A table, a shelf, a bench. A container for water. On the wall, another iron ring set at the height of a man’s waist; did this captive eat his meals chained? A millet broom, a bucket, folded cloths, all stored in orderly fashion. No supplies, only an empty tray, a platter, two bowls, two cups, two spoons. No knife. Ana ventured into the inner chamber, the wren on her right shoulder now joined by the crossbill on her left. There was so little light in here that she returned to the outer chamber to loop up the door hanging before she investigated further. A lamp on a stone shelf, unlit, with a crock for oil beside it. Two rudimentary beds with straw mattresses and blankets of good woolen weave, sadly worn. All was neatly stowed, and the floor was strewn thickly with fresh rushes: Deord’s doing, no doubt. Above one of the beds was yet another of those rings. It made her shudder to see it.
“It’s a man they keep here,” she said to the birds. “One doesn’t house a wild beast in a blanketed bed, nor feed him his scraps on breakable earthenware. Imagine it: sleeping fettered, so that even in his dreams he can’t run free … Surely he’d go crazy with longing for open skies and the wind on his face.” This neat apartment was, in its way, as sorry a place as the shadowy enclosure outside it. The key she had been given had revealed nothing but more unanswered questions. Time to retreat. Ana made to turn, and the two birds flew down together to the rushes in the corner, where they began to peck about busily.
What—” Ana took a step toward them. Suddenly, the ground beneath her foot was not there. Teetering, she stepped back, then knelt and pulled aside the rushes, her heart racing.
Boards lay across an opening of some kind. She moved them aside, peering deeper. It was a tunnel; no hastily scooped hole, but a well-formed exit large enough for a strongly built man such as Deord to pass through without difficulty. The opening and its cover had been entirely concealed by the generous rush carpet. From the look of it, this had been here a long time. Its walls were stone-lined, not part of the fortress’s original construction, she judged, but made afterward by someone who knew what he was doing. Light was entering the underground place from the far end. It was a passage to the outside world; a way under the great wall of Alpin’s fortress with, more likely than not, an exit amid the thick cover of the wildwood. Bold indeed. The prisoner could escape when he chose. This was becoming odder by the moment.
Ana hesitated on the edge of the drop. It was still early, but not so early that a servant or two might not be about quite soon, lighting fires, tending to horses or dogs. She did have the key. Perhaps this should wait for another day. But …
The wren’s tiny form darted down to vanish into the subterranean way. The crossbill fidgeted, ruffling its wings.
“Just to the outside, then,” Ana murmured. “Just to the other end, no farther. I suppose these folk must have good reasons for such strong walls.”
She was quite a tall girl, but this had been made for big men, and passing through was easy. The bird flew ahead of her, and before long they reached the outside, emerging into a hollow at the foot of the fortress wall, a place well grown over with briars and creepers and concealed still further by a tumble of stones, perhaps remnants of some earlier construction now fallen to ruins. Ana was breathing hard, as much from anticipation as exertion. It was not far past dawn and the light was gentle on the foliage above her. Crossbill and wren perched side by side on a thorny branch at the lip of the hollow, apparently waiting. There was no way she could simply turn back as she had promised herself she would do. These two were surely leading her to the answers she sought.
She clambered up, glancing to the top of the wall as she did so; there might be guards patrolling there on an upper walkway with a wide view of the forest. Just now, nobody was in sight. “Very well,” she whispered. “Take me to wherever it is, but be quick about it or I’ll be in trouble.”
If there was a path into the forest, the feet that traveled it walked lightly, for it was scarcely visible. Ana picked her way between the sharp-thorned bushes, the snagging briars and perilous brambles, following the bright splash of red that was the crossbill. The wren could hardly be seen amid the restless, changing tapestry of leaves and sunlight. Before long the way fell into deep shade. They were going under oaks, and the light was filtered through a canopy of burgeoning green. The prickly undergrowth turned to moss and fern, through which small watercourses threaded a meandering way. Myriad tiny, damp-loving plants spread small blankets over fallen branch and trunk. The leaf litter of last autumn had left a rich, dark mixture underfoot, and Ana sensed the working of creeping creatures in its depths, bringing the soil to teeming life. A mob of siskins darted through the trees above her, squabbling among themselves.
The path took a turn uphill between great stones over which brambles had spread, knotting themselves into tight cages. There would be good pickings here later in the season. If she was still at Briar Wood in summer, she would come out with Ludha and gather berries. If she married Alpin … Ana’s mind veered away from that possibility. Frowning, she hitched up her skirt and clambered to the top of the rise.
The birds were waiting again, side by side on a branch. Ana paused to listen. The forest was full of little sounds, chirping, calling, rustling, the murmuring of water. But there was something else there now, a shuffling, a grunting that was not made by the small creatures of the woodland about their business. Ana thought of wild boar, and considered what she would do if such an animal appeared, tusks, bristles, a driving force of sharp-footed muscle. Scream? Run? Scramble into a tree and wait for rescue? She blushed to imagine what Faolan would think of her wandering out here all alone. She had not even brought the knife he had given her.
The sounds were coming from farther along the path, where the way dipped down on the far side of the rise. It was a place well out of sight of Alpin’s sentry posts. The natural contour of the land and the close-set tree cover made this prime territory for secret movement. The men of Faolan’s expedition had been full of tales they had heard, of travelers lost in the forests of the Caitt and never found; of sudden inexplicable deaths; of ways that started broad and straight and ended in twisting nightmares, leading a fellow in circles until he perished from cold, thirst, or sheer terror. They had indeed lost their lives, every one, but only the Blues and the inclement season could be blamed for that. Still, Ana had seen for herself how far Briar Wood lay from other settlements. She had heard Alpin speak of the changeable nature of this forest and she had believed him.
She stood still, trying to interpret the sounds, until the birds flew off again, leading her down the hill. She trod carefully. Whatever lay ahead, she did not wish it to see her until she had a chance to assess the danger.
She emerged to a clearing encircled by smaller trees: here grew elder and willow, and the gurgle of a hidden stream sounded from somewhere beneath their shade. Ana took a step farther, then halted abruptly. Two men were wrestling on the open ground, their bodies locked in a fierce embrace, muscle holding hard against muscle, heads down like those of sparring stags, legs planted firmly as each sought to topple the other. Stripped to the waist, their bodies gleamed with the sweat of exertion. On the sward nearby lay a homespun robe and other items of clothing, belts, shirts. One man she recognized, for he was stocky and bald, broad shouldered, barrel-chested: Deord. Perhaps this was a time off duty for Alpin’s special guard and one of his fellows. That was Deord’s robe, and the belt that lay half-concealed by it had borne his keys, almost certainly including the one now safe in her pocket. The hoodie was perched on a low branch not far from these possessions, as if guarding them.
As for the second man, he was tall, she could see that as the two of them released their hold and, in a flurry of agile limbs, circled and came to grips once more. The second man was graceful, wide of shoulder and narrow of waist, long legged and supple in his movements. He was quick; his skill in ducking and weaving kept him out of Deord’s powerful grip until he was ready for him. This man had a strong-boned face that seemed vaguely familiar. Th
e skin was unmarked; he bore neither kin signs nor battle-counts. Like Deord he was clean-shaven, but had a head of luxuriant hair the tawny hue of an eagle’s feathers, or sun on autumn oaks, or the pelt of a red fox. His eyes were bright; whether it was the fair morning, or his enjoyment of the fine sport, or whether he was a man naturally given to laughter, those eyes captured all the brilliance of the dawn, rendering his features radiant with light. Ana had to remind herself to breathe. He was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing she had ever set eyes upon.
Suddenly the need to avoid being seen was urgent. She had come where she should not be; she had intruded on something deeply private. She edged back toward the cover of the bushes.
The hoodie cried out harshly; wren and crossbill took flight in the same instant, winging toward the men. There was a sudden stillness. The combatants unlocked themselves and straightened, turning toward Ana as the wren alighted on the tall man’s head and the crossbill on his shoulder. Too late to flee; she must brazen this out, account for herself somehow. She was breathing too fast and her palms were clammy. Deord was starting toward her now, saying something, but she did not know what, for the other man was looking at her, and the expression in his eyes stripped away all but the need to look back, to look and look until she thought she might drown … Oh, how he stared! His eyes were like stars, like pools under moonlight, like deep wells full of dreams, and she could not turn her gaze away, but must stand like a foolish girl unable to summon a single word to say, unable to collect herself and behave as a woman of royal blood should. She could feel his gaze deep inside her, making her burn and melt and tremble. What was he, a sorcerer, that he could wield such power over her?
“My lady,” Deord was saying as he reached her side, “you should not be here. How did you—” He had himself well under control, but Ana could hear both anger and alarm in his tone.
“I …” Still she could not find her voice. She clasped her hands tightly together, struggling for self-control as the tawny-haired man walked over to stand behind Deord, not three paces from her. His gaze had never left her. For all the light in those bright, wonderful, terrifying eyes, his mouth was somber, his manner guarded.
“You found us,” he said quietly.
Deord stiffened. “Drustan,” he snapped, “what have you been doing?” Then, to Ana, “How did you get out here? Why have you come?”
His manner was not at all that of a servant to a lady; however, Ana was all too aware of the rules she had broken this morning. She drew out the key from her pocket, holding it on her open palm. Deord reached for it, and she closed her fingers.
“How did you come by that? Surely Alpin didn’t give you—”
“I think it’s yours,” Ana said. “Delivered to me at dawn by a small visitor. Someone wanted me to come here.”
“Back inside.” Deord’s tone was sharp, a command. “Drustan, get your things on. I told you not to meddle. Your folly has cost you time in the sun today, and may yet bring down a far harsher penalty. The lady must return to the house immediately.”
His companion made no move. His eyes were on Ana. “Not yet,” he said.
“Now,” said Deord. “Make haste. No argument.” As the other man moved to pick up his clothing, surprising Ana with his acquiescence, Deord addressed her once more. “As you have come this far, no doubt you will have questions. I will answer them if I can, but not here, and not now. If we are discovered outside the wall, or if you bear the tale of this meeting to Alpin, we lose what little freedom we have made for ourselves. You’ve done us a grave disservice through your curiosity. Drustan and his birds are equally to blame. We must return within our enclosure straightaway.”
“But—” Ana did not finish. The man called Drustan had thrown his shirt on roughly, not bothering to fasten it, and now he was picking up a length of chain attached to an iron bracelet; the other end trailed along the ground to end in a second such manacle. As she stared, horrified, the tawny-haired man set one of these rings around his wrist, then stood quietly while Deord tightened it and locked it in place. Then the guard shrugged on robe and belt and settled the other bracelet around his own arm. Ana stood mute. This was the wild beast, the dangerous captive, this lovely young man with his open face, his shy voice, and his eyes bright as stars. A prisoner who went willingly, it seemed, out of fresh air and sunlight to his dark confinement, his place where high walls shut out the morning. She had seen the way his eyes changed as he submitted to the shackles.
“Not yet,” she said, putting a hand on Deord’s arm. “Please. Let him enjoy the sunlight a little longer. I didn’t mean to …”
Deord’s mouth tightened. “This isn’t a game for highborn young ladies. You were foolish to come here. To anger Alpin is to risk much.”
Suddenly she was able to lift her head high, to take a deep breath, and to speak as a royal daughter should. “Alpin is not my husband yet,” she said coolly. “I am my own woman. I mean no harm here; in fact, Alpin told me to make myself at home in his absence. To explore as I pleased.”
“You will not please him by wandering alone in the forest, nor by unlocking private doors,” Deord said. “You meddle in perilous matters. You could cause great harm. We must go now.”
“Deord.” Drustan spoke quietly still, but there was a note in his voice that gave Ana pause. Where did the balance lie between these two? Surely a man who was a prisoner did not use such a tone to his keeper. “A few moments only. There is time.”
Deord was silent. After a little he turned his back to stand staring out into the forest. “Be quick,” he said. “You know my opinion. What in the name of all that’s holy did you think you were doing? And don’t tell me one of your friends there took my key without your knowledge; I see in your face that it’s not so.”
“I was opening a door,” Drustan said.
The chain was taut between the two men. Deord held a loop of it in his free hand, as if ready to jerk Drustan away if he moved too close to her. Ana looked at the prisoner and he looked back at her. His eyes were changeable, their color reflecting the many hues of the forest, leaves dappled with sunlight, distances of shadow-gray. He said nothing more. Perhaps, like her, he had momentarily lost his words. She thought his manner something akin to that of a wild creature poised for flight, fascinated yet wary.
“I’m sorry,” she managed, her racing heart making her voice unsteady. This was all so strange; it was as if the usual codes of behavior had been suddenly swept away. “If I’ve put the two of you at risk, I very much regret … I didn’t know …”
“Are you well?” Drustan asked. His voice was under no better control than her own; he cleared his throat and tried again. “It was a terrible thing when your companions were lost at the ford; a dark day for you.”
“You know about that?”
There was a moment’s pause, then he said, “Deord and I spoke of it.”
“Did you send them?” Ana asked him. “The birds?”
A nod, a fleeting smile that revealed a dimple at the corner of his mouth.
“Why would you do that?” Ana was struggling for clues as to what questions to ask, for there were so many she did not know where to start.
Drustan made no reply. Indeed, Ana began to wonder if he were somewhat confused in his wits. For all the keen intelligence in his eyes, his manner was more than a little odd. Had long captivity caused him to forget the conventions of a household such as Alpin’s, so that he spoke as and when he chose, without the constraints of accepted behavior? Or was it that Drustan existed on some level outside those patterns and cared nothing for convention?
“Are you angry, Ana?” he whispered.
As he spoke her name she felt something stir deep within her, in the place where the blood surged most strongly. “No,” she said. “Just confused. Are you a druid or a sorcerer, that you make such use of creatures? Why are you locked up here?”
He dropped his gaze; his fingers fiddled with the shackles. His shoulders were no longer set square.
“From necessity,” he said. “To do otherwise is dangerous.” Then, after a moment, “Are you afraid of me?”
How might one answer honestly? She could not tell him his eyes made her hot and cold and faint, that they captured her and swept her into a dream. If there were anything here to frighten her, it was that. “I can’t answer that, Drustan—that is your name?” she said, and saw his body tense as she spoke it. “I know nothing of you save what I see.”