a tale of magic and mystery, something that did not belong in the world of men, old, wise, strange beyond belief . . . Thorvald felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck and a chill course through him as he gazed into the liquid depths of those eyes. By all the gods, he had it, the victory was his . . . He found he had been holding his breath, and let it out in a long, gusty sigh. His hand, clutching the dagger, was shaking like a leaf.
“Get on with it!” snapped Sam. “We're off back to Council Fjord and then straight home. Creidhe's hurt, and she's cold, and I'm getting her back to the Light Isles if I die in the attempt. A pox on your seer. I'm not giving him an instant more of my time. If you're going to finish that fellow off, just
do it, will you, and let's be away down to the boat, for there's still a nightmare crossing ahead of us.”
Sam was right, of course. By some miracle, Creidhe had been restored to them, and he had another chance to get things right, to tell her how he felt, to make up for his errors . . . They must get her to safety. He must act swiftly, and go. Thorvald looked down at the fallen man's face, a strong, thin face marked by a hard jaw, a tight mouth still grim in unconsciousness, long dark lashes and unkempt hair. He laid his knife against the naked throat, the fine knife his men had made for him in token of his leadership, a sign of their respect and trust. What was he waiting for? He was a warrior, wasn't he? This should be as easy as slaughtering a goat or sheep, easier in fact, since the victim lay passive, offering his flesh for the sacrifice. But Thorvald's hand would not move. For in those grave, disciplined features was the shadow of another man's face; this wild fellow bore the mask of Asgrim in the jaw, the cheek, the strength of the bones. This was the Ruler's son. This was the youth who had stolen Foxmask long ago: the boy they said had been a dreamer, with no talent for the games of war. That boy had survived to become a man, and in the process had taught himself to be a whole army. Such was the strength he had possessed deep within: a fortitude to marvel at. Furious hatred and a reluctant admiration warred in Thorvald's heart. For what he had done, this man deserved death. There was no doubt what Skapti or Einar or Skolli would have done here; would expect Thorvald to do. But his hand was frozen; he could not make the weapon do its work.
“Come on!” yelled Sam, an edge in his voice.
The doglike creature sidled closer. It was touching Thorvald's knee; he could feel a faint shivering coursing through its body, almost like the movement of a body of water, a trembling, constant vibration. Thorvald knelt motionless with the knife in his hand. If this was Asgrim's son, it was at the same time his own brother. He felt no bond of kinship; indeed, he felt disgust, loathing, and a will to make an end of the fellow and his acts of wanton violence. But he could not kill his own brother. To do so was to prove himself indeed no better than the wretched Asgrim who had sired the two of them, for was it not in penance for the act of fratricide that Somerled had been cast out of the Light Isles forever, to make his way by star and skerry to this distant corner of the world? Here he had wrought his accursed life anew as Asgrim, Ruler of the Isles.
Thorvald slid his dagger back in its sheath and rose slowly to his feet. He was not his father. He was his own man, and would make his own choices. As
for this half-brother who had caused such upheaval and loss, this savage creature who had stolen Creidhe from him, he must take his own chances.
“Thorvald!” yelled Sam. “I'm leaving right now, and if you're not at the boat by the time I'm ready to sail, Creidhe and I are going without you. I mean it.”
He did, too; there was no denying the new note in his voice, a note of determination and of hope reborn, despite the voyage ahead. There was hope for himself as well, Thorvald thought, watching the strange, small creature as it nudged the fallen man with its nose and looked up as if for some reassurance. There were good grounds for hope. He had Foxmask. Astonishingly, Creidhe was alive. And across the Fool's Tide, in Council Fjord, his men were waiting. The wind blew fiercely from the west, stirring the warrior's wild, dark locks and touching his naked, white body with its chill fingers. He'd hardly needed to consider the knife, Thorvald thought; the weather would finish the fellow off soon enough if he was left out here.
The little creature whined. Down the hillside Sam had disappeared into the mist, carrying Creidhe in his arms.
“Oh, all right,” muttered Thorvald, not sure whom he was addressing. Over the time of preparation for the hunt he had become stronger. Last spring, he would not have been able to drag a grown man into the hut as he did now, without becoming breathless from the effort. He laid the fellow down in the spread blankets, trying not to think of Creidhe, for if he did that, his anger might get the better of him again. He covered the man up with what was at hand, cloaks, blankets, skins, other items of clothing. He laid some turf on the fire. That was enough; he owed the fellow nothing, brother or no brother. The lad had chosen to come here, after all; let him take his chances on the Isle of Clouds, if he liked the place so much. As for the fierce tribe, the savage army Asgrim had believed he faced, one man, his own son, that was all it had taken, one man and the island. Thorvald would not tell the others the truth about that; why lessen what must be their joy at achieving the longed-for victory?
Now he must go; Sam's threats had not been idle ones. He stooped to gather up the small creature, but it had edged away now and was tugging at something that lay by the wall, a strap or belt. No, it was a bag, neatly packed and fastened shut: a familiar bag, the very one Creidhe had carried with her from the Light Isles, holding the unlikely and foolish items she had chosen to bring, notably her embroidery linen and colored wools. Who but a girl would think it appropriate to carry such trifles on a journey to the end of the world?
The creature was growling now; it had gripped the bag's strap in its little, sharp teeth and would not let go. By all the gods, thought Thorvald, he'd better be right about this and not end up walking into Asgrim's encampment with nothing more than some puny runt of a dog. He thought he was right. He had listened with care when the men discussed the nature of what they hunted.
“All right then,” he said cautiously, reaching for the bag and praying the creature would not decide to sink its teeth into his hand. “We take this as well. I dare say Creidhe would be quite cross if we left it behind; she sets a high value on her handiwork. Here, I'll carry it on my back, and you under my armâ”
But that was not to be. The creature watched him take up Creidhe's belongings, then scampered out of the hut. Thorvald's heart sank. The thing was tiny and agile; it could lead him a merry dance in the hills and crevices of the island while Sam sailed back to Council Fjord, taking away his only means of escape.
But when he came out of the hut, leaving the fallen warrior lying motionless by the fire, the doglike creature was heading off down the path to the anchorage. It stopped from time to time to glance back, as if to check whether Thorvald was following. There was no need to capture it, to confine it, to force it to leave the Isle of Clouds. It was quite apparent that Foxmask had decided to go home.
It was a long time since the white-haired man had learned how to keep a small boat afloat in open sea. He had been young and hale then, his locks as dark and glossy as polished oak wood. He had learned quickly, the choice being to die, and break a promise, or to sail, and live, and remain true. He had learned the hardest way possible. Such a lesson is never forgotten. Now his hands moved efficiently, rigging mast and sail, loading what he had brought with him: less, even, than the basic tools for survival they had allowed him when they cast him out into lifelong exile all those years ago. He had water today, and a spare cloak, and some rope. No food: he didn't expect he'd be needing that. No fishing gear. This voyage had one purpose only.
He launched the small craft from the shore of Blood Bay, pushing it through the dark sand of the tidal flats and into thigh-deep water before clambering aboard. The process was less than graceful; he was no longer a young man, though, he thought grimly as he took up the oars, neither was he yet so old that he could not act when it at last came time for it. He had waited
long enough for fear that such a decision might cause him to break a vow he must never forswear. Long ago he had promised the dearest friend he ever had, his only true brother, that when he made landfall on his perilous journey he would strive to be all he could be: wise, balanced, a true leader of men. But how could a flawed creature such as himself keep this solemn promise, other than by sealing himself off from the world of affairs? There was a craving in him for control, for respect, for the admiration of men. He sensed that, however powerful he became, it would never be enough to satisfy him. Better then, surely, to close off any possibility of power, lest he break his oath and bring darkness on them all. Yet the desire for control had never truly died over the years as he labored in the guise of holy brother, fashioning his days around the hours, from matins to compline, wielding his pen in scholarship, not in the secret messages of strategy and intrigue. He had mixed pigments, he had embellished his pages with delicacy and wit. He had copied the scriptures for Breccan. He had even made maps for the Ruler, just to keep his hand in, so to speak. He had learned that to milk a cow and to dig a vegetable patch in the right spirit were, to the faithful, true acts of prayer. And he had watched Asgrim's pathetic efforts to establish a community here, had observed the inequities and follies of the governance the Ruler imposed on the frightened islanders. He had stood by as the Long Knife people battered themselves into hollow ruins of men in their futile struggle against the enemy they had not begun to study, the foe they had no hope of understanding.
He could not intervene. To step in and take Asgrim's place, as he had longed to do, was surely to become once more the leader he had shown himself to be in the Light Isles: one who knew no way to govern but by cruelty and terror, a Ruler less fit for the title than Asgrim himself. He had come close at times. Once, when he was new here, and the knowledge of kingship lost was raw and painful in his mind, he had confronted Asgrim and read the fear in the other's eyes, a fear that awakened bitter memories. Niall had withdrawn, opting for solitude, for a scholarly detachment. And later, when the Ulstermen had come, and he had discovered to his astonishment that friendship of a kind was still possible for him after all, there had been the boy, Erling. A keen mind, a strong will, for all the lad's dreamy ways: Niall had discovered in himself a desire to protect the youth from his father, to allow him a chance, at least, to grow and learn, free from the harsh controls Asgrim saw fit to impose on this son who was not the son he had wanted.
There had been a spark of something rare in Erling. Breccan had seen it, too, as the boy questioned scripture endlessly, searching to find meanings in
the tales of Christ and his disciples that were not present in the pattern of his own life among the Long Knife people. Well, Erling had certainly broken the pattern, but not in the way Breccan had hoped, which was that the boy might join them in the hermitage and commit himself in time to their own vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Erling had surprised everyone. He had endured his father's beatings, the abuse, the imprisonment, biding his time until he might escape. Then he had stolen the child away from the Unspoken. He had astounded them all by removing the seer neatly and effectively beyond the reach of anyone. Such an act of furious courage, of dedicated self-sacrifice, was surely the stuff of legend.
The problem was, Niall told himself as he set the little boat on a southward course toward the Isle of Shadows, the real problem was that Erling's heroism had achieved nothing beyond a momentary denting of Asgrim's iron-strong authority. The voices still came in the night; children still perished. The hunt went on, with its harvest of death and despair. The seer had probably died that first winter, out on the Isle of Clouds in the mist and rain. The lad might not have fared better, for an ability to argue points of logic and a fondness for stories were not the best gifts to carry into a life of struggle with cold, hunger and loneliness. There probably was no seer anymore. But others still clung to their belief in him. The Unspoken had faith, the Long Knife people hunted, the crazy feud continued. In time, it would destroy them all.
Before, Niall would have stayed in his hermitage, observing, considering. He would have watched the boats sail out at midsummer and return the next day with somewhat fewer men on board. Breccan would have prayed for Asgrim's warriors, and he himself would have knelt quietly by his brother's side, respecting his faith. If God chose to reward the courage of the Long Knife people with failure and loss, who was he to criticize?
But it was different now. He had let them take the girl, Eyvind's own daughter, whom he should have protected, that bonny young woman with his dear friend's butter-yellow hair, his guileless blue eyes, sweet as a cloudless summer sky, his heartbreaking goodness and simplicity. She was the very pattern of her father, yet more, for she also had Nessa's quick mind, her depth of understanding. Now Creidhe was dead: his fault, Somerled's fault, Somerled's touch again, turning all to ashes. He could have acted earlier, and he had chosen not to. He must act now. It was too late for Creidhe, but not too late for the boy. No, not a boy: a man. His son. His son, Thorvald, the image of Margaret in his regal stance, his air of contained authority, his proud features and fine auburn hair . . . Yet it had been Niall's own dark,
troubled eyes that had gazed back at him from that guarded young face, his own eyes full of a conviction and purpose he had never been able to harness as Eyvind had wished him to. Asgrim might be ashamed of his own son. For Niall, that was not at all the way of it. He had recognized from that first shattering moment that his heart was not, after all, frozen forever; that this young man was himself as he should have been, a fine leader untrammeled by the dark fetters of the past that Somerled had never been able to shake off. If he could have shouted so the whole world could hear, he would have cried out,
He is my son
.