HIS HANDS CURLED around a beaker of ale, Faolan sat in a shadowy corner of the drinking hall at Thorn Bridge, watching and listening. His mission had carried him far to the southeast, near Carnach’s home territory of Thorn Bend and even closer to the Circinn border.
He knew the man who ran this hostelry; long ago, he had seen the advantage of befriending the fellow. Each time he passed this way, he made sure he carried a small payment in silver.
There was no settlement here, just the bridge and the inn, with a farm or two close by. It was pleasant, rolling country dotted with trees; the sheep that grazed in these fields looked fat and healthy. Through the strath ran the river Thorn, a broad watercourse that marked, roughly, the split between the two major kingdoms of the Priteni, Fortriu and Circinn.
Three ways met at the bridge. One ran southward to Thorn Bend, one north and west toward Caer Pridne. The third took an easterly course and led into Circinn before joining a road to the court of Drust the Boar. At least, it had been his court; there was a new king in that realm now, Drust’s brother Garnet. That much Faolan had gleaned from the travelers who passed this way and paused for a drink, a bite to eat, and a chance to rest weary feet or worn horses. The inn at Thorn Bridge was the perfect place for gathering information. He had been here several days now, sometimes giving the innkeeper a hand with this and that to earn his bed in the stables—the payments in silver were more for keeping quiet than for food and lodgings—sometimes, as now, just sitting. He’d cropped his hair ruthlessly short and avoided shaving since White Hill. He wore plain worker’s clothing. He could have been anyone. When required to speak he used a neutral accent based on Garth’s, a voice that identified him as a man of Fortriu, with nothing particular to indicate his home territory or family status. Thus far, nobody had asked his trade. Folk’s eyes tended to pass over him. It was a well-practiced invisibility.
There had been small bands of armed men on the roads, traveling here and there. From those who were not too tight-lipped to talk, and from cottagers and traders, Faolan had learned that Garnet was now king of Circinn, and that Carnach had passed this way some time ago, heading for the new king’s court. To do so openly was uncharacteristic, for Fortriu’s chief war leader was a subtle man. Something did not add up.
Faolan stared into his untouched ale, watching the patterns as he turned the cup between his palms. He needed more. Another day, he’d stay here one more day, and if nothing conclusive came in he was going to have to cross the border and head into Circinn himself. There was a dark possibility in the rumors, and if it proved to have foundation, he must make certain of it before he took it to Bridei.
Faolan shivered, pushing the ale cup away. A rebellion; perhaps another war. If it happened, it would not be like last time, when the king had sent him away as escort to Ana so he would not have to fight. That journey had proved so dark and dangerous both he and Ana had emerged as different people. And then Bridei had sent him home. Home. Another adventure, strange, terrifying, full of surprises. He found himself smiling. Eile and her pitchfork; Eile on that wretched bridge, clinging. The smile faded. Eile all over blood. Saraid flushed with fever, her breath harsh in her small chest. Eile asking him… No, he would not think of that. It had haunted his dreams for more restless nights than he cared to remember and he wanted rid of it. She’d be gone when he got back to White Hill; nothing was surer with this mission carrying him so far south and the information so slow to come. She’d be gone and so would Ana. That was what he wanted. That was best for everyone. If there was war again, this time between Fortriu and Circinn, there could be no possible reason for Faolan not to stand at his patron’s side to protect him. He could use his skills with the best of them. If he went, this time, Garth might yet again stay behind and survive; Garth who had a wife and children who needed him. Nobody needed Faolan. He could be a perfect warrior, with no reason at all to fear death.
For a moment he allowed himself to imagine it: dying heroically as Deord had done, surrounded by fallen enemies. Then something made him look up, and he saw Deord seated opposite him at the rough inn table, muscular arms folded, serene eyes fixed on Faolan in question. Have you forgotten? the spectral warrior whispered. You owe me. You know the payment. Live your life. Live it for all those who never left Breakstone. And, as the figure faded, he heard Eile’s voice in his head, raised in a scream: Faolan! We’ve come to get you! Tears pricked his eyes. If there had once been a hero hidden somewhere in him, that man was surely gone. He did not want to go to war.
“I’ve done poorly thus far, friend,” he whispered to the vanished Deord. “I broke a promise. Two promises.” He’d told Eile he would be waiting when she and Saraid reached White Hill. Then he’d left her on her own yet again. What was it he’d told her back in Erin, I’ll be there as long as you need me?
Still, they would be safe with Ana and Drustan. Eile would be happier, with a surer chance of making something of herself. What else was he supposed to do? He was Bridei’s man; this was his life, one mission after another, an existence of journeying, of risk, of sudden death and perilous chances. It was what he did. It was the only thing he did, and he was good at it. Bridei needed him. He could not let Bridei down.
Faolan sat awhile longer, staring blankly across the dim expanse of the drinking hall, which was empty save for the hostelry’s proprietor sweeping. He tried to stop his mind from turning in unproductive circles. Right now, the only important thing was Bridei’s mission. He’d made his choice back at Pitnochie when he spoke to Ana and Drustan. He’d made it again when he couldn’t summon up the will to leave Eile a message at White Hill. Such a simple thing. I’ve been sent away; I’m sorry I was not here as I promised. And perhaps, I hope you will be happy at Dreaming Glen. He’d had it in his head, all ready. But who could he tell? Faolan, the king’s assassin and spy, the man so secret and private folk thought him incapable of human feelings, suddenly acquiring a young woman and a little girl as traveling companions? Leaving personal messages for them? He could imagine the raised brows, the knowing smiles, the conjecture. Even Bridei, he could not bring himself to tell, Bridei who had long tried to convince him that he was not that hard-shelled, impervious professional. To go on, to do what his job required of him, he must be that man. To do the things he had to do, he must put away all notion of a different kind of life. Softer feelings made a man vulnerable. They gave him weak spots that could be exploited. A man whose trade was all in plots and subterfuge, in trickery and sudden death must, in the end, walk on alone. To attempt otherwise was to put those he loved at terrible risk. If he had not known this, perhaps he would have stayed at Fiddler’s Crossing. Eile had been happy there.
The smile came back as he remembered her at the table, her red hair freshly washed and shining in the sunlight from the big window; he pictured her in the blue gown Líobhan had given her, the bright color emphasizing her pallor. “Eat slowly, Saraid,” he heard her saying, and saw the child, large eyes solemn, breaking her bread into tiny, even pieces.
Faolan got to his feet and walked over to the doorway, suddenly unable to be still. Logic had no place in this argument. Logic could not account for the aching emptiness inside him. It could not explain the dreams.
WHEN ANOTHER NIGHT had passed and no fresh news had come in, Faolan left Thorn Bridge and headed for Circinn. He did not take the road, but went by covert ways, sometimes walking, sometimes getting a lift on a cart, always traveling roughly southeastward. The news by the way was full of contradictions. He hoped he would not have to infiltrate the southern court itself; this was taking too long, with the influential Christian, Colm, expected at White Hill before midsummer and the king’s druid still absent from court. Faolan wanted this matter of a rebellion out in the open before that new challenge must be faced. If Carnach planned a revolt, let him declare it. If he was in league with Circinn now, having decided to throw in his lot with this new king, let them announce that for all to hear. If there was to be war again, let these plotters at least have the decency to allow Fortriu to draw breath before the first blow.
He put Eile away in a corner of his mind, and Saraid with her. He found he could not banish them completely; they had a habit of reappearing from time to time in a small, intense image or a snatch of words. He let those moments pass and tried not to think too much of them. Nights were the worst. He dreamed. Often he awoke, uncomfortably, with his body hot and hard with desire, requiring a sudden dip in a cold stream or a bout of furious physical activity to quell it. There had been a time when the image of Ana had tormented him thus, a time when his golden-haired princess had walked regularly through his sleep, as lovely and untouchable as a fairy woman of ancient story. To his astonishment, that had changed from the moment he saw her at Pitnochie, saddened by her recent loss but profoundly content in the choices she had made. What had once been a passion that threatened to possess his very soul had become, without his being aware of it, a quieter, less dangerous feeling: a lifelong bond of deepest friendship.
The dreams persisted, full of sensual delight and tormenting choices. But Ana no longer had a place in them. On this journey, the woman who lay with him by night was younger, slighter, with hair like dark fire and pale skin dotted with freckles; her touch was sweetly hesitant, her body a wonder to explore, lithe, fresh, giving. Sometimes he got it right, and pleased her, and heard her little sound of satisfaction; felt her move above or beneath him, sighing; saw her smile in surprised delight. Sometimes he got it wrong, and sent her back into the nightmare of Dalach, the pain, the powerlessness. Waking from those dreams was a tumult of guilt and sorrow, tempered by profound relief. Thank the gods that he had refused her offer.
Once inside the borders of Circinn, Faolan took a more cautious approach to his task. He could not afford to be apprehended; he must get back to White Hill as soon as he had what he needed. For two more days he traveled, stopping here and there for directions, chatting casually to farmers who gave him lifts, visiting a dwelling of Christian monks, where he was offered bread and parsnip wine and the advice that he should go carefully, as the roads in the district were not considered safe at the present time. He asked why this was so; the cleric whispered that there had been talk of parties of armed men on the move, of ambushes and general unrest. Faolan did not think he could ask any more questions, so he bid the fellow farewell and went on his way.
He had never been much of a sleeper; the nature of his work meant his nights were often spent on watch, listening for sounds in the darkness. It was his practice to make do with brief or broken rest, taken only when all was safe. Now his dreams were coaxing him out of that long-held discipline. At day’s end he found himself sinking into a well of sleep from which he did not emerge until near dawn. The dreams enmeshed him; sometimes they felt more real than the daily world of crossing ground, finding cover, gleaning the scant harvest of news. When it was the good dream, often enough he would half wake, then dive again into the secret, tender world of his imagining. A man on a covert mission cannot afford such indulgence. Such a slipping of standards can only lead to disaster.
Thus it was with Faolan one morning on his journey farther across Circinn. He lay in the shelter of a straw stack, his cloak wrapped around him. A drystone wall kept the wind at bay. She was in his arms, not sighing and moving in an act of passion this time, but sleeping curled against him, her arm across his chest, her head in the hollow of his shoulder. He pulled the quilt up over her, his hand lingering on the long, silken strands of her hair. It was almost dawn. It seemed a miracle that she lay there thus, skin to skin, the soft touch of her breath against his body, the warmth of her filling him like a blessing, the depth of her slumber telling him that, against the odds, he had won her complete trust… A little voice spoke up, right next to the bed. Get up, Feeler. Sorry’s hungry.
He opened his eyes. There was a spear point not far from his face, and an armed man behind it. “Can’t you understand a simple instruction?” asked the man with the spear. “Get up! Come on, step out where we can see you, and keep your hands open. Move!”
He moved. There was not just one man but a whole group, seven or eight at least. No time to snatch his weapons; the small knife was on his person, but the assailants were too many. Getting himself killed was not going to help anyone. As they dragged him forward, pulling his hands behind his back and binding his wrists together, he observed that they were not a rabble of wayside thugs but a disciplined team, clearly sent on a mission to apprehend him. “Who are you? What am I supposed to have done?” he ventured, and was silenced immediately by a gag, slipped on from behind and promptly tightened. This wasn’t looking good. Never mind that; he would get information from this one way or another, and then he would give them the slip. He still had his knife.
“Search him,” someone said. “Be quick. We’re too near the road here.”
They took the knife, as well as his bag of traveler’s supplies. His other weapons and his silver, concealed in the straw, they did not find. Then he was marched along the edge of the field, through a gate, and into the darkness of a shadowy wood.
THERE WAS ONLY one thought in the druid’s mind: Home. What it meant was hazy still: a house wrapped in oaks, a whisper-quiet chamber of stone, objects set out in orderly fashion… He ran, his bare feet knowing the changeable nature of the forest floor as part of himself, his breathing at long last strong and easy, his body bursting with the joy of freedom. I’m going home. The trees made a wondrous, changing tapestry as he passed, bright beech, silvery birch, dark pine, the soft fronds of ferns beneath, the spiky guardian hollies. His feet touched the crunching softness of fallen leaves; they trod on needles of pine, releasing a pungent aroma; they slid over gravel and splashed through streams, knowing each rolling pebble, each great lichen-crusted stone, each touch of sun or shade. From his high throne in the sky, the Flamekeeper smiled down on him.
As he drew close to the margin of the great forest, his pace slowed. Memory stirred, seeping into the great bright spaces his winter journey had opened in his mind. One by one they came back: a child, his pupil, his dear one… brown curls, blue eyes, a tiny, solemn boy who spoke like a sage… his son… no, not his son, but dearer than any bond of kinship could make him. Bridei. But Bridei was a man now; a king. Yet still he saw the child… a different child, a boy of exceptional talent, of prodigious promise, an eldritch, precious child… the child of his own blood…
“Derelei,” whispered the druid, his voice harsh and strange after a season’s silence. Once he had given a name to the image, others flowed after it: Bridei the man, strong and grave, and Tuala… Tuala, the daughter he had wronged, the daughter whom he must learn to know all over again, this time with love and trust and an open heart. He thought that he could do it; he thought that he could try.
He halted in a clearing fringed by drooping willows and spreading elders: a place of the Shining One. Here the streamlet whose course he had been following flowed into a round, deep pool edged by moss-cloaked stones; small fish darted there, hiding in the fronds of underwater plants, and above the surface dragonflies made zigzag paths, their wings a wonder of transparent grace.
The druid knelt on the rocks by the pool. Home. It had a wealth of meanings. Perhaps, after all, for him home was not a place, but a state of mind. Perhaps it was forgiveness; acceptance; belonging. Was that simple message the sum of his winter’s hard-won learning?
He looked into the water. For a man long practiced in the arts of divination, augury, and prophecy, to do so was instinctive. If the Shining One had some final wisdom for him before this journey was ended, she might reveal it to him here in this still place, his last resting place before he walked out of the wildwood and returned to the realms of men.
A face looked up at him. At first he thought it a vision, an image from beyond death, for surely this was his old friend Uist, a solitary druid of the forest, who had long been considered half-crazed; the hair was wild, its long strands thick with scraps of foliage, twigs, and mosses; the eyes were mad, seeing and unseeing; the figure was smeared with filth, and underneath, completely naked. The druid lifted a hand, and the madman in the pond lifted his own as if in ironic greeting.
He made himself look again; struggled to analyze. The unkempt hair was of every shade between black and white; it was not Uist’s, but that of a younger man. The eyes were dark as polished obsidian; they had not the pale clarity of the ancient sage’s. The body… He did not want to look down, to recognize that wrinkled, pallid, scrawny nudity as his own. But I feel young, he thought. I feel sound. I feel more alive than I have ever been. I want to run, to shout, to sing, to work marvels. And heard an inner voice reply: So did he. It was true; Uist had been rich in both a young man’s vision and an old man’s wisdom even to the moment he slipped away from this world.
The druid did not look down. He laid a hand on his ribs, feeling the prominence of the bones and how the flesh had shrunk away during his time of privation. He touched his elbow, his knee; he touched his neck and cheek and looked again into the water. He tried to see the image as a child might, or a woman, or a shepherd grazing his flock at the forest’s edge, glancing up to see a figure walking out under the oaks.
“Is this the sum of my learning?” he whispered. “That in the space of one season, I am shrunk to a shadow of myself?” The figure in the water looked up, eyes bright with madness, hair like a rat’s nest, body exposed in all its gaunt and filthy wretchedness. The druid stepped back from the forest pool, retreating into the shadows under the sheltering trees. “What are you telling me?” he asked the Shining One, and sat down on a mossy rock to reflect on the answers already beginning to unfold in his thoughts. He reminded himself that outward appearances did not necessarily signify truth; that oftentimes the meanings of things lay deep within. Perhaps the journey must be slower; perhaps he must walk, not run.
“I am reborn,” he murmured, not sure if the words were his own or those of another voice. “An infant. I must learn it all again; how to walk, how to speak, how to listen.” He saw himself back at Pitnochie, long ago, with a small, grave boy by his side, and a lesson to teach. Step with care upon the path, that younger man said. Let your feet be part of the earth they tread. Know the thoughts of owl and otter, beetle and salmon. Speak the truths of the heart. It came to him that he had lost touch with the simple wisdom he had imparted to the child Bridei. There was another child to teach now, a perilously able child who needed him still more than that fledgling king had done. So, he would go on, but slowly. He would walk each step of the way with the love of the Shining One in his heart and his senses awake to the winter’s great lesson. That lesson was a beacon to show him the way forward. He thought its name was love.
“I WANT… SAY a thing, Eile,” Ana said in her halting Gaelic. The wedding would be tomorrow. Despite the tragic death of Breda’s handmaid, it had been decided not to delay the ceremony. Eile was helping the bride with some final adjustments to the outfit she would wear, a plain tunic and skirt in fine cream wool with little birds embroidered in a band around the hem. “The handfasting… I wish you… with me… not sister. Sounds bad, but true. You… at ritual… for Faolan. We… very fond…”
Eile did not reply; there seemed no right response. Very probably she had misunderstood, though if Ana did indeed mean she would prefer that Breda not attend the ceremony, she thought she knew why. Breda’s behavior was decidedly odd at times, and one could never be sure what outrageous statement she would come out with next. The young noblewoman had sought Eile out on many occasions since their first meeting, as if to make a special friend of her, but Eile had not been able to warm to her. Breda could be amusing in an edgy, barbed sort of way but, beyond their age, they had nothing at all in common. Yet Ana was such a good person, so wise and gentle; it seemed possible she had not meant the words in the way Eile understood them.
Saraid had made herself at home on the bed, surrounded by the contents of Ana’s sewing box. She held up one scrap of fabric after another against the shapeless form of Sorry, who was still clad in the pink dress Faolan’s sister had made for her. “New clothes?” the child inquired hopefully.
“One piece,” Ana told the child. “You choose. Eile sew for Sorry.”
“There’s no need. She shouldn’t ask—”
Ana put a hand on Eile’s shoulder. “I want to,” she said. “So little… how can she know? A gift. A farewell. Sad… we will miss you… Sad you not come with us.” Then, seeing Eile’s expression, “You stay here. Faolan needs… you wait. You here when he comes home.”
Again, Eile wondered if she had misunderstood. “Waiting is not a happy thing,” she said carefully in her new language. “My mother… she stopped waiting. I would not… be my mother…” The words began to spill out in Gaelic, “Father never came home. We waited and he never came.” She struggled with sudden tears; perhaps she would be an old woman before she could tell this tale without weeping.
Ana crouched beside her and hugged her. It felt good, but made the tears come more quickly. Aware of Saraid’s big eyes and trembling chin, Eile made herself draw breath and be calm again.
“Forgive,” Ana said. “You must forgive him. Your father. A good man. He tried. And… Faolan is not Deord.”
“I know that.” Eile got up and began to help Ana out of the wedding clothes. “I’ll just put in a stitch or two and this will be ready. What will Breda be wearing?”
Ana grimaced. “I do not know. She is… not interested. I wish…”
“Blue.” Saraid had chosen her piece of fabric, a sweet, warm color like the sky on a hot summer’s morning. “Make clothes now.” Then after a little, “Please.”
“Later,” Eile said. “Fold it up neatly as I showed you. Maybe we can find a strip of braid for the hem, so it’s like Ana’s pretty skirt.” She moved to collect the discarded wedding clothes as Ana got back into her everyday outfit. She thought about Breda, Breda who waited for her often in the outer garden, Breda who was not allowed to visit the queen although she herself was of royal blood and Tuala was not. For all her bevy of attendants and her place at the king’s table, Breda seemed lonely. “Maybe your sister is missing home.”
“I… hostage… eight years,” Ana said softly. “Breda… maybe next.”
“Yes, Drustan explained it to me.” It seemed odd to Eile that Ana, so plainly an honored guest here, so clearly one of Tuala’s closest friends, had only come to court in the first place as surety of her cousin’s compliance with Bridei’s rule. She felt a new surge of sympathy for Breda, odd girl as she was. Perhaps there was not so much difference between a bondwoman, bought with the payment of an éraic, and a hostage held as political leverage. Each had sacrificed her freedom; each had been robbed of the power to determine her own future. And yet, of the two, Eile was certain she was the better off. Maybe the éraic did make her a kind of slave. In some people’s eyes, perhaps she would always be one. But she wasn’t restless and discontent like Breda. There were so many good things here: warmth, safety, friendship, learning… It felt like the beginning of something new and fine. She must be careful. She must remember how easily things could change.
“Come, Saraid,” she said, reaching out a hand. “You can tell me what kind of gown Sorry wants, and I’ll make a start on it.”
“Wedding gown,” said Saraid. “Blue. Bray. Pretty, like Ana.”
“Braid,” Eile corrected, grinning.
Ana smiled and held out a length of ribbon embroidered with butterflies in gold thread and tiny amber beads.
“Oh, we couldn’t—” Eile protested.
“Only a scrap. Sorry should be beautiful. Faolan say heroic… Like you and Saraid.”
AFTER THE ILL-FATED hunt, Eile had done her best to stay out of everyone’s way. She had known Cella slightly, for Breda’s attendants thought Saraid as sweet as a little doll, and often stopped to pet her on their way past, not without a curious glance or two in Eile’s direction. Breda herself had two faces where Eile was concerned; when accompanied by her maids, she ignored her completely, but when the two of them were alone, she seized the opportunity to release a flood of gossip about everyone at court, especially the men. An odd young woman indeed.
Cella, by contrast, had been one of the friendlier girls. It was impossible to imagine her dead: so young, younger than Eile herself. As for Talorgen’s son, if he wanted to emulate his father’s prowess as a warrior chieftain, he was going to need all the luck the gods decided to bestow on him now his arm had been broken.
On the morning of the handfasting Ana and Drustan called Eile in early. She had only just finished dressing, and Saraid’s gown was half unfastened. Eile knelt to do up the ties at the back as Drustan spoke.
“Breda has sent a message to tell us she’s not well enough to take part in the ritual later today,” he said. “We don’t wish to delay it; already it has been too long for us.”
Eile nodded. She knew how he hated court; how he longed to be free to take his other form and fly off over the forest, seeing with bird-eyes. The restlessness that had been building in him, visibly, must soon have its outlet or it would become intolerable. She thought of the low, dim place he had described to her, the place where his brother had imprisoned him for seven years. For seven years Deord had stayed by him, kept him active, held despair at bay, risked everything to allow his charge brief flights into freedom. Drustan had been at White Hill now for almost a turning of the moon. He had told her he would not effect his transformation here, while the court was full of guests who might see and not understand. But he must change soon; he was strung tight with the need.
It came to Eile that Ana, too, would have a life of waiting. Ana had made the choice herself, and was content with it. Perhaps love made that possible. They were blessed, these two; blessed to have found each other.
“We want you to take Breda’s part, Eile,” Drustan said. “We’d be honored if you would agree.”
She felt herself flush scarlet. “Oh, but—” she began.
“Bridei and Tuala have approved our choice. There are only two brief responses for you to give, and plenty of time for you to memorize them. Wid will help you. The druid understands you are new to the language. This seems entirely right to us.”
“Please, Eile,” said Ana, using her limited Gaelic. “Tuala lend gown. Same size.”
Thus it was that, at dusk, Eile found herself clad in a queen’s gown, soft violet with gray borders, with a little wreath of flowers in her hair, in the middle of a handfasting ceremony held under the dimming sky in the small upper courtyard. Torches burned around the flagstoned space with its central table. It was nothing at all like her imaginings of the wedding of a princess, and yet it seemed to her utterly perfect. For Faolan’s sake, she tried to notice everything. Perhaps he had said that he did not want to be here, but she knew in her heart that he would be hungry for her description, if ever she got the chance to give it. Ana was his beloved and he was losing her. That would not make his feelings for her any the less.
A small circle of folk was in attendance. There had been no public announcement of time and place, and the stalwart Garth and Dovran were stationed where steps came up from the lower courtyard, ensuring there were no uninvited guests. Ana was a vision in her plain cream with her golden hair loose over her shoulders; Drustan wore a russet tunic and trousers over a snowy shirt, and had his wild mane tied at the nape, though strands escaped like licking flames at his brow. The crow perched on one shoulder, the crossbill on the other. Their eyes were bright, but Drustan’s were brighter, fixed on Ana with such love and tenderness that Eile began to think, just possibly, that certain things Faolan had told her about men and women might be correct after all. There was a sweet trust between these two, and a shy passion that showed itself in their every touch, their every glance. She could not for the life of her imagine Drustan treating his wife cruelly, or requiring her to endure anything she feared or disliked. That was not possible for a man so gentle, so courteous, so selfless. Ana had been carrying a child; Drustan’s child. Did that mean it was indeed possible to lie with a man and, if he was the right one, actually find pleasure in the act? Could it really be true?
If there had been time, a great deal of time, perhaps Eile would have learned enough words to ask Ana this question in the Priteni tongue. But Ana was leaving; she and Drustan were not even staying for the victory feast. After tomorrow, Eile would not see them again. Forever was a long time. Likely they would visit White Hill again in two years, three years, perhaps with their children. The pattern of her own life thus far suggested that, wherever she was by then, it would not be here.
The druid, Amnost, spoke the ritual words quietly, with reverence. Much of it Eile did not understand, but Wid had explained, while coaching her in her responses, that the handfasting was sworn by the powers of earth, water, fire, and air, and that the Shining One, most revered goddess of the Priteni, was asked for a special blessing on husband and wife. Ana made her responses softly, from the heart. Drustan spoke his with ardor, his voice shaking.
Bridei and Tuala watched on, hand in hand, more like a pair of young lovers than monarch and consort. Ana’s cousin Keother was there, a king in his own right, a silent, imposing figure. Tall, severe Ferada stood across the circle, Ferada who, Eile had learned, was head of the school for young women that she had dismissed so lightly in their first conversation. A scholar; a woman who had defied convention and made her own choices. By Ferada’s side was a very large, very plain man whose place here Eile could not work out. The two of them did not touch; they hardly looked at each other. Yet there was something between them; something powerful. As if aware of Eile’s thoughts, Ferada looked across the circle into her eyes, and her well-shaped brows lifted.
There was a wise woman, a priestess, assisting the druid with the ritual. Fola, her name was, a white-haired personage of diminutive size with piercing dark eyes and a big nose. She passed Amnost the ritual foods: bread, honey, herbs, and water. She spoke the prayer to the Shining One, her features calm, her eyes showing clearly her affection for the bride and her approval of the bridegroom. A wave of anxiety came over Eile. What was she doing here among such clever folk, kings and queens, druids and priestesses? If they knew the things she had done, if they knew the dark and bloody path she had traveled…
There was an awkward silence. All eyes were on her where she stood a little behind Ana. Eile realized she was supposed to speak now. For a moment, the words she had practiced over and over during the day fled entirely from her mind, leaving only a space full of terror and shame. She looked down, and her eyes fell on the embroidered border of Ana’s skirt. Pretty, like Ana. In her head, someone said, Heroic, like you. The words came back. She lifted her head and took a shaky breath.
“Step forward on your new path with love and courage,” she said in the Priteni tongue, moving forward to light a candle from the lamp on the stone table and place it in Ana’s hand, then do the same for Drustan. “Honor the gods and be true to each other.” As she stepped back she saw Tuala smile and Bridei nod approval. Ferada had unbent sufficiently to bestow a little smile of her own; as Eile watched, the red-haired woman slipped her hand through the arm of the lumpish man standing by her side. He put his big hand over hers, engulfing it, and Ferada’s pale cheeks turned pink.
Wid’s earlier explanations allowed Eile to understand the general meaning of the words now spoken to conclude the ceremony. Fola invoked the blessing of the Shining One, and called down her light to illuminate the pathway ahead for the new husband and wife. As the wise woman spoke, the moon sailed up above the dark outlines of the pines, full and perfect in a sky deepening to dusky violet.
Then the druid called on the Flamekeeper to brighten the lives of Drustan and Ana with courage, and to bless them with the gift of children. Eile saw the sorrow pass over Ana’s perfect features; she saw the shadow in Drustan’s eyes. It was only a moment. Now she had to speak again. “Blessed All-Flowers fill your home with joy, and keep you and yours safe from the storm,” she said, her voice steady. She took up the handful of petals set by and cast them across the stone table. It was a pity Saraid was already tucked up in bed under Elda’s watchful eye; she would have liked that part. Now it was done, and the handfasting was over.
She could tell Faolan how beautiful Ana had looked; how the moonlight had touched her lovely face to pale purity. She could tell him how Drustan’s love for her could be heard in his every word; how he touched his new wife as if she were at the same time lover, best friend, and goddess. Maybe Faolan wouldn’t want to hear that part. But she’d tell him anyway. He loved Ana more than anything in the world. He’d loved her enough to let her go, even though it had broken his heart. He would want to know that Drustan recognized the value of that selfless gift. He would want to be certain that Drustan would make her happy.
They said their good nights. There would be no feasting or celebration to follow the handfasting. In the morning the druid would conduct a funeral rite for the young woman who had been killed. And Drustan and Ana would set off down the lake, taking the easier route back to his home in the west, Dreaming Glen. Tomorrow night, Bridei would hold his victory feast. It must be difficult to be a king, Eile thought. With a tiny new daughter and a son of barely two, he had scant time to take a breath and watch them grow; scant time to come to terms with one challenge before another loomed. They said he’d been very brave and skillful when Breda’s horse bolted. Maybe a king needed to be able to do everything. It was a pity if that meant Bridei had no time to be a husband and father, Eile thought. She had never really considered, before, that kings and queens were real people like herself underneath.
Time to go; the others were talking among themselves, King Keother congratulating Ana, the druid and Fola in intense debate, Drustan speaking to Bridei. She muttered a farewell and made her way down the steps. As she crossed the lower courtyard she found she was being shadowed by the tall form of Dovran, the king’s bodyguard. He said something which she interpreted as an offer to escort her to her chamber.
“No, I’m fine,” she said, his presence by her side at night making her acutely uncomfortable. “I can go by myself.” Then, as he kept walking, she struggled for words to say it politely in his own tongue. “No, thank you,” she managed.
Dovran kept pace; when she glanced up, his handsome face—long, straight nose, fine gray eyes, firm jaw—bore a slightly awkward look. He said something more; it had Bridei’s name in it. Perhaps the king had ordered him to do this, though why she would need a personal guard to help her find her way along a couple of passages and down a flight of steps she could not imagine. Eile walked on, and Dovran walked with her. When they got to the steps he offered his hand to help her down. It was quite silly. What did he think she would do, trip over her skirt and fall in a heap? Since refusal would seem ill-mannered, she let him do it. At his touch, her body tensed with fear. She hoped he could not tell that panic was making her heart thud; that cold sweat was breaking out on her skin. At the foot of the steps she withdrew her hand, forcing herself not to snatch it away.
They reached the door of the chamber she shared with Saraid. Elda would be within, watching the child; the twins were in the care of a maidservant.
“Thank you,” Eile murmured, holding on to calm. “Good night.”
“Good night.” Dovran was not a man given to smiles; right now, he was even more serious than usual, and had his gaze fixed on the wall above her head. He said something else, then turned on his heel and marched off without another word. Eile stood there a moment, putting the words together and wondering if her interpretation could be right. Surely he hadn’t said, You look beautiful tonight? Perhaps it had been an expansion of their weather conversations, the far more innocuous, It’s a beautiful night. She didn’t think so. He’d looked embarrassed; bashful but determined.
Saraid was fast asleep, tucked up with Sorry, whose blue wedding dress lay half completed on the little table. Eile thanked the yawning Elda and saw her out, then undressed and got into bed, blowing out the candle. She couldn’t stop shivering. Her head was full of images that didn’t seem to go together but, in an awful, inevitable way, did so all too well: Drustan and Ana, eyes locked, faces radiant with happiness; Bridei and Tuala with hands clasped, like a pair of inseparable children; Ferada blushing as that big man wrapped his gentle hand around hers. Dalach. She tried to force Dalach out of her head but he wouldn’t go. He was still there; he’d always be there. And Dovran: a nice young man, comely, unwed, with a good position at court; Dovran whose courteous touch had made her blood run cold.
Eile found that she was crying; she kept it silent from long practice, not to disturb Saraid. This was such a good place. It was a haven. But… but… Watching Drustan and Ana was like looking in a window at something bright and precious, something she would never have for herself. Something Dalach had ensured she could never have. The two of them seemed to Eile deeply pure and innocent, and their love for each other true and selfless, a thing of wonder indeed blessed by the gods.
The tears flowed in a hot river. You’ll never have that, she told herself. Never. No matter how much you want it he’s made sure you can’t reach it. Saraid stirred, making a little sound, and Eile ordered herself to be still, though her nose was blocked by tears and her eyes stung. She knew she should be happy, grateful, astonished at the good fortune that had brought her to this house of kindly, generous folk. The remarkable fortune that had seen her put on a queen’s gown and take part in the wedding of a princess. The wondrous fortune that had seen Saraid blossom into a different sort of child, one with the confidence not just to make new friends, but to take charge of them… And she was grateful; she understood how far they had come from Cloud Hill. But the tears still flowed. Her heart was a tight core of misery. It wasn’t right. It still wasn’t right. She tried to fill her mind with a picture of the house on the hill, the cat, the garden, the savory smells, but tonight it would not come. She was cold all through; her body felt the touch of Dovran’s fingers and remembered Dalach. She curled herself into a ball, pulling the green blanket up to her chin. In the darkness her lips formed words in silence: Where are you?