WHILE BRIDEI HAD kept his solitary vigil by the Well of Shades, others, too, had been maintaining a night-long watch. In the king’s apartments at White Hill, Broichan and Tuala had remained by Derelei’s beside, every sense alert for the slightest change in the child’s condition. But the only change was in the patterns on the stone walls, images of light and shadow conjured by the fire’s flickering and the draft-stirred candle flames. Two or three times folk had brought food and drink, and Broichan and Tuala had coaxed one another to eat. Once Tuala had fallen asleep, to wake sitting on the floor by the bed, her head against the straw mattress, her neck stiff and aching. Broichan had not slept. He had stood or sat or knelt where he could keep Derelei in view, and sometimes he had recited prayers or told snatches of stories, the kind of tales a tiny child might enjoy. But most of the time the druid had held a pose of extreme stillness, a stillness that had seemed beyond the abilities of ordinary man. He’d been silently praying. Tuala had felt the power of it in the chamber.
There were questions she could have asked. How could a little child survive when he had taken no milk for a day and a night? The aching fullness of her breasts had told her how hungry her son must be. Why didn’t Broichan cover Derelei up, fever or no fever? The room was cold now that night had fallen beyond its walls. Shouldn’t they sponge the baby, or rock him, or hold him? Without the reassurance of touch, would not her son lose his way on the dark road he followed? Would not Bone Mother beckon, smiling, and this small traveler stumble toward her with hands outstretched? Tuala had not asked. To do so was to doubt not only Broichan himself, but the gods in whom he put his trust.
Light came at last, a pale dawning visible through the smoke hole above the hearth, and with it came Mara, bearing a basin of warm water in her hands and a clean cloth over her arm. She said nothing, simply placed these items by the fire and came over to look at the child. Broichan and Tuala stood one on either side of the bed, their gaze on Derelei’s shadowed eyelids, his rosebud mouth, his little outstretched arms. Mara reached past Tuala and put her rough and reddened hand to the infant’s brow, and Broichan did not try to stop her.
“The fever’s broken.” Mara’s tone was commendably steady. “He’ll be a hungry boy when he wakes. You’ll welcome that, no doubt; it can get painful when they’re weaning. I’ve seen it with Brenna when you were a wee scrap of a thing yourself.”
Broichan let out his breath in a long sigh, and turned abruptly away. Whatever was in his face, he did not want Tuala to see it. She looked again at her son, and saw his eyelids flutter, his arms move, the starfish hands closing and unclosing. He squirmed, kicking, and the line of colored powder that Broichan had traced around him was broken. The flowers fell from Derelei’s lids, their delicate blue replaced by a still sweeter color, that of the child’s eyes, dazed with sleep but clear and bright Derelei reached for his mother, and as he began to cry she scooped him up in her arms. In the time it took her to move to the bench by the fire, to unfasten her bodice and put the famished child to the breast, Broichan was gone.
HE HAD WATCHED a lively display of single combat with staves, and an archery contest, and a demonstration of horsemanship. He had visited stables, armory, and smithy, and commended those who plied their trades there. He had taken supper with Carnach and his captains, and listened to a group of warriors with a talent for singing. Now the long day was over and the Shining One hung sickle-thin in the shadowy field of the night sky. Bridei stood on the walkway outside his quarters, the same quarters he had shared with his guards during the momentous visit before his election to kingship. Memories crowded this place; the shade of his foster father, Broichan, was particularly strong. Broichan, without whom he would never have become king; Broichan who, at the end, had almost made it not happen. Broichan, who was the closest thing he had to a father; Broichan, who had never truly understood the man he had made. And Tuala … gods, he had been away only a day or so, and already her absence was a fierce aching in his chest. How could he have left her to deal with it all alone? Derelei …
“My lord.” It was Carnach’s bodyguard, Gwrad, coming down the steps from the upper level. “A messenger. From White Hill.”
Within Bridei’s belly something clenched in on itself, tight and cold, in preparation for a mortal blow. He could not speak. Behind Gwrad’s stocky figure was another; it was one of the Pitnochie men, Uven, who had been in attendance at White Hill. All at once Breth was standing at Bridei’s shoulder. Camach’s appointed guards kept their distance.
“Tell us, then,” Breth said in carefully level tones.
“Your son …” Uven was breathless.
Bridei stood very still as the cold thing inside him stretched slow tentacles toward his heart.
“For pity’s sake,” Breth snapped, “spit it out, man!”
“My lord, your son’s fever has broken,” gasped Uven. “He’s a great deal better, and should recover …”
Bridei’s knees felt suddenly weak; his head was reeling. He put out a hand, seeking the support of the parapet wall, and felt Breth’s arm around his shoulders.
“The Flamekeeper be praised,” said Breth quietly. “This is welcome news. You’d best go and recover yourself, Uven. That must have been a hard ride. If there’s more, perhaps you can come back and speak to the king again later.”
When the messenger had been shepherded away by Gwrad toward a fire and sustenance, Breth took Bridei’s arm and made to steer him indoors.
“No,” Bridei said. “No, I will stay out here a while, under the gaze of the Shining One. There should be prayers …”
“Maybe you’re a king, but you’re still a man,” Breth said bluntly. “Let it go. Laugh, weep, shout, do what you will. I’m the only one here to see you. I have no sons of my own, but I can imagine how it feels.”
“I’m fine,” Bridei said, subsiding abruptly to a sitting position on the ground, his back against the parapet wall, his hands shielding his eyes. “Fine …”
Ban put his front paws on his master’s shoulder and attempted to lick his face.
“The way I’ve always seen it,” said the big bodyguard, settling beside his charge, “the gods know what’s in your heart without needing to be told. Yours more than most, I wouldn’t wonder.”
6
ON THE MORNING after Ana’s arrival, not long after she had risen, washed and dressed with Ludha’s help, the tall figure of the housekeeper appeared at her door. “My lord wishes you to breakfast with him in his apartment,” Orna said. “With your maid in attendance, of course. Ludha, you’ll go with the lady and sit quietly in a corner. Take your sewing with you.”
It was a reasonable enough request; Ana wondered if Alpin intended to sort out the issue of Bridei’s requirements over a quick bowl of oatmeal. She very much hoped not. She had slept badly and was fighting a headache.
Alpin’s quarters were spacious, with two narrow windows similar to the one in her own room next door. There was a bed of generous size, its covers still rumpled, and an oak table with two long benches. Here, it would be possible for eight people to sit in council or over a meal. A fire burned on a hearth; there were hangings on the walls with scenes of battles and hunting, their colors vivid in the light of oil lamps set on two massive oak chests. By the hearth was a small door that Ana assumed led to a privy or storage area. She was relieved to find Alpin up and fully dressed; he stood by the table in conversation with two other men. They fell silent as she entered.
“Ah, Ana, my dear! I trust you slept well?”
She forced a smile. “The chamber is very comfortable, my lord. I’m still not quite myself after the journey, but that is through no fault in your hospitality.”
Alpin laughed heartily, setting her head throbbing. “No faulting your manners, either,” he said. “Mordec, Erdig, you have your orders. I’ll meet you in the courtyard when I’m finished here. Be ready to ride out straightaway.”
The two men gone, Alpin ushered Ana to the table. “Sit down, my dear. Of course
you will be weary. I should have left you to sleep in peace.”
“I’ve been awake since dawn.” She would not tell him another small bird had come to her windowsill with the first rising of the sun: a crossbill resplendent in its deep red coat, eyeing her with the air of bold assessment she was coming to expect from these avian visitors. She had watched it fly away; had seen it vanish in the same spot as the other, down within the wall on the northern side. “I do have a slight headache; perhaps if I eat something it may fade.”
There was oatmeal porridge on the table, as well as fine bread and a dish of honey. Alpin’s big hands, ladling the porridge into a bowl for her, were steady and capable.
“Try that,” he said with a sidelong glance. “Hope it puts the pink back in your cheeks. I thought maybe an apology was in order.”
“Oh?”
“I can see you’re a lady and not used to our ways. It’s a long time since we had a real lady here. I’ve become accustomed to living among men. To talking a certain way; not guarding my tongue as perhaps I should.”
In the corner, Ludha had seated herself on a stool and was pretending to sew.
“But,” Ana said, “there are plenty of other women here at Briar Wood. Not just the serving people, but the wives of your warriors, some of whom sat at table with us last night. And what about your own kinsfolk?”
Alpin took a while to reply; he was frowning as he attacked his porridge. “I’ve just the one sister,” he said eventually, “and she married a chieftain in the far north; haven’t seen her for years. As for the wives, I suppose we’ve got into a way of doing things and they just put up with it. They’re not like you. You’re a gem, a star, something rare as fine silk.”
His hand came over hers on the table, and Ana suppressed the urge to snatch her fingers away.
“I’m accustomed to pretty words,” she said, “and I’m expert at judging the sincerity of the men who offer them. You don’t know me, Alpin. Don’t feel obliged to say these things just because you think they may please me.”
Alpin grimaced and withdrew his hand. “You forget,” he said, “a small matter of a marriage.”
“A possible marriage. There are details to discuss before the decision is made as to its viability.”
“Oh, it’ll be viable, all right.” Alpin tore off a chunk of bread and used his knife to smear on honey. “I’m rushing you, I suppose. Forgetting, again, what a princess you are. Never lain with a man, have you?”
Ana felt the flood of heat to her face. She was speechless with mortification. From her corner, Ludha gave a little shocked gasp.
“I see you haven’t,” Alpin said in tones of satisfaction. “Gives you greater bargaining power; you probably didn’t think of that. Blush easily, don’t you?” His hand came up to cup her cheek; she closed her eyes and held herself very still, like a creature trying to avoid a predator’s notice. Her heart was thumping. Alpin’s fingers moved against her hot skin, stroking. “I like it,” he murmured. “There’s passion in you, for all your proper ways. No need to be wary of marriage. You’re old enough to be bedded; old enough to take great pleasure from it. Are you afraid of me?”
This was difficult to answer. It was not fear she felt at his touch but disgust. She could hardly tell him this. “After what we went through on our journey,” she said, “I’m not sure I can feel fear anymore. Besides, I came here as a bride; it would be foolish to have qualms about it now. But I do need time to settle in at Briar Wood. And, to be quite honest with you, I find your open talk of such … intimate matters … not altogether appropriate. It seems a little soon for that.” Gods, she hoped Ludha was not a gossip; this conversation would make fine fare in the servants’ quarters.
“It’s a long time since my first wife died,” Alpin said, removing his hand from her face and resuming his breakfast. “I like a woman in my bed; I don’t enjoy waking up alone. Perhaps I’ve grown rather uncouth over the years.” He grinned ruefully; it made his broad features into those of a boy caught out in a piece of petty mischief. For a moment he looked almost likable. “It seemed to me that, as you are not a young bride of twelve or thirteen, we might progress more quickly. If I’d my choice we’d be handfasted today. I’m impatient. You’re a fine-looking girl now you’ve been cleaned up. And I like the way you dismiss me so coolly, as if you were the queen and I the lowliest of kitchen boys. Just as long as you understand who is master here at Briar Wood.”
Ana cleared her throat, struggling to find the right things to say through a maelstrom of emotions, of which the foremost seemed to be irritation.
“I do have a piece of news that will please you,” Alpin went on. “The attack on your party at Breaking Ford offended me. Folk who offend me pay a price. I’ll be riding out this morning on a retaliatory mission; five or six days should cover it. That should make you happy.”
“I …” Ana struggled for words. “You are warlike neighbors in Caitt territory,” she observed.
“I pride myself on swift decisions and swift justice. I’m doing this for you; for the losses and hardships you suffered. Take it as a token of my genuine regard, pretty words or no. I value you. I want you. I can’t be plainer or less pretty than that.”
Ana could not look at him. “I’m not accustomed to bride-gifts paid in human blood,” she managed.
“Here in the north,” Alpin said, “we are real men.”
Her appetite was gone. She sipped at her mead and tried not to think too far ahead. With Alpin and many of his men out of the house, she would surely be able to talk to Faolan alone. He could advise her; she could make her apologies for telling a foolish lie to protect him. With the chieftain of Briar Wood away, Faolan would have a better opportunity to gather information covertly.
“Oh, and by the way,” Alpin said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I’m taking that bard of yours with me, what’s his name, Finian? This could be the making of him.”
Ana tried to conceal her alarm. “I don’t think that’s a good idea at all,” she said hurriedly. “Faolan put up a reasonable pretense when you came upon us in the woods, I know. But he’s no warrior. His presence would only hinder you—”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Alpin rose to his feet and proffered a hand to help her up. “Thank you, my dear, I’ve enjoyed this. You blush beautifully. Make yourself at home while I’m gone. Look around the place, decide what changes you’d like, get to know the folk here. Orna’s very capable; she’ll find you anything you need.”
“But—” A last plea came to her lips.
“We’ll be leaving shortly,” Alpin said. “I’d like you in the courtyard to bid us farewell. Make sure your good-bye kiss is for your betrothed and not for that puling bard of yours. You seem altogether too attached to the fellow.”
“Oh, there’s nothing like that—” Ana pulled herself up. Why was she apologizing to this boor?
“I’m pleased to hear it. Then let your behavior in front of my household reflect that, and we’ll have nothing to worry about, will we?”
ANA STOOD ON the steps as the men made their farewells and, when Alpin bent his head toward her, she gave him a prim peck on the cheek. Alpin seemed to find her effort most amusing and, judging by the grins and winks, so did the assembled household. Ana tried very hard. not to look at Faolan any more than might be considered appropriate. He sat astride the horse they had allotted him, his eyes giving nothing away. He appeared to be completely without weapons. Among the heavily armed Caitt warriors with their flowing locks, their bristling beards, and their fierce tattoos he was like a sheep among wolves. When they circled the courtyard and rode out between the great gates with Faolan in their midst, it seemed to Ana that her bard looked more like a prisoner under armed escort than a visitor on royal business. Still, she reasoned, if anyone knew how to look after himself it was Faolan. And in his absence she had a job to do. Since he had been robbed of the opportunity, she would turn her own hand to a little spying.
“ORNA,” ANA
ASKED casually, “where does that little door lead to, the one by the hearth in Alpin’s chamber?”
It was customary for the women of Briar Wood to spend the afternoons in a long chamber set aside for sewing and spinning. This workroom was a free-standing structure that opened to a secluded courtyard where stone benches had been placed to catch the cool northern sunlight. It was nothing like the well-tended gardens of White Hill; here, little grew beyond lank grasses struggling up here and there between the flagstones and a sad-looking pear tree in a meager patch of. soil. On one side rose the great outer wall of the fortress. A lesser wall, still too high to permit a view beyond, curved around from this to meet the stone exterior of the sewing room.
Ana found the atmosphere of the workroom dispiriting. These women were slow to trust and that made extracting useful information hard work. It was the third day after Alpin’s departure, and she had learned that within the fortress certain paths were guarded and certain barriers kept locked. She had slipped into Alpin’s chamber very early in the morning, before the household was stirring, and tried the little door, but without a key it could not be opened. That pricked her curiosity. The place where the birds had vanished within the wall lay somewhat beyond the family area of the house, and lower down. The door in question seemed to lead in just the same sort of direction.
“There’s nothing to interest you in there.” Orna’s lips were tight as she worked her way along a seam. “Storage places, outhouses; every dwelling has such an area.”
“Who has the key?” asked Ana.
Orna’s fingers stopped moving. “Alpin,” she said. “Believe me, it’s not a part of the house you’d want to be seeing.”
There was something in the quality of the other women’s silence that told Ana she was treading on dangerous ground.