Foxmask (74 page)

Tears did come then. The sweet, wordless melody told him Small One was alive, safe, content. But the tears were of grief, too, a terrible, chill regret that tore at his vitals, enough to make him cry out in pain. Small One was home, returned to the Shadow Isle. And the child was happy. Whatever they had done to him with their knives and clubs while Keeper lay here senseless, useless, still the seer's song rang out its message of peace and forgiveness, love and hope. And that was most bitter of all, for it told Keeper he had been wrong. It seemed that what he had thought protection had been imprisonment. He had believed the life he had made for Small One was better, freer, safer. All that he had done was keep the child away from his true place. All that time, all those years as he watched his small kinsman grow, and shielded him from harm, and guarded him as fiercely as a wolf her young, he had seen the look of sadness in the child's eyes and had not known that its cause was himself. He had bid Small One hide and be silent as the hunt raged around him, and the boy had obeyed him. Does not a good child obey his elders? Yet all the time, in the seer's strange, deep mind, there must have been a terrible, secret sorrow. As the seasons passed, as they survived each summer's hunt, Small One's sadness must have deepened, knowing this most loyal of brothers would never let him go home.

The bitterness of it ate at Keeper. The song ended, and he sat motionless, staring unseeing at the cold hearth, the threadbare blanket clutched against
him. There was no denying the truth. The task that had been his life's purpose had been misguided, hollow and cruel. There had been no need for men to be wounded and to die. There had been no need to fashion himself into a warrior. There had been no need of him at all.

In the morning he walked down to the hidden cove where he kept his boats. The best one, the only one he had ever used, was gone. The others were damaged, their skins slit, their timbers broken; even supposing he might call on his mother's people, and they might be prevailed upon to gentle the Fool's Tide and let him pass over, he could not do so until he had made a craft strong enough to cross the treacherous strait. And what then? He had seen the look in that man's dark eyes, a fierce, implacable glare of ownership. There was a bond between them, his goddess and her childhood friend; did they not appear together in her web, where he himself had never earned a place? It was not Keeper she had leaped to protect in that last, desperate bid to cheat the gods. It was the red-haired man. By the time he had made a boat, she would be gone, whisked back home to her own island, safely out of his reach. He knew this as he knew the tides: in his blood.

There was nowhere for him to go. With sinking heart, he recognized this. Asgrim's people loathed him: for every life he had taken in the long years of the hunt, there would be a man waiting on that shore for vengeance. He could not follow the child. He would never see his little one again, for the Unspoken have long memories, and though they had wronged Sula terribly, he himself had dealt them a heart wound when he robbed them of the seer. He could not live among men. He did not know how. He knew only the island, and the hunt.

Such discipline as he had kept does not die easily. On the second day after he lost his dear ones, Keeper knew he was cold and hungry, and that the oozing wound on his head needed attention. He made a choice: the only kind he knew. Be strong or give up. Live or die. He made fire, built up a mass of glowing turf, left it burning safely between stones. He fetched fresh water. He went for fish, catching them in the manner of his mother's people, with soothing words and his hands. He killed them with respect and gratitude, for their kind had sustained him and the child long. He bore his catch back to the hut and set it to bake in the coals.

Then he made himself put the place to rights. Blankets and cloaks were folded and stacked. The hardest thing was storing away Small One's little boots, his warm cape, the sheepskin hat he had been reluctant to wear. Nonetheless, Keeper did it. These garments would not be needed anymore. Perhaps he would look at them sometimes; perhaps not. As reminders they
were unnecessary. The pain of this loss would never leave him; it was lodged deep in the bone. It came to him that there would no longer be a ready supply of leather boots, of warm clothing, of iron implements and useful lengths of timber on the island. The hunt was over. He'd need to be frugal.

He ate the fish. When he was done, he sat gazing into the fire awhile, thinking that if he let his mind drift he might see her again, grave and quiet on the other side, watching him across the flames with her sweet blue eyes full of mystery and enchantment. But he could not see her. Perhaps, for the rest of his life, she would walk only in his dreams.

After a while Keeper took up the knife he had used to gut the fish, and weighed it in his hand, considering. Then, quickly before he could change his mind, he reached to sever the small thing he wore around his neck, and it fell into his hand, a whisper-soft trifle of woven hair. He held it a moment, and in his mind he said,
I'm sorry. But we were wrong, the two of us
. And he cast the necklace into the fire.

The next day he visited a cavern farther away, where many items from the hunt were laid by. Among them, hidden deep, were the remnants of the clothing Creidhe had worn on the day the Fool's Tide carried her to the island. They were too tattered and damaged to be worn, but he had washed and dried them and set them here; how could he discard anything that had touched her skin? Now he brought them out and found a little knife, a bone needle, and his carefully hoarded twine, and he cut and stitched and fashioned a garment for himself, one that could be worn secretly beneath his shirt, close to the heart. He put it on, and thought he could feel her against him, warm, gentle, giving, strong. He set his materials away and returned to the hut, where all was neat and orderly. He ate and slept. Next morning he fetched implements for digging and for shifting stones, and walked to the place he had chosen, and began to build. No matter that they had taken her. No matter that they would carry her across the sea, too far for him to follow. Creidhe had made him a promise. He, too, must keep faith.

The message came when Eyvind was in council at his own house. He and Ash had five other men with them, representing the different settlements of Hrossey and the islands to the south. The threat from the Caitt people was real enough, for all those chieftains' assurances of peace; today this small council debated, quietly and urgently, the topic of just who could be trusted. It was understood by Eyvind's household that such discussions were not to be interrupted. So, when Nessa herself drew aside the woolen hanging across
the doorway and stepped into the room, her husband got up at once, his composure failing to disguise the sudden pallor of his face. On the other side of the table, Ash rose slowly to his feet.

“She's home,” Nessa said simply. “The boat came in to Stensakir last night. Sam sent a boy to tell us. They'll borrow horses from Grim and be here by midday.”

Eyvind did not smile, but his eyes were bright as he reached to take his wife's arm, to walk with her out of the chamber into the privacy of the hallway.

“I'll ride out straightaway to meet them,” he said, seeing the longing in Nessa's eyes, the way she clutched her hands tightly together over the swell of the child she carried. If not for that, she would herself have played a part in today's council. “Ash will come with me . . .”

“Eyvind?”

He waited.

“We must send a message to Margaret. I have a man ready to go. Creidhe is home safely, and Sam, and another man. But Thorvald did not come with them. I don't know how to give her such news.”

“Where is Thorvald? Is he safe?”

Nessa shook her head. “There was nothing said of that. We must wait until Creidhe arrives home.”

Behind them Ash had emerged, silent, from the council chamber. Eyvind turned toward him.

“I'd have asked you to ride with me toward Stensakir,” he said gravely, “for it seems the
Sea Dove
has come back at last, and my daughter with it. But it is not all good news, I'm afraid.”

“What has happened?” Ash was already taking his cloak from the peg in the hallway, preparing himself to leave.

“We don't know,” Nessa said softly. “Only that Thorvald is not with Creidhe and Sam. We must wait for them to reach us. But we cannot let Margaret hear this news by chance. I have a man ready . . .”

“I will tell her.” Ash's quiet voice allowed for no argument. “And I will fetch her back here. That's what she will want: to hear what has happened from Creidhe herself. I should go now, right away. This is welcome news, in part at least; I am happy for you.” His spare, lined features were as well controlled as always; like Margaret, he never gave much away.

“I'm sorry,” said Nessa, putting a hand on his. “Truly. Perhaps this is not as bad as it sounds. Ride safely.”

The kitchen was a bustle of activity, most of it Brona's. As Nessa returned to the council room to offer an explanation on her husband's behalf and bid
the men a courteous farewell, her daughter assumed quick control of the serving women, ordering the preparation of mutton with garlic, and setting her own hands to the making of a special pie with eggs, goat's cheese and dried mushrooms. Eyvind rode off to the northeast somewhat faster than his wife liked to see him travel, though Nessa understood his urgency. For herself, the feeling in her breast was as much anxious pain as joyous relief; all this long time she had yearned for Creidhe's return, had worried and prayed and waited for this day, but now there was a strong sense in her of something awry. It was not simply the fact of Creidhe coming back without Thorvald, though Nessa knew this in itself was cause for disquiet. She had long understood the inclination of her daughter's heart. This was deeper, darker, a whispering of the ancestors. Something was wrong.

Brona sang, finishing the pie with a neat latticework of pastry on the top. She looked flushed and pretty, her hands neat and deft as she worked. Beside her Ingigerd stood watching, solemn as a little owl.

“It's very possible Creidhe won't be hungry,” Nessa commented wryly from the doorway. “If they've had a long voyage, she may simply want to sleep. You have flour on your cheek and on your skirt, daughter. Perhaps you'd like to brush your hair and change your clothes. Ingi and I will set that to bake for you.”

Brona glanced up, a deep flush spreading across her fine features, so like her mother's. She said nothing.

“Of course,” Nessa went on solemnly, “Sam may very well decide to head back to Stensakir and leave Eyvind to bring Creidhe home.”

“I'm not—” Brona began, then bit back her words. Sometimes her mother's ability to see beyond the obvious was disconcerting. “It's just—”

“I'm teasing you, Daughter.” Nessa was smiling. “I expect he will come, being a responsible sort of man. Go and put on your good things. I'm glad to see you smiling. I can scarcely believe they are here at last.”

But after Brona had darted to kiss her mother on the cheek and flown away to her chamber with Ingigerd at her heels, Nessa's smile faded. She set the little pie to cook and stood by the fire to warm her hands and stare into the flames. Despite the heat of the room, there was a chill inside her that would not go away.

Sam's features were set tight with anxiety as he rode, and there was a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. Eyvind's presence only made it worse, for after the first embrace of greeting, golden-haired father and daughter locked
in each other's arms on the side of the track while he stood by holding the horses' reins, there had been little said, and he could see Eyvind looking at Creidhe not with delight and relief, but with disbelief and shock. Apart from that greeting to her father, Creidhe had not spoken at all. It was Sam who had told Eyvind, briefly, that Thorvald was well and had decided to stay in the Lost Isles. It was Sam who had introduced Knut, who rode with them, and explained his presence. Now it seemed to Sam that it might be he who would have to recount the whole tale not just to the formidable Eyvind but to Nessa and to Thorvald's mother as well. For Creidhe's silence was not only of today. During the long voyage home, while he and Knut coaxed and wrestled and guided the
Sea Dove
across the northern ocean and back to the Light Isles, Creidhe had been shut deep within herself, mute, frozen. She could understand him; she had moved when told to, she had helped with the boat on the rare occasions he'd needed to ask. She had prepared food for the two men but had eaten little herself. No wonder Eyvind stared. His bonny daughter was ash-pale, her rounded face gaunt and drawn, almost as if she were an old woman. The sweet blue eyes had lost all their brightness. It had been thus, Sam reckoned, ever since the day they had rescued her from the Isle of Clouds. Apart, that was, from the brief, strange scene when she had challenged the Unspoken over the fate of the seer. But she'd not been herself then either. That day she had seemed to him fierce, proud and distant. She had seemed like a queen. And as soon as she knew the child was safe, she had become as she was now, as if all the life had been drained from her. How was he going to explain that?

As it happened, when the four of them rode up to the longhouse where Eyvind and Nessa lived, and Sam saw the family gathered outside the door to meet them, his eyes fell first on Brona, fifteen years old and dressed in her good tunic and skirt of green-dyed wool, with a matching ribbon tying her long, dark hair. She smiled, a generous, shining smile of uncomplicated delight. Her skin was brown from the sun, her cheeks flushed pink; her gray eyes danced with life. She ran to hug her sister as Creidhe got down with Eyvind's help. Then Brona turned to Sam, looking up at him shyly through her long lashes. Sam couldn't take his eyes off her. It was a long time since he had seen such a picture of simple, healthy goodness; the sight sent a surge of pleasure through him. Perhaps, after all, his old world did still exist.