10
KING BRIDEI AND his druid Broichan celebrated the feast of Midsummer at White Hill, and folk spoke of that ritual afterward as one of the greatest and most stirring a man or woman was ever likely to see. What better time of year to summon the strength for war than the day when the Flamekeeper reached his peak and the form of the ritual honored all men in their bravery, wisdom, and vigor?
That ceremony completed, the year turned all too soon toward the festival of Gathering, but it was the old men, the lads, and the women who would bring in this season’s harvest. From every corner of Fortriu, groups of warriors began slow, meticulously controlled moves in the general direction of Dalriada. It was like a gradual tide flowing westward, regulated with what subtlety its various leaders could apply, for the longer the Gaels remained in ignorance of Bridei’s plans, the more likely the chances of a stunning success when at last the two old enemies came face-to-face.
The scope of Bridei’s endeavor was enough to give even a seasoned war leader pause. Carnach led a massed force out of Caer Pridne, ancient seat of the kings of Fortriu. His own men-at-arms from his holding at Thorn Bend, on the Circinn border, were among those under his command, but a number of other chieftains had come to join him, bringing well-trained warriors of their own. These men had needed only the sharpening up provided in the northern camp to render them battle ready. Wredech, a cousin of the old king, rode out by Camach’s side, with a band of exceptionally fine archers wearing his colors.
Talorgen had returned to his home at Raven’s Well, down the Great Glen on the shores of Maiden Lake. At the designated time, he took his personal army in the opposite direction from that the Gaels might have anticipated, striking out a little to the northwest across deserted passes and lonely glens toward a certain coastal holding where a chieftain named Uerb had been preparing ships and training men to sail them. In the wild lands north of the Great Glen stood the high crags called the Five Sisters. From a remote encampment in those parts Fokel of Galany, deposed chieftain of a territory now held by the Gaels, dispatched his far smaller force on a mission of its own. These warriors had developed particular skills during their long years in exile: skills in hunting and tracking; the ability to cover long distances and difficult terrain with speed and secrecy; a knack for finding original solutions to seemingly impossible problems. Some called Fokel’s methods questionable. His results spoke for themselves.
Bridei left without fanfare. There would be a time for stirring speeches and heroic actions, and when it came he would summon both; a king must be ready for that. From the moment he made his decision and gave the order to set the advance in motion, he became more war leader than monarch, and he rode away as a seasoned campaigner does, with a minimum of fuss. The major part of Fortriu’s army was already on the move; the king set off with a company of twelve men-at-arms, many of them old friends from Broichan’s household at Pitnochie, and a number of other men with special skills. As his personal guard, Bridei took Breth. The Pitnochie men could provide backup. Garth had pleaded to go, putting forward the arguments that his combat skills were wasted at White Hill, that he had given more than five years’ loyal service, that any red-blooded man of Fortriu owed it to the gods to be part of such a grand endeavor. That his sword arm was itching for a Gael’s neck or three. Bridei pointed out kindly but firmly that if Garth went as well, there wouldn’t be a single one of his most trusted men left at White Hill to guard Tuala and Derelei. He could not proceed in confidence unless either Breth or Garth stayed to perform that duty, at least until Faolan came home, and nobody knew when that would be. There was no need for Garth to ask why Breth had been chosen to go and himself to stay. He had a wife and children; Breth had neither.
“I trust you as a friend. I know you are the best man for this special task,” the king had said quietly. “Guard my dear ones well and look to your own.”
“Yes, my lord.” The bodyguard had given his monarch a quick, hard embrace; they were old friends. With that, it was done.
THE SLOPES OF White Hill were thickly wooded below the sheer walls of the king’s fortified compound. From the point where Tuala stood with her son in her arms, watching dry-eyed as her husband rode away to the dangers and uncertainties of war, the path could only be seen for a short distance down the hill. She saw Bridei look up toward her and lift a hand in salute and farewell. He smiled. A moment later he was gone, his horse, Snowfire, becoming a pale blur amid the green. Ban ran from one part of the upper courtyard to another, whining in distress. It was clear that every part of him yearned to disobey his master’s command and follow. His heart, far bigger than his diminutive body, would have had him run by Bridei’s side into the heat of battle.
“Papa,” said Derelei conversationally, wriggling to be set down.
“Papa’s gone,” Tuala said. “We’ll go indoors now, shall we?” And without waiting for an answer, she turned abruptly and headed off across the courtyard, bearing her son with her.
“She won’t let herself weep in front of anyone,” Fola remarked to her old friend Broichan, who stood beside her watching as the last of Bridei’s party rode out of sight under the shadow of the pines. “Ferada should be here by this afternoon. I sent for her; she’s riding across from Banmerren with an escort. It’s not good for Tuala to keep everything bottled up. She needs a friend.”
“Mm,” murmured Broichan. It was evident he had not heard a word his companion had said.
“You surprised me.” Fola’s tone was neutral.
“What?” Now he was listening.
“I was certain you would go with him. It’s your dream he’s bringing to reality here as much as his own. This venture is everything you were working for, all those years when you were bringing him up. You rode to battle often enough at the side of Drust the Bull, and gave him your good counsel. A king needs his druid at such times.”
“Years have passed since Drust was king, and still more years since he rode to war,” Broichan said with finality.
“And yet,” Fola replied, resting her small, neat hands on the parapet wall before her, “you are not an old man.”
Broichan remained silent, staring out over the trees. He had ever been a man of tight controls, whose thoughts and feelings were locked away even from those close to him. There were few such people; his foster son, Bridei, was one, and Fola was another.
“If you had made it known earlier that you were not to travel at his side,” the wise woman said, “the druids could have found a younger, fitter man to take your place.”
“Fitter?”
Fola regarded her old friend. Her dark eyes were shrewd; not much escaped her notice. “I think it is not age that prevents you from being part of this heroic push to the west,” she said quietly, “but something else; something you have kept even from Bridei, and are reluctant to acknowledge publicly, for you see it as a form of failure.”
Another silence. Fola noticed the slight tensing of Broichan’s hands on the parapet.
“We’ve known each other a very long time, my dear,” she said. “If you are ill you should tell me. I might be able to help. We have a highly skilled herbalist at Banmerren. I wish Uist were still with us. His healing hands were unparalleled, save by your own.”
“I’m quite well. Don’t fuss, Fola.”
“Fuss?” she echoed, brows raised. “When have I ever fussed? I’m simply suggesting you acknowledge what’s becoming clearer every day to me and to Tuala, and take steps to do something about it.”
“Tuala? What has this to do with her?”
“Don’t bristle, Broichan. Haven’t you made your peace with the girl even now, after all these years?”
“I was not aware we were at war.”
Fola sighed. “Tuala mentioned to me quite some time ago that she thought you might be in pain; that perhaps your health was failing. She was aware that you wished to conceal it from Bridei. She has not spoken of it to him.”
“There were certain words between us concerning De
relei and the prospects for his training. It seems she understood me better than I realized at the time.”
“I wonder why, even now, the two of you cannot trust each other. Why you cannot become friends.”
“There’s no need for that. We are worlds apart.”
“Nonsense,” Fola said briskly. “You fear one another, not because of that, but for a reason that is entirely the opposite. There is such talent in her; I saw only the first glimmerings of her potential when she was with us at Banmerren. Because of her position here, she won’t allow herself even the slightest use of her powers in public, and that I fully understand, for she must protect both herself and Bridei from the corrosive influence of gossip and innuendo. Because of you, she won’t use her abilities in divination and augury even behind closed doors and among trusted friends. And that, I fear, may deprive us of a tool that could make all the difference to the future.”
“Rubbish. What of yourself and the abler of your priestesses at Banmerren? What of the forest druids? Why would we need the intervention of a … of one of the Other Kind?”
“Even I cannot summon the visions of the scrying bowl at will,” Fola said. “My choice lies only in the interpretation of what is shown me. Tuala’s skill goes far beyond that. There is a certainty in it that is beyond question. One might think her, at such times, a direct conduit for the goddess herself.”
Broichan folded his arms; his bony features formed an implacable mask. “It’s a raw talent,” he said, “uncontrolled, untutored, and dangerous. I recognize her loyalty to Bridei and to the child; I do not deny that bond. But one cannot get past the fact of her origins. She is not one of our kind. Unpredictability is her very nature. One might as well trust the visions of a will-o’-the-wisp as hers.”
“Where do you think Derelei got his uncanny abilities from, Broichan? Why is it that you are able to find room in your heart for him, not to speak of allotting him a significant part of your time each day, when you dismiss his mother with words of disdain? If Tuala is ill-tutored, whose fault is that? We had her at Banmerren for less than one year. You had her in your household for close to thirteen. Just think how much you could have taught her.”
After a moment the druid said, “What I can impart would be wasted on a girl. They soak up learning for a while, then lose interest when they’re old enough for a man and children.” His tone was dismissive.
“Talorgen’s daughter has already proved you wrong,” said Fola evenly. “She has ambitions for her school and for herself, and is busily making up for lost time. She has builders at work now and expects her first students by autumn. Ferada could have married, and married well. She has chosen another path.”
Broichan’s brows rose in scorn. “Were I the kind of man who lays wagers,” he said, “I’d bet you a handful of silver pieces to a cornstalk that Ferada will accept a proposal from some likely chieftain before two years are out and abandon her entire plan for ladies’ education. If I’d believed she’d stay the distance I’d never have given my consent to her plan. All young women are the same: at heart, it’s hearth and family they want most.”
“That was not what I chose.”
Broichan inclined his head courteously. “My argument excludes those who enter the service of the Shining One, of course. Besides, Ferada is not only well connected, she’s young and comely.”
There was a pause.
“You’ve such a tactful way of expressing yourself, Broichan,” Fola said. “Believe it or not, in our youth Uist and I came this close,” she held up a hand, thumb and first finger a hairsbreadth apart, “to abandoning duty for love. We were all of us young and comely once. Even you, I suppose.”
He made no response to this, but after a little he said, “You spoke of opening the heart. What better reason need I for teaching the lad, than that he is Bridei’s son?”
Fola began to speak, then halted. She gathered her cape around her shoulders as if preparing to depart.
“What?” Broichan’s tone was sharp. “What were you going to say?”
She sighed. “Something best not spoken. Come, it’s a. chill breeze. We’ve seen him on his way. The venture is in the hands of the Flamekeeper now.”
“Fola,” said Broichan, “what were you going to say?”
“Something you won’t want to hear.”
He waited, tall and pale in his black robe.
“Very well. He is Bridei’s son. He’s also as like you as two peas in a pod, for all his brown curls and fey light eyes. He mimics your gestures as if the two of you were one being. He copies the inflections of your voice while still too young to form the words; he even sits the same way you do. This resemblance will become closer as the child grows older, and other folk will begin to comment on it, folk less perceptive than Tuala or myself.”
Broichan neither spoke nor moved. It was almost as if he had not heard her.
“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” Fola said dryly. “Bear it in mind, that’s all I suggest. It may not be such a bad thing if the child decides to become a druid. Court may well not be the best place for him. I’ve no doubt his early promise will flower into a prodigious talent: a talent something akin to your own. He’ll need to be protected.”
And, seeing that the druid was not going to make any comment at all, Fola turned and strode off briskly to her allotted quarters, wondering if she had just set a taper to something that could in time become a raging wildfire.
“THERE,” SAID TUALA, blowing her nose on a square of linen. “I’ve cried enough tears for one evening. We all knew this time would come; really, I am so proud of what Bridei is doing it’s ridiculous to weep over the fact that he has to go away. Ridiculous and selfish.”
“Not at all,” said Ferada, who was seated opposite her friend in the king’s private quarters at White Hill. Before the hearth, Derelei sprawled on a sheepskin mat examining a rattling ball on a string, which he had inherited from Garth and Elda’s twins. “It is absolutely natural for women to grieve when their men ride off to war. Even more so when the woman in question possesses uncanny powers of foresight. I suspect you have seen something in Bridei’s future that troubles you, and that you are trying quite hard not to mention it to anyone.”
Tuala managed a smile. “Does it show so clearly?”
“Only to your friends. It’s all right, you need not tell me. I know you wish to present yourself to the good folk of Fortriu as just an ordinary woman, the same as any wife and mother, with not a special talent to your name. And, as an ordinary wife and mother, you’re entitled to a few tears when your husband sets off on such a perilous expedition. It makes me extremely glad I have no man to bite my nails over, unless you count my father, and he’s survived so many battles I’ve got out of the habit of worrying about him. I thank the gods that my brothers, at thirteen and fourteen, are as yet too young to go to war.”
“There is a particular danger to Bridei this time.” Tuala spoke very quietly. “I don’t know what it is, but there is a strong possibility that the driving out of the Gaels will be achieved at the cost of his life. I saw that in an augury Broichan cast; yet I also saw victory.”
“Did you speak of this?”
“I told Bridei. Nobody else.”
“And still he went ahead?”
“He values the freedom of Fortriu far above his own life. I must trust that the Shining One will hold him safe in her hands, and bring him home to us when this is done.” Tuala glanced down at her son, who was holding the wooden ball very still in his hands; the thing was rattling away merrily. “Tell me what you’ve been doing, Ferada. How’s the building progressing?”
“Very well, thank you. Oh, and that reminds me—I brought Derelei a little gift. Let me fetch it from my bag.” Ferada rose, walking over to the bundle she had stowed on the chest by the narrow window opening. Her clothing was more utilitarian than the elegant gowns of former times, and her auburn hair was dressed more plainly, but Tuala noted with a smile that her friend’s grooming was as immacul
ate as ever, her posture quellingly upright. The new students would be too intimidated to set a foot wrong.
“Here,” Ferada said, fishing out a small object from the inner recesses of her bag. “I thought he might like this. Garvan made it. He’s working on some carvings for Fola just now, and he didn’t want to waste the little pieces of leftover stone. Can I give it to Derelei?”
“Of course.” Tuala watched as her friend got down on her knees on the floor and hid the tiny horse under her skirt, making it appear and disappear until Derelei, the rattling ball abandoned, seized it in triumph with a cry of “Doggy!” Perhaps, after all, the students would not be so cowed by Ferada, not once they got to know her.
“It’s beautifully crafted,” Tuala observed, “in keeping with the skills of the royal stone carver. Look at the little saddle cloth, all covered in tiny symbols. And the quirky expression: it reminds me of old Lucky. The creature looks as if it’s about to cackle with amusement. I had no idea Garvan possessed such a sense of humor. Nor that he had any spare time to fashion playthings for children.” She glanced from the child and his new toy to Ferada, still on the floor. Ferada was wearing an ornament on a cord around her neck: a tiny fox carved in intricate detail. Not stone, this, but dark wood, perhaps heart of oak. Tuala was quite certain Ferada had never worn this charming miniature to court before. In the past, Talorgen’s daughter had favored jewelry in fine silver, set with precious stones.
“Has Garvan taken up wood carving as a sideline?” Tuala asked.
Ferada’s fingers came up abruptly to cover the little vixen, then she set both hands in her lap. “Don’t make assumptions, Tuala,” she said with severity. “One can have a friend who happens to be a man, surely, without the need for folk to gossip about it.”
“Who’s gossiping?” Tuala said lightly, smiling. “I won’t say a word, I promise. What is he making for Fola, statues of gods and creatures?”