“He’s carving symbols on an archway we’ve made linking the main Banmerren garden with the outdoor area of the new wing,” Ferada said. “My wing, that is. The major part of the stone masonry is already finished. Garvan and his assistant are doing the decoration. And some statues. It’s a big job.”
“Mm-hm,” Tuala said.
“Don’t do that!” Ferada snapped. “I’m too busy to think about men. I never wanted them and I still don’t. I have far better things to expend my energy on.”
“I’m sorry,” said Tuala. “Really. And I didn’t mean men, just one particular man.”
“If you mean Garvan, the only woman he was ever interested in was you, Tuala. After you turned him down, he chose to put his energies into his work.”
“Turned him down? I was barely thirteen at the time; I count myself very fortunate that Fola provided me with an alternative to marriage. At the time I thought Garvan a kindly man, and perceptive, though he could never be considered handsome.”
Ferada grinned. “Tactfully expressed, Tuala. He’s a plain-looking man; Garvan himself would be the first to admit that. Our friend Ana would say it’s not looks that count, it’s what’s inside.”
“And what do you say?”
Ferada did not answer. Her attention had been caught by Derelei, who now lay on his stomach on the rug, both hands stretched out toward the little stone horse. Beside him, the rattle whirred quietly to itself, showing it was not quite forgotten, but the child’s attention was on the carven creature. As he beckoned, it lifted one delicate hoof, then another, tossed its head and whinnied softly, then began to nibble experimentally at the sheepskin.
“He will do these things,” said Tuala in tones of apology.
“Did Broichan teach him this?” breathed Ferada, staring as the little creature set off at a trot around the rug where the child lay.
“Broichan is giving him the tools to control his natural abilities,” said Tuala. “Whatever I might think of the man, I recognize his wisdom in seeing the need for that. What Derelei does, he does without thinking first. He may have exceptional skills in this craft, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s less than two years old.”
Ferada watched with rapt attention as the tiny horse completed its circuit of the sheepskin and returned to the child’s side, nuzzling at his cheek. Derelei chuckled. A moment later his hand moved in a controlled gesture that was startlingly not that of an infant, and the little steed was once again no more than a wondrously carven artifact of smooth stone. “Tuala,” she began cautiously, then stopped.
“Let me offer you a cup of mead,” said the queen of Fortriu. “I’ve a very fine brew here, put by for special occasions. I’ll give you a crock to take home with you. You might share it with the stone carver; I imagine a long day with the chisel and mallet gives a man a powerful thirst.”
“Stop it!” Ferada got up to seat herself on her chair again. “Yes, let’s share a drink; there’s precious little of it at Banmerren. Your son reminds me of someone, but I’m not sure who.”
“Bridei, I imagine. His hair is just the same.”
“It’s more an impression, not anything so obvious. He may have inherited Bridei’s curls and calm disposition, but it’s what comes from your side that’s intriguing; the skills you seem anxious not to make too public. When he’s older, Derelei’s going to ask you about his origins, Tuala. What are you planning to tell him?”
Tuala was pouring the mead into a pair of fine blueglass goblets that had been a gift from a visiting southern chieftain. “I have no answers for him,” she said. She had never told Ferada about the pair of Otherworld visitors who had both consoled and plagued her in the years of her late childhood; how they had promised she would discover the truth about her parentage, and had snatched away that prospect when Tuala made the choice to stay with Bridei and forsake the world beyond the margins. They had been much in her thoughts of late, since she had overheard her son prattling to what seemed to be invisible companions. Derelei had few words as yet: Papa and Mama, Broichan, a handful of others. There were two new names she had heard him use with increasing frequency, names that his infant tongue rendered as Gomma and Wooby. These, Tuala had recognized immediately. They were evidence that the Good Folk, who had toyed with her life and Bridei’s with cleverness and cruelty, were already interfering in her son’s. Derelei was only little; for all his prodigious gifts, he was entirely vulnerable.
“I must trust Broichan to protect him while he’s growing up,” she told Ferada. “Garth is here to keep away dangers of the worldly kind, and Faolan should be back soon. The king’s druid has the power and the skills to deflect the other sort of threat. But I do worry about my son. I’m all too aware that I have set him on a most difficult path in life. His eldritch gifts come through me. Because of my choices, he must make his way in the human world. As the king’s son he will be much in the public eye. Folk will talk.”
“You’d best send him off to the druids, if you want him to be invisible.”
Tuala frowned and hugged her arms around herself. Derelei had rolled onto his back; he seemed to be drifting off to sleep. “I don’t want him to go away,” she said. “Bridei needs his family here. We are his strength. Even Broichan prefers that Derelei has his education at court. He actually seems quite fond of him. Almost like a grandfather. I’d never have believed him capable of that.”
“Interesting,” said Ferada. “Perhaps it will all become easier when you have more children.”
“Not if they are like this one.” Derelei was singing to himself now, a wordless crooning in his infant voice. Although they had not seen it move, the stone horse had assumed a sleeping posture, lying down with legs tucked up and eyes closed. The rattle was vibrating softly, a handspan from Derelei’s outstretched arm.
“Well, you know what I said before. Any small girls you and Bridei produce will be very welcome in my establishment. If their talents prove to be more magical than scholarly, I’ll pass them over to Fola.”
“You might have one or two of your own by then,” said Tuala, grinning.
“Want that mead down your neck?”
“I’d much prefer to drink it. I promise not to speak of such matters again; not tonight, anyway. It’s such a delight to see you happy, Ferada, I can’t resist teasing you just to watch that spark in your eye, the one you had in the days before … before it all happened.” Tuala was abruptly solemn.
“Yes,” replied Ferada soberly. “It’s very odd to be saying this, but I suspect that, if she could see what I’m doing now, my mother would be quite proud of me. I’m not sure if that makes me feel glad or scared.”
“You are not like her,” Tuala said. “At least, only in good ways. In your strength and determination. And in your unerringly fine sense of style.”
Ferada’s hand was closed around the little wooden fox. “I was so afraid of her,” she said, her expression suddenly bleak. “If I ever had a daughter, how terrible if she felt like that about me.”
Tuala did not reply. Derelei was almost asleep; she picked him up and bore him off to bed. When she returned, Ferada had refilled the two cups and was looking calmer.
“You know,” Tuala said, “that is the very first time I’ve ever heard you speak of motherhood as even a remote possibility.”
“I wasn’t serious. I plan to grow old happily alone, like Fola.”
“Uh-huh. You’ll make your own choices, that much is certain. You shouldn’t be afraid of becoming like your mother, Ferada. You are so much yourself: strong, good, clever. A true friend.”
“Thanks,” said Ferada after a moment, in a tone of genuine surprise. “I suppose it’s Ana who will be producing children next. I wonder if she’ll come back and visit us sometime, with her handsome northern chieftain by her side and a brood of miniature Caitt warriors about her skirts.”
“I see Ana with daughters,” Tuala said, staring reflectively into her mead.
Ferada glanced at her sharply. “You mea
n, because she’s the soft, feminine kind of girl? Or have you actually seen something in her future? Do you know if she is happy?”
Tuala hesitated. “I don’t know. A glimpse, something strange … I can’t tell, really. I don’t do this anymore.” She would not meet Ferada’s eye.
“Because of what you might see? For Bridei?”
“It’s more complicated than that. I catch little things sometimes, by accident. I’m very concerned for Ana. Those glimpses I have had show her weeping, anxious, afraid. Of course, these images could be of past or present or times yet to come. And … and I saw Faolan playing a harp.”
Ferada gave a snort of laughter. “Now that I refuse to believe as anything but a figment of the imagination. I put it down to too much mead. Clearly, it’s my duty to help you finish this bottle. Let’s have a toast, shall we? To absent friends: may the gods watch over them and bring them safely home.”
“May the Shining One give them good dreams tonight; may the Flamekeeper brighten their waking,” said Tuala, but there was a shadow in her eyes: how many such wakings might there be until the time of war, when Bone Mother walked the field of blood and pain, gathering up her broken sons for the longest sleep of all?
FAOLAN MIGHT AS well have been playing the music of war, for the drumbeat of his heart was in keeping with such martial entertainment. His skin was clammy with nervous sweat; his fingers would be hard put to pluck the harp strings cleanly. The tight codes with which he had learned to rule his behavior and rein in his feelings all through the long years since the night his life changed forever were not going to be of the slightest use tonight. The moment he set hands to harp, the moment he opened his mouth to sing, he would lay himself bare again. How could he possibly get through even one song, let alone sufficient to last the lengthy duration of a festive after-hunt supper?
Ana was gazing at him. She did look ill; the pallor was more pronounced now, the cheeks hollow, her lovely mouth set as if she were attempting to control pain. She nodded to him gravely. Faolan saw in her eyes an acknowledgment that she had erred in her judgment and the recognition that it was he who would suffer for it, though she could not understand the full extent of that, since he had never told her his story and now never would. He saw that she was sorry and forgave her instantly. He bowed his own head in response; it was the courteous gesture of servant to mistress, stiff and formal, calculated not to offend Alpin in any way. Then Faolan cleared his throat and began.
They liked the hunting song. Gerdic, true to his word, picked up the rollicking chorus and led the assembled crowd each time it came around. Faolan had been extremely careful in his research; nobody in the hall could have guessed he had not, in fact, been present when Lord Alpin’s own spear had pierced the first boar’s heart, or when the second creature had unexpectedly erupted from the undergrowth and come close to gelding Briar Wood’s assistant chief huntsman before the dogs moved in. By the end of the song—a long one, twelve verses in all—Alpin was singing along with the best of them, and Ana’s expression could only be described as stunned.
The hunting song had been delivered unaccompanied, save for rhythmic stamping and clapping. Faolan felt the sweat dripping down his neck; it was as if he had fought a battle all alone. In a way, that was exactly what this had been: a battle against himself. He was uncomfortably aware that the real test was yet to come.
“Let’s hear the harp, lad!” shouted Alpin, beaming. The chieftain was well pleased; the fact that he had not called Faolan “Gael” proved it. “Give us a little something for the ladies. What about a love song? You’d like that, my dear, wouldn’t you?” He patted Ana’s graceful hand with his own massive one.
Faolan made himself breathe slowly. He set the harp on his knee; took his time fiddling with the tuning, although it was already perfect, for he had checked and rechecked it before entering the hall.
“Faolan,” Ana’s voice came clear and soft across the crowded space, “I am fond of that ballad about the man who fell in love with a fairy woman, you know the song I mean?” She turned to Alpin. “Of course, it’s in Gaelic, but you won’t mind, will you, my dear? I do enjoy the melody, even though I can’t understand the words.”
She thought she was helping him, providing him with a song he already knew, since she had heard him humming it at the ford. Thought, perhaps, that it was the only other piece in his repertoire.
Alpin made a gruff comment that indicated reluctant consent, and set a heavy arm around his betrothed’s slender shoulders. Faolan’s hands moved; paused; moved again in a confident, sweeping flourish across the strings. The sound rang out, bold and true, silencing every tongue in the hall. His heart quivered and trembled with the harp’s frame, a sudden flood of emotion threatening to unman him completely, so long had it been since such powerful feelings had been set free within him. He must do this; this time he could not hide, he could not run away. Faolan drew breath and began to sing.
She did understand Gaelic, of course; enough of it so that, had he not needed every scrap of strength he had not to be overwhelmed by his memories and break down into tears or worse, he could have used this opportunity to speak to her, to warn her, perhaps, that Alpin was quite probably a liar and that they might need to make a hasty departure; to praise her beauty and courage; to tell her what he could never tell her outside the safe confines of a fantastic tale of passion and heartbreak. As it was, Faolan let the harp speak for him, conveying in its delicate tracery of notes the wondrous love of Fionnbharr for Aoife, the maiden of the Sidhe, and the aching void he felt within him when he lost her. The singing seemed to happen despite himself. If his voice cracked once or twice, his audience scarcely noticed. Goblets were arrested between table and mouth, pork bones held unmoving in greasy fingers. Serving people stood rooted to the spot, laden platters in hand. By the far wall a short, bald man with big shoulders stood listening intently, eyes calm, mouth displaying a small, ironic smile.
Eventually it was over. Wild applause broke out, with shrill whistles and table-thumping. Gerdic came over to . slap Faolan on the shoulder, almost dislodging the harp; another man thrust a brimming cup of ale into his hand.
“Drink up, then let’s have another. Not one of those tearful, slow things, for all the ladies lapped it up—look at my wife there, she’s sniffling as if her mother just died. Give us something with a bit of a beat to it, a marching song or suchlike. And then that first one again, we know the tune now.”
“Bard!” Alpin called out. “No more of that soft Gaelic rubbish, I’ve no patience with it. Let’s have words we can understand, for pity’s sake. And give us a tune fit for men, for we’ve shed a boar’s blood today, and we need entertainment fitting to the occasion. Play us something bold and stirring.”
Faolan took a mouthful of the ale, set the cup down and began again. Finding the right sort of tune was not difficult; he knew hundreds of them. Playing was no real challenge, even though his fingers had been untested at the task for more years than he liked to remember. The techniques came back to him readily enough, and the neglected harp stood up remarkably well to the test. If Faolan could have shut himself off from the painful return of the heart’s knowledge, he might have done as he was asked and emerged with nothing worse than blistered fingers. He labored on, glad that the company showed a marked preference for rousing, cheerful songs, for it was the sorrowful and profound that were most likely to undo him.
At a certain point in the evening Ana made her excuses and retired to bed. It was clear to Faolan she was struggling to hide her astonishment and, he supposed, relief: the last thing she would have expected was to find him entirely competent as a musician. They allowed him a brief rest during which he was plied with food and drink. He spoke with Gerdic and some others. Later, he could not remember a word he had said. He tried breathing in a pattern, which was a thing he had observed Bridei doing at times of stress, and found it helped slightly. The flood of memories still surged in him, but he was able to hold back its physical manifesta
tions: shaking hands, unsteadiness of voice, furious tears. The long evening finally drew to a close; Alpin called for one last song.
Faolan had not decided, as his fingers moved to the strings once more, just which piece he would give them. His common sense dictated something brief, bland, and cheerful to send them to their beds smiling and give them pleasant dreams. At the last moment he chose to disregard his own good counsel, and began the introduction to a far grander song, an account of a heroic battle, Gael against Gael, in which a great leader inspired his forces to unlikely victory. He did not sing in his own tongue, but in that of his audience, and instead of a redheaded chieftain of Ulaid his hero was a young king of Fortriu newly come to his throne, a man whose token was the eagle, and on whose great endeavor the Flamekeeper gazed with benevolent warmth and heart-deep pride. He did not actually name Bridei, but there would be neither man nor woman present in the hall who would mistake his meaning. He told of how old men laid down their walking sticks and ale cups to cheer as the young leader came by; how men in their prime rode off by the hundreds to join him; how youths scarce old enough to leave their mothers’ skirts took up the rusting swords of dead grandsires and marched away to pledge themselves to the new king’s service. He sang how, in this young leader, the courage, wisdom, and strength of the original ancestor, Pridne, seemed reborn.
The piece ended with a stirring melody on harp alone, and a single bright note from the highest string. It hung in silence for a count of five, then Faolan bowed his head as applause thundered around him. He had performed the whole song without conscious thought; it had seemed to flow, not because of him, but almost despite him. Once, when he was young and struggling with technique, he would have given much for such intuitive creation. Tonight he was only aware of how he felt now it was over: as if his body had been dragged over stones. He felt bruised, battered, like a beaten cur, his heart cowering within him, cringing from the assault it had suffered, for he had opened a door long closed and bolted, and had let in more than he could rightly hold.