Foxmask (76 page)

Creidhe stared at her hands, offering nothing.

“Answer me, Creidhe.” That tone again: not the voice of a sister but that of a priestess, ancient and commanding.

“They should be content,” Creidhe said, not looking up. “Sam and I are back safely, Thorvald is happy, Somerled has become a good man . . . What more do they want?”

“They want the old Creidhe back. They want to put things right for you.”

“The old Creidhe doesn't exist anymore. She's dead. She died when . . . when . . .”

Something, Eanna thought. Something at last, though her sister had sunk her teeth in her lip to stop it from coming out. “When Thorvald decided to stay, and sent you home?” she ventured. “That's what Mother seems to think.”

Creidhe stared at her, blue eyes round with surprise. “Thorvald?” she echoed.

“You seem astonished,” said Eanna dryly. “Yet you spent your whole childhood following him about like a devoted slave. You chose to go with him on his mad voyage. Surely you expected something out of it.” It was
cruel, maybe. But if cruelty would force Creidhe awake, would light some spark in her eye, if only one of anger, then she would use it.

“I wouldn't wed Thorvald if he were the last man in the world,” Creidhe said in that small, cold voice. “I'm glad that he found his father, and his future, for Aunt Margaret's sake. But that's all. I hope I never see him again as long as I live.”

“Creidhe,” Eanna said quietly, “did Thorvald hurt you? Was it he who—?”

“Who what?” It was plain that Creidhe was not going to make this easier for her sister.

“Something Sam said—implied—to Father, that you had been harmed in some way when you were captive—that perhaps some man had forced you—”

“Sam doesn't know anything. He doesn't understand anything. And nor does Thorvald. All he could think about was winning his war and impressing his father. Even at the end he didn't understand what he had done when he . . . when he . . .”

Eanna moved closer; taking her sister's hands in hers. They were as cold as a corpse's. “Tell me, Creidhe. What did he do? What is too terrible to be set down in the Journey?”

Creidhe shook her head, closing her eyes. “I can't. I can't bring myself to tell you. Somehow, if I don't say, if I don't share it, I can keep him—them—as they were, alive inside me, deep down. I can see and hear them . . . If I talk about it I'll lose that last little scrap of life, and if I do that I don't think I can go on at all, not even pretending . . .”

It had been there, the truth at last.
I can keep him alive
. . . Not Thorvald, not Sam, but another. And Eanna thought, just possibly, that she knew who it was.

“I have looked in the fire for you,” she said slowly. “Made the patterns of augury, sought the council of Bone Mother. I have truths to tell you, sister, if you will hear them.”

“There was no need,” Creidhe said flatly. “It's too late to change it now.”

“It's never too late,” Eanna said. “All is change. And I did not do it for you, believe me, but for Mother and for Margaret, both so anxious for the children they love. The ancestors have much to say concerning yourself and your journey. It seems to me the truth is a great deal more complex than the tale you told the family.”

“I told no lies.”

“Perhaps not; and Sam is loyal to a fault. They tell me he refuses to fill in
the blanks. I've seen a child in the story, a powerful child, and there is a young warrior. I did not speak to others of these two, because of what they are. Mother has reason to be anxious about the Seal Tribe. As I said, she fears for her child.”

“That's nonsense!” Creidhe pulled her hands away from Eanna's. “They would never take him, and they didn't take Kinart either! The folk of the Seal Tribe love the islands, and protect all those who honor the ancient powers. They value life; they do not steal children. Those are simply the fireside tales of old people, told to keep infants away from dangerous shores. They will not harm Mother or her baby.”

“You sound very certain.” Eanna watched her sister closely.

“I am certain. He told me.”

“Who?”

Silence. Creidhe closed her mouth into a tight line.

“Let me tell you something, Creidhe. I was shown a vision at last full moon, when I made a circle and kept vigil through the night. I saw a man, wild and fierce, chipping rocks with a heavy hammer, working as if to put his whole being into what he made. He wore distinctive clothing, decorated with many small feathers. This was a lean, weathered sort of man, with dark hair held back by a strip of leather. Young; not so much older than yourself. The hillside where he stood was steep and grass-covered; many birds flew above. I could not see what he was making, perhaps a wall to shield sheep, perhaps a hut for his stock. There was rain falling, and he worked on as if he could not feel it. He talked to himself as he labored, and your name was in it. Often. He repeated it as if it were a kind of talisman. I have seen this man before, in visions. The last time I saw him, I saw you as well, sewing the Journey, with a little, ragged child by your knee.”

Eanna watched her sister. It was like the moment when a dam begins to break its banks; first one tear trembled in the blue eyes and fell down the pale cheek, and then another, and another, and in total silence Creidhe put her face in her hands and wept. Eanna said nothing. She did not offer the comfort of touch or words of reassurance. Both of them knew well that the visions of the ancestors show
was
and
is
and
will be
mixed together, along with the cruel
may be
and
might have been
. One interpreted their meaning as if solving a puzzle, a puzzle that might have many possible answers.

Creidhe's shoulders were heaving, her hands still clutched tightly over her face, as if to try to contain the flood of grief. She had held these tears back a long time.

“The Seal Tribe,” Eanna said at last. “You weep for one of the Seal Tribe.”

“You don't need to worry,” choked Creidhe. “He's dead. Thorvald killed him.”

Eanna absorbed this. Creidhe had said,
I can keep them alive
. “And the child?” she asked.

“Well, and content . . . a great seer . . . he saved the people and made the peace. But it was too late for Keeper.”

“Keeper. That is his name? And you love him.” No judgment in the tone.

“With everything that I am.” Creidhe spoke these words in a tone that made her sister's spine tingle; it was not the voice of a lovesick girl, but a deep, solemn swearing of truth. “I never thought such a bond was possible . . . He did not deserve to die, he was so brave, so loyal and strong . . .”

“You saw him die? You witnessed it?” Cruel again, but she must press the advantage she had; Creidhe must tell it all.

“No. I was knocked unconscious. They told me later. He told me. Thorvald. They were enemies, one sworn to protect Small One—the seer—the other to hunt him down. It was my fault Keeper died.” The voice very small now, like a child's. “I tried to stop them. If I had not done that, Keeper would have won. He was by far the better fighter. He never lost a battle, until that day.”

“Then Thorvald would have died.”

No response.

“You know, Creidhe,” Eanna said carefully, “how hard the ancestors' messages are to decipher; one could spend a lifetime working them out. Indeed, some of us do just that. Tell me, is it possible you were wrong? Could this man still be alive, do you think?” She did not tell Creidhe her own interpretation of the vision, nor her certain belief that it had shown not
then
but
now
.

Creidhe shook her head. “Why would Thorvald lie? Why would he spare Keeper's life? Thorvald hated him for what he had done, for all the men he had killed over the years, for making the war continue. He never understood why Keeper did it, not even when he knew what the Unspoken intended for Small One. Of course he killed him.”

“All the same.”

“Don't seek to comfort me with false hopes, Eanna. That's cruel. I long to see your visions, to hear of them, to find solace in them. But I cannot believe them. I cannot think of any reason Thorvald would tell me such a thing if it were not the truth.”

“Because he was jealous?” Eanna asked softly.

Creidhe stared at her a moment, and then burst into terrible laughter, a
sound that chilled her sister, so full was it with bitterness. “Thorvald? Jealous? He never even saw me. Thorvald cares for nothing but himself.”

“Didn't someone say he was a leader of men now? Well respected? A selfish man does not become such a leader.”

“Maybe he has changed,” Creidhe conceded reluctantly. “Just a little.”

“And he may also have changed in his feelings for you. Would that make a difference to you, Creidhe?”

“Nothing can make a difference.”

Eanna drew a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. Was that all this had been, an argument that simply came full circle?

“Now, Creidhe,” the priestess spoke again, “I'm about to make a request and to give you some advice. I'm not going to tell you to stop the self-pity and find another good man; I hear in your voice that this was the only one, and I grieve for you, though unlike you I think nothing is certain. I ask you, as your sister, to speak to Mother today, to reassure her, and to promise her you will deliver her child expertly and safely as you always do. That may seem obvious to us, but she needs to hear it from your own lips. And you must explain to her about the Seal Tribe.”

“But—”

“It doesn't matter how much you tell or how you do it. Just make sure she's not frightened anymore. She needs you, Creidhe. We all do.”

“Not you, surely.” The tone was dry.

“You'd be surprised,” Eanna said. “Now the request. I want you to start working on the Journey again.”

“I can't—”

“You said you don't know how it goes from now on. But I think there is a part of your work you did know how to make, but would not fashion, out of fear. If he is dead and the child safe, what is there to be afraid of anymore?” That, too, was somewhat less than kind; Creidhe's pale cheeks grew still whiter. “So, get your work out, sort your colors, make that small part at least. And listen for what the ancestors whisper in your ear, sister. No matter how dark the day, how crooked the path, they are always close. Make room for them in your heart, shattered and sorrowful as it is. They may surprise you.”

. . .
this contemplative life is far safer, believe me, both for myself and for others who may cross my path. I do not forget the past; I remember what I was. Looking at him, I feel no regret for the loss of what other men have: the warmth of family, the security of household and community, and a path to tread among men of affairs. That is our son's life, not mine. He need not fear me. I would never challenge him for power. Already he is a finer man than I could ever be, and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I treated you badly; I knew no better. In return you have given me a priceless gift. I promise you I will guide him, advise him and love him as a good father should. That is all the recompense I can make you
.

Know that my dark path is turned to light, not only by the return of this son I never knew I had, but by the love and guidance of a God whose existence, until last summer, was as much of a mystery to me as Thorvald's. I am unworthy of such joy: I greet each day with wonder. With all sincerity I wish you a life of equal contentment. For the making of this fine son, for nurturing him to become the man he is, you deserve no less
.

E
XTRACT FROM LETTER

I
t was spring once more: a whole year since Margaret had given her son the letter and sent him racing off across the ocean to find the man who was his father. Now the green hills of Hrossey were dotted with new lambs, and on the cliffs south of the Whaleback the small, bright blooms of heart's-eye flowered in profusion under a mild sun.

Creidhe was tired of weaving. She had made a number of heavy, plain blankets, and a wall hanging to be presented to a nobleman in Rogaland. Eyvind was sailing there in summer as part of a delegation seeking a trade
arrangement with the Jarls in that region. The hanging was not her own design; the bold ideas that had once been her great strength had deserted her. She no longer sought to create new dyes, fresh shades of color, or to fashion intricate borders on the strip loom. She had made what was required to Margaret's specifications, and it was both expertly crafted and pleasing to the eye, but it was not her own. Whatever she had lost from within her when Keeper died, it was the same thing that had created those works of magic and beauty. There was no point even trying anymore. She just couldn't do it.

Today her back ached and her eyes had had enough of the monotonous task: the work on the loom was very plain, done in the natural cream of the fine wool Margaret's main flock produced, and the only skill required was in keeping the weave even. Creidhe got up, stretching, and walked into the long room of Margaret's house. Margaret's and Ash's house. She must get used to the fact that they were married now; she must get accustomed to the astonishing sight of Margaret happy. The two of them, who had shared the house so long as mistress and steward, had been quite transformed by what had happened. They were like a pair of young lovers, clasping hands as they passed, exchanging shy smiles and whispered words. Creidhe had seen a warm blush of awareness creep across Margaret's ladylike features; she had seen a look in Ash's steady gray eyes that signified, quite simply, ardent desire. They welcomed Creidhe to their house, as had always been the case; they worried about her as her own parents did. On the other hand, it was always evident, when Creidhe made her excuses and headed back home, that the two of them were glad to be left alone together, save for the discreet, well-trained men and women of the household. The bond between Ash and Margaret could be read in the way they moved, the way they looked, in every note of their voices.