Foxmask (65 page)

“Worst of it's over,” Sam observed in something like his normal voice as
he moved to take the steering oar. “Once we draw level with Dragon Isle there's only one rough patch, and we can sail to the north of it, all being well. Might not be sleeping with the fishes tonight after all. Hope Knut's looked after my boat.”

As Thorvald relinquished his place, edging forward, he blinked in amazement and heard, over the ceaseless voice of the sea, Sam's gasp behind him. The little boat was working her way steadily toward the shelter of the fjord. To starboard loomed the steep, jagged shape of Dragon Isle, and ahead the squat form of the Troll's Arch came closer, with the rock-layered slopes of the Isle of Storms rising solid and dark behind it. But he was not watching those things, for on the boat was unfolding a wonder: in Creidhe's arms where she sat silent was no dog nor cat nor woodland creature, but a little ragged child with stick-like limbs and a head of wild, dark hair. Thorvald's heart pounded. Such a transformation could surely not be real, and yet undoubtedly it had occurred right here before his eyes. A fierce satisfaction filled him. His instincts had been sound: they had indeed rescued the seer, and the mission was all but accomplished.

“Thor's hammer!” exclaimed Sam in tones of hushed incredulity.

“We've got him,” croaked Thorvald. “We've got Foxmask.”

It takes but an instant for sun to turn to shadow, light to dark: only an eye blink, if the ancestors will it so. They were passing the narrow gap between the islets, troll and dragon. Thorvald saw the child reach up its skinny arms to wrap them around Creidhe's neck, hugging her tightly. He saw Creidhe's fingers stroke the disheveled locks, moving with great gentleness. He watched as the seer pressed his pale, triangular face against Creidhe's cheek, not a kiss exactly, but a gesture of affection, of respect . . . of farewell . . . and then, quick as a flash, the small boy scrambled to the side of the boat, clambered to the rail, and leaped out into the swirling currents that edged the Fool's Tide. Frozen in utter disbelief, the three of them stared as the child's thin arms moved, pale as willow wands, in the turbulent water; as the current swept him toward that narrow southward channel. Then, abruptly, the ocean swallowed him, and Foxmask was gone.

Thorvald seized a desperate lungful of air, as if he himself were drowning. “Put about!” he yelled. “Stop, turn back!”

Sam stared at him unmoving. “I can't,” he said heavily. “No leeway, and it's a following wind. Unless you want to smash the boat and drown the three of us.”

It was true; that channel was scarcely navigable save on the calmest of days and under oars. Besides, the wind had already borne them level with the
Troll's Arch. And even if they could follow, what was the point? There was no sign of the child. Even supposing, by some miracle, the boy survived a brief span in the chill waters, how could they hope to find him? Sam was right. To attempt any kind of pursuit would be a pointless sacrifice of their own lives.

A tumult of feelings welled in Thorvald's heart: bitter, blinding rage, anguished disappointment and a chill recognition of failure. He could feel himself shaking, and he could not hold back his words. “How could you do that?” he shouted at Creidhe. “How could you let him go? You've ruined everything!”

Creidhe stared back at him, ashen-faced, her eyes wide and strange. She said not a word.

“Don't you understand what this means?” Thorvald's own voice came out harsh and uncontrolled, and he fought to temper it. “There are good men on the Isle of Storms, men who've battled and suffered for years over this! That child was their last chance of peace! I gave them my word that I'd bring him back!”

“That's enough,” Sam growled. “Shut your mouth and make yourself useful, we're not out of danger yet.”

But Thorvald didn't seem to be able to stop. Creidhe's silence, her blank, wide-eyed expression, filled him with terror, for it seemed to him confirmation of a truth he had almost been able to forget: somehow, his own ill touch had made everything go wrong, and now the quest was lost, the Long Knife people condemned to struggle on through misery and heartbreak, and his own dear friend was turned into an empty shell before his eyes. This was his doing. He had failed them all. He crouched by Creidhe, gripping her by the shoulders. “What's got into you, don't you understand anything?” he hissed. “When I came here to find my father, I didn't expect to be the bearer of the worst news he'll ever get: that we found the seer at last, then let him slip through our fingers! How am I supposed to tell the men that?”

“Thorvald!” roared Sam. “Leave her alone!”

Tears welled suddenly in Creidhe's eyes, spilling down her cheeks. She made no attempt to wipe them away, but stared at Thorvald, mute as before. Perhaps she really had gone crazy. Thorvald shivered. That would be fine news to bear home to her father.

“Odin's bones, Creidhe,” he snapped, “say something, can't you?”

“What should I say?” Her voice was small and remote.

Thorvald drew a deep breath and released it slowly. This was not her fault; he was wrong to accuse her, wrong to be angry. He had been leader. The responsibility, in the end, was all his own. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I forgot
myself. The truth is, I have lost this battle, and we must bear my father's people tidings of defeat, not of peace.”

There was a moment's silence, and then Creidhe started to laugh, a dreadful, mad laugh that set his teeth on edge. Her sweet, guileless eyes had darkened with a terrible bitterness.

“Your father's people,” her words tumbled out in a breathless, halting voice, “that's very funny. In the name of your father's people you set yourself up as a war leader; you invade the island, thirty warriors against one; you kill a man who only ever acted for love of his kin; you seize an innocent child and try to bind him to a future of unutterable suffering! Was it your father who bid you do this, Thorvald? Was it truly?”

He stared at her, trying to make sense of her words. “What do you mean, unutterable suffering?” he asked. “The seer came with us willingly, you saw that. You saw how thin and weak he was; it's a miracle he survived that wild existence on the Isle of Clouds. The Unspoken would have cherished him. Foxmask is their most venerated seer; he would have been treated as a king, as a god.”

Creidhe's eyes had turned cold with fury. “That's so like you, Thorvald. You always did rush into things without waiting to find out the details first. No wonder you were so eager to lead these men. No wonder you seized on the idea Asgrim was your father. Clearly, he never bothered to tell you what would happen to Foxmask when you passed him over to the Unspoken. He didn't tell you about the ritual, did he?”

There was a moment's charged silence. Grim-jawed, Sam eased the little boat to the north of a patch of water whose ruffled surface showed danger below: a submerged skerry or a last remnant of the treacherous currents of the Fool's Tide.

“What ritual?” Thorvald kept his voice calm and careful, though there had been an icy premonition in Creidhe's words.

“The maiming. The Unspoken would have blinded and crippled Small One, to make him the same as the old seer was, the one whose death started all this in the first place.” Creidhe sniffed and scrubbed a hand across her cheek. “They believe he cannot sing his prophecies unless he undergoes that torture first. But he can; I've heard him. He can do it. He . . . he could do it.”

Thorvald swallowed. He almost wished Creidhe had maintained that strange, cold demeanor, for it was becoming difficult to watch her now that she was openly weeping. Abruptly, she had become her old self, the girl who had shadowed his steps when they were children, the young woman for whose death he had not allowed himself to grieve aloud. “That is terrible,” he
said more gently. “No, they did not tell me. I expect the men did not know. Did you let him go because of this? You must realize he could not survive long in these waters.”

“Let?” Creidhe queried. “There's no
letting
with Small One. He makes his own choices. I did not expect him to do what he did. Not even after he saw Keeper die. There's a grief in this that you can never understand.”

“Creidhe—” Thorvald hesitated; she was only a girl, after all. “Surely it would have been better if the child had gone back to the Unspoken, cruel as it seems to say it. We could have won peace for the Long Knife people, man, woman and child alike. There have been many deaths of infants among them over the years of the hunt, babes sung away by the Unspoken before they saw a second day. Can you say it is justified for that to go on, for the sake of one small boy? Asgrim's people have suffered season after season of loss. I do not know how I can give them this news. How can I face it? How can I face my father?”

“Thorvald,” Creidhe said, holding him with her gaze, “Asgrim is not your father.”

That chill again. He had not missed it when she had implied this before. “What do you mean? Of course he is. He as good as said it himself—”

“He is not your father. What about the scar?”

“Scar?” echoed Thorvald as the sail crackled in the wind, and they ducked out of the way. “What scar?”

Creidhe stared at him, blue eyes wide. “You mean you didn't know? Aunt Margaret didn't tell you?”

“Tell me what? What are you talking about?”

“She didn't; I see that. I never thought to mention it. I just assumed you would know. It's a sign of blood brotherhood, the same my own father bears on his left forearm. Somerled's arm is marked with its twin. I've seen it.”

Thorvald stared at her. “Then—” he began.

“I've seen it here in the islands, and the man who bore it was not Asgrim.”

“But—” Thorvald's head reeled. The encampment, the training, the work he had done with the men . . . Asgrim's grudging expressions of trust, the Ruler's implied recognition of kinship . . . all lies, all pretense, all yet another demonstration of his own ineptitude, the shadow inside him that turned all he touched to dust. It could not be true. It must not be true.

“Freyr's bollocks,” observed Sam. “What a turnaround. Bit of a relief, I should think, to find out the Ruler isn't your father after all. Not a father I'd much care for myself. Question is, if it's not him, who is it?”

“What about the map?” Thorvald asked suddenly, clutching at straws. “I saw the map, Asgrim had it in his sleeping quarters, with pens and pigments. It was done in the same hand as the letter he left my mother, I'm sure of it—”

Creidhe's lips curved in a joyless smile. “Another man made the map, Thorvald. A man with a scar on his arm. He is your father. He is Somerled, though he goes by a different name now. A long time has passed since he sailed away from the shores of Hrossey. That was a desperate voyage: a voyage to turn a man's hair white with terror.”

There was the unmistakable ring of truth in her words. A strange calm settled over Thorvald, as if a violent storm had passed, sweeping everything before it, leaving a landscape scoured clean of markings.

“A white-haired man,” he said. “The hermit. You expect me to believe Somerled—
Somerled
—became a Christian? A man who tortured his own brother to death and imposed a rule of terror and blood on the Light Isles?”

“I don't care what you believe,” Creidhe said tightly. “Brother Niall is your father. Much can change in eighteen years, Thorvald. A boy can grow to a man. He can learn courage and devotion and sacrifice, or he can learn only how to be selfish and blind. A girl can learn how wrong she was about what things are important, about what things are so precious that to lose them is like death. Perhaps a man can learn that forgiveness is possible, even for the darkest acts of wrongdoing. You should ask him.”

Thorvald did not reply. An image was in his mind, a memory of dark eyes staring into his with penetrating intelligence, of a voice both soft and incisive, of features austere with self-discipline below that tonsured head with its snowy hair. He had thought the priest an old man. The fellow had wanted to speak with him alone . . . he had not taken that opportunity, he had let Asgrim overrule him, not understanding . . . Creidhe was right, he had been blinded by what he had convinced himself was the truth. It was he who was the fool.

“Creidhe?” Thorvald spoke softly.

She looked at him, eyes red and swollen.

“I'm sorry,” he said, forcing the words out, feeling the bitterness of it deep in his heart. “I'm truly sorry.”

“For what you have done”—Creidhe's words were like drops of ice, clear, cold—“I can never forgive you, Thorvald. Never.”

After that, there was nothing more to be said, though it was somewhat
unjust of her, Thorvald thought, to blame him for the child's demise. Perhaps it was the whole ill-considered venture she meant, a journey that had proved nothing to him save the truth about his own inadequacies. In silence, they sailed the little boat between the sheltering arms of land and into the safety of Council Fjord.

T
hor's hammer!” exclaimed Sam. “A welcoming party! Now that I wasn't expecting.” For sailing toward them in the center of the long bay, making steady progress against the wind, was the neat, compact form of the
Sea Dove
. As their own small craft drew closer, they could see familiar figures on board: Orm at the tiller, towering, broad-shouldered Skapti in the bows, and, sitting on a bundle in the central hold, a man in the coarse brown habit of a Christian hermit, with an expression of desperate anxiety on his amiable countenance.

Now I must say it
, Thorvald thought.
Now, already, I must find the words. I must tell them I have broken my promise: that I have failed them
.

But as they drew alongside the
Sea Dove
, and Skapti reached down with a hook to hold the curragh against the larger vessel's side, Breccan called to them, his voice tight with distress.