“ … lady … ?” Deord asked. His voice was a wisp of sound.
“Drustan’s with her. I came as soon as he arrived. Gods, man, you surely led them a chase.” Faolan kept his tone light; no point in burdening Deord with his own bitter regret. It was starkly clear that he had arrived too late.
“Drustan … good. Faolan … ?”
“What is it?”
“Drustan … could be … something. Get him away … away safe …”
“After today,” Faolan said, “my sword has Alpin’s name on it. First I complete this mission, then I turn from hunted to hunter. That scum can’t be allowed to live.”
“Drustan … important, Faolan … look after him … and her …”
Faolan could not suppress a scowl.
“Your word now …”
“All right, I promise; I’ll get the two of them out if it kills me. A pox on the gods of Fortriu, they’re cruel and unjust. A Breakstone man should be given the chance to make something of his freedom. You deserve more time than this. Why did you do it?”
Deord was shivering convulsively now; the smile he attempted was a rictus of death. “Did … make something … good … ending …”
“For us. For strangers.”
“You … now … you go on … make good … self …”
“Me? I threw away my chances of achieving anything long before I entered Breakstone. I’m the one who should have acted as decoy.”
“Nonsense … Faolan … ?”
“Tell me what you want.”
“Message … home …”
“Where is home?”
“Tell … family …”
“Where, Deord?”
“Cloud … Hill … near place of kings …”
“In Laigin?” A chill ran through Faolan; what was he promising? “But—”
“Sister … wed one of your kind …”
“A Gael?”
“Tell them … ended it … well …”
Faolan nodded. His throat was tight; it was hard to speak.
“Faolan …”
“What, Deord?”
The bald head was lying against Faolan’s shoulder now; one hand came up to touch his sleeve. “Sing,” Deord whispered. “You … sing …”
So Faolan sang. He sang as the sun went slowly down behind the trees and the light in the clearing faded from rose to violet to the dusky pale gray of the summer night. He sang and a multitude of birds sang with him, bidding their own farewells to the day on which this warrior had fought his last and bravest battle. He sang a stirring tale of war whose words were all of the fine deeds of men, their courage and nobility, their selfless sacrifices for the greater good. Deord lay against him, heavy and limp, a small twitching of the fingers now and then, as a spasm of pain passed through him, the only sign that he still clung to life. That, and the eyes; closed to mere slits, they were on Faolan’s face as he made his music with tears streaming unabated down his cheeks; tears that were not solely for the waste of a fine man, but for all the inmates of Breakstone, those who had been destroyed there one way or another and those who had survived to make their damaged paths in the world. And because he, too, was a Breakstone man, some of his tears were for himself.
Toward the end Deord’s breathing began to catch more frequently, as if blood were welling in his lungs, in his windpipe, and pain made his body tense and shudder. Faolan held the big man as if he were a child, with firm, gentle hands. Since there wasn’t much else he could do, he kept on singing. Another man than Deord, at such an extreme, might have begged his comrades for a sharp knife and oblivion. Deord endured, teeth clenched, fists balled, silent save for the labored breath.
From somewhere deep in his memory, Faolan found the remnants of a lullaby. Its sweet, simple melody set a quiet on the clearing that stilled even the birdsong as night fell and Bone Mother held out her arms to bring her lone warrior home at last:
Sleep, my child, so brave and bright
Fair dreams wrap you all the night.
A solitary owl hooted deep in the woods. Deord moved his head a little, settling against Faolan’s arm.
Night birds sing your lullaby
Beneath the blanket of the sky.
Deord’s white-knuckled fists relaxed; his breathing slowed. Somewhere beyond the oaks, the pale light of the rising moon set silver on the edge of the sky.
Danu take you by the hand
Lead you to the shadowland.
Rest tired limbs and weary eyes
And to a bright new day arise.
Faolan’s voice cracked. He looked down; Deord was smiling. A moment later the calm eyes grew fixed, the features slackened, and he was gone.
For a little, Faolan continued to hold him and to sing. Then, for a long time, he sat in silence. It seemed fitting that a kind of vigil be kept here: who else was there to acknowledge this man’s heroic passing but himself, the turncoat spy who slit throats for a living? Later, when the moon had risen higher, he did what he could to prepare Deord for burial, wiping his face, straightening the wreckage of his garments, taking appalled inventory of the damage Alpin’s hunting party had inflicted. Then he dug out a shallow grave, using the broken sword for a shovel. He laid the warrior down with arms crossed on chest, his knives by his side, and covered him with his own short cloak. He did not say prayers, for Faolan set no credence in gods, nor did he know which Deord himself had honored. If Breakstone did not convince a man that deities either did not exist or did not care, it tended to do the opposite: made a prisoner believe in them to a degree bordering on obsession. Men died in there still screaming for divine intervention; Faolan had heard them. Deord, he suspected, was the former type of man, a man not dissimilar to himself, though he would never have done what Deord had done today. He’d be prepared to die for Bridei. He would put his life on the line for Ana. But he would never sacrifice himself for strangers. And that was odd. Not so long ago, he had considered his life of no worth at all. He had gone on with it simply because it seemed weak to take the other alternative. Something had changed. Perhaps it had been changing for a while. They had all played a part in it: Bridei, Ana, Deord. And now Faolan had more missions to fulfill than he had ever wanted. Keep wretched Drustan safe; get Ana home; make an end of Alpin. Report to Bridei, or to his representative at White Hill. Go back to Laigin and tell a woman her brother had been hacked to death so that a pair of strangers could live and be free.
In the midnight shadows of Briar Wood he blanketed Deord’s still form with earth then searched for stones by moonlight and laid them in a rough cairn to keep scavengers from the body. He stood guard over the makeshift grave, waiting for first light so he could begin the long walk back to the waterfall; to Ana, whom he had entrusted, all night, to the mercurial, the impulsive Drustan. In the long, long time from deep of night to first whisper of dawn, Faolan thought of loyalty and honor; of choices made and chances taken; of blood and betrayal. With sheer terror in his heart, he thought of home.
FOLA HAD RETURNED to the house of the wise women at Banmerren. Bridei was far beyond reach. Uist no longer wandered in the same world as his old friends, but had gone on before them to the place beyond the margins. Aniel, astute as he was in matters strategic, had no grasp of the stuff of visions and portents. There was nobody Broichan could talk to. There was nobody he could tell. The urge to share what he had seen was great. Indeed, it was his duty to do so, if those images of a man enduring an unspeakable death with god-given courage might prove in any way helpful to the future endeavors of Fortriu’s king and his army. But he could not tell; not until the interpretation became clear to him. It boded poorly for the alliance with Alpin of Briar Wood. It seemed disastrous for the royal hostage, and perhaps also for Bridei’s right-hand man. But Broichan knew well enough the deceptive nature of such visions, their skewing of time and place, their jumble of the real and the symbolic.
Curse this illness! His head was fogged with uncertainty and his limbs ached from so long keeping still, h
olding the vision. Once, he had been able to kneel through the night, arms outstretched in pose of meditation, and arise at dawn with not a trace of cramp. Once … that was before the malady began to overtake him again. The Shining One aid him, he felt like an old man in his dotage, weak and sore and confused. It was not to be endured. Had this vision been sent solely to tell him he must accept death gladly? That he must face it without regret, as that lone warrior had seemed to do?
Suddenly desperate to fill his lungs with fresh air, Broichan unbolted his door and walked out into the garden. It was a shock to find the sun shining, to see its light touching the orderly rows of vegetables, herbs, and medicinal flowers with warm benevolence. On the patch of grass beside the lavender bed, Derelei sat playing with his little stone horse, his infant features solemn with concentration. Opposite him sat his mother, cross-legged and straight backed, watching the child with eyes as big and mysterious as an owl’s. She might have been a sister to Derelei, Broichan thought, so young did she look and so slight. A frisson passed through him, a fleeting, unwelcome chill that was part memory, part foreboding. What Fola had said about the child was nonsense; nobody with any intelligence could credit such a notion. Derelei’s parentage was evident in his curling brown hair and candid blue eyes—Bridei’s, both—and, a more mixed blessing, the pallor and the unusual talents he had inherited from his mother. And if it were Bridei’s own parentage that was in question, that, too, was beyond dispute. Anyone who had known Maelchon of Gwynedd would read his imprint in Bridei’s strong-boned features and upright stance, and see something of Maelchon’s powerful presence in his son’s mastery of men. The king of Gwynedd had been a born leader; Bridei was that and more. Besides, Anfreda was not the kind of woman to betray her husband. All the same … all the same, there was a deep unease in Broichan’s mind as he walked toward Tuala and her son and saw both faces alter as they turned toward him. Tuala’s features became wary, guarded; Derelei held up his arms, beaming.
“May I join you?” Broichan settled on the grass, dark robe spread around him. Then, following a sudden, unlikely impulse, “Tuala, I’ve a favor to ask you.”
“Me?” she queried, clearly taken aback. “Of course, if I can help.”
Without stopping to think too hard, he gave her an account of what the gods had shown him. She sat quietly, grave eyes fixed on him as he spoke of the running man, the hunt, the impossible last stand. Derelei was making the little horse jump over his outstretched arm.
Tuala did not speak until the tale was finished, the warrior sprawled, dying, alone in the forest. Then she said, “A grim vision indeed; it is no wonder you look so pale. I had thought you ill. This is deeply disturbing. Alpin, you said? And he spoke of Ana. This cruel hunter who mutilates dying men is the chieftain we sent her away to marry. Can it be a vision of the present, do you think? Or is it perhaps what might be if we do not take steps to forestall it?”
“I would welcome your own interpretation.”
“I … if you wish.” The reason for Tuala’s hesitation was plain; in all the years since she had been placed in his household as a newborn babe, Broichan had never once asked for her opinion on such a matter, although he knew well what talents she possessed. “Of course,” she said, “I did not see these images myself. That means I must interpret at secondhand, through your eyes. Had I been by your side, using the same scrying tool, my eyes would perhaps have given me the same vision, but in the way the gods intended me to see it. That would be more useful.”
“Tell me anyway.” Broichan clicked his fingers; the stone horse turned its head toward him.
Still Tuala hesitated.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I must say this, even if I offend you. If I speak, you would not … you would not use it against me? There are folk here at court, and beyond, who would grasp at any means available to undermine Bridei’s power, especially now, while he is away. I need to be careful, Broichan.”
“I ask this only for myself, Tuala.”
“Fola would do it better.”
“You are here and Fola is not.”
She cleared her throat nervously. Could it be that, grown woman and queen as she was, she was still afraid of him? Derelei had moved over to Broichan’s side now and the little horse had followed, lifting its stone hooves in orderly sequence.
“It sounded very—immediate,” Tuala said. “The forest, the light, that seemed akin to the place where Ana was going and to the current season. I don’t know who this warrior was. Perhaps he is not a real person, more of an embodiment of the ideal of manly courage. After all, the Priteni ride to war this summer. The gods may be telling us many must fall before we gain our victory. But … you heard this chieftain, Alpin, speak of Ana; that she had run away or been abducted … That she had betrayed him with his own brother … That cannot be true. I know Ana. She holds duty and propriety above all things. She is the last person to act so impulsively and in such disregard of the conventions of society. Alpin mentioned a Gael. That could be Faolan, though surely the escort would be well on the way home by now …”
“He said the Gael was a bard,” Broichan mused.
“So, not Faolan then. If this was a true image of present or near-present, something has gone terribly awry for Ana. I fear for her; for all of them. And … if the marriage has not taken place, that could mean Bridei’s treaty has not been signed. That Alpin of Briar Wood never agreed to it. That is dangerous news for Bridei.”
“You do not see the vision as purely symbolic, then?” Broichan felt the tension in his own body, and made himself breathe more slowly. “A message about, say, the nature of death and dying?”
There was a long silence while Tuala’s wide, strange eyes regarded him solemnly. “Why would the Shining One send you such a message?” she asked eventually.
The answer came out against his better judgment. “To instruct me that I should accept what is in store for me,” he said. “That I should not continue to beg her for more time. Pain, I can endure; I’ve taught myself how to disregard it. But this is too soon. I’ve so much more to duo …” Derelei had climbed onto Broichan’s lap and was playing with the long braids of the druid’s hair, twisting and knotting them together. Broichan curved his arm around the child’s slight form and looked across at Tuala. What he saw on her face was not shock or sorrow, nor even the satisfaction of observing an old enemy weakened. Instead, her fey eyes now blazed with determination and her delicate jaw was set as firmly as any warrior’s.
“It is a vision of true things,” she told him, “and most probably taking place now, which is bad news for the fallen warrior, but better news for you. The Shining One entrusted you with Bridei’s upbringing and, in a sense, with mine. The goddess considers you a favored son and a conduit for her wisdom. You should not forget that, as a druid, you are the servant of the gods. And since we are speaking of trust, I have entrusted you with my most precious treasure: my son. You owe it to the gods and to me to survive until you have taught Derelei those things he needs to know. Without that learning, his path in life will be perilous indeed. It was very hard for me to give you that trust. You need to play your part in the bargain.”
She had surprised him; she was tougher than he had believed. It could have been Fola speaking. “Unfortunately,” he said as Derelei’s arms came up around his neck and the child snuggled his head against the druid’s shoulder, “I cannot hold back the effects of a poison that was administered to me years ago, and which has damaged me. It works in me now; my days are indeed numbered.”
“What help have you sought for this malady?” Tuala asked. “I know you are sick and in pain. It has become ever clearer to me as the season progressed. You wanted to go with Bridei, I could see that. I tried to ensure he did not know the truth, since that would have weighed heavily on him during the campaign. He would have liked you to go.”
Broichan held the child close and did not speak.
“Has Fola offered help? Or the druids of the forest?”
He did not answer.
“Very well. You asked me for help, and I will help. But you must accept that, in this case, you may not be your own best physician.”
“I asked for help in the interpretation of a vision. Not for this.”
“You are the king’s druid. Why would you need me to explain the messages of the scrying bowl to you?” Her tone was gentle; he heard in it that she already knew the answer. Suddenly it became possible to speak truly, and it all came flooding out: the headaches, the temporary blindness, the gradual dulling of his powers so that even the simplest tasks of the craft often seemed beyond him. The terror that, all too soon, he would lose his gift entirely.
Tuala listened quietly; he realized how good she was at that. There was no judgment in her eyes. When he was quite finished, she drew a long breath and said, “How frightening for you. You must have felt so alone.”
“I’m accustomed to being alone.”
“All the same. Now, will you let us help you?”
“Us? I don’t want this to become public knowledge, Tuala. That can only alert Bridei’s enemies to a weakness in his court. It must be believed that I am still capable of exercising my full role here.”
“Only those you trust need know. Fola, certainly, and her expert healers. Aniel, perhaps, since he can cover for any absences. And me. I know you’ve never trusted me. But you’ve told me now, and Bridei would want me to help you.”
He scrutinized her small, heart-shaped face with its snow-white skin and large, lustrous eyes. “You offer this on Bridei’s behalf?”
“And on my own,” she said. “You saved Derelei’s life. He needs you. We all need you, Broichan. If we put up the best fight we can, all together, maybe this malady can be defeated. Today’s vision is a good sign, surely. Your account of it was lucid and detailed.”