Bridei shivered. It was daunting, sometimes, to see that and to know that a great deal of it was down to him. He was the king; he was chosen by gods and men to guide Fortriu to victory. These men, these seasoned, cautious leaders believed he could do it. They believed Bridei himself was the difference between another grinding defeat and the final, longed-for overthrow of the invader. He had tried to give them what they expected. He had made the plan as watertight as it could be. He believed, when he prayed to the Flamekeeper at dawn or to the Shining One at dusk, that the gods still smiled on him. All the same, it was a great weight to carry, and there were times when the longing to be at home was so powerful his heart ached with it. He wanted to sit by the fire with Tuala, watching as she brushed her hair in long, even strokes. He wanted to hold his son in his arms and to see Derelei’s odd little smile, his wide eyes full of secrets. He wanted Broichan close by, Broichan whose grave advice had so often helped him find his way through one or another perplexing quandary. But he was the king, and he was riding to war, and it would be a long time before he saw them again: his home, his dear ones. It would be past the feast of Measure, even if all went well. He wondered if his son would remember him.
They camped a night in the woods above Fox Falls, waiting for Fokel of Galany to join them. After they had eaten—a kind of broth that included hare, wood pigeon, and hedgehog—Bridei walked around their campsite with Breth, speaking to as many of the men as he could. They did not need stirring speeches now; if they were feeling the way he did, what they’d be wanting was friendly words and reassurance. He listened to their concerns with courteous attention, giving each one of them his time and leaving each, he hoped, with the knowledge that he had the king’s trust. It grew late, and most of the men fell asleep rolled in cloaks or blankets. Those on watch stood about the perimeter of the camp, silent shadows under a waxing moon. Bridei and Breth returned to the small shelter that had been erected for the king, where one of the Pitnochie men, Uven, was standing guard.
“Breth, you sleep now,” Bridei said. “Let Uven take first watch here. I must make my peace with the gods before I lie down. I won’t be far off.”
“If you’re sure.” Breth had been stifling a yawn.
“I am. Go on, now. Once Fokel arrives, and that may well be tomorrow, rest will be in even shorter supply. Wake him when it’s time to change over, Uven.”
“Yes, my lord.” The Pitnochie men had all known Bridei since he was a child of four. Their manner toward him was almost proprietorial, but never lacking in respect. He had earned the loyalty they showed him.
Bridei walked up to a little hillock not far from the camp, a place where the light of the Shining One filtered through the broad reaching arms of the oaks to illuminate dimly a patch of mossy stones and the heart-shaped leaves of a low plant that crept along the crevices in the rock. Here he knelt in prayer, and Uven, respectful of the bond between king and god, stood back beyond the light, spear in hand, eyes watchful.
For a man druid-educated and weaned, so to speak, on the ancient lore, Bridei made his prayer simple enough. Tomorrow and the next day and for many days after, on all sides of Dalriada, men would die because he had decided it was time for war: men like the good souls he had been talking with tonight. As king, it was he whose confidence was pulling them to the west with the light of a quest on their ordinary, honest faces. Many would not return. There would be wives, mothers, children whose time of waiting would last a lifetime. There were those who would receive back only a broken wreck of a man. Even if the forces of the Priteni achieved a great and noble victory, it would be thus, for war is cruel and impartial. In the heat of battle, on the field, there are no good men and bad men, simply two armies of fathers, sons, and brothers who put their lives at hazard because their leader convinces them it is right. He, Bridei, was that leader.
He did not ask the Shining One to take away the burden he bore on his shoulders, a load that would grow heavier with each day of conflict. He simply asked her to make him strong enough to bear it. He did not ask her to spare his special friends, Breth, Talorgen, the Pitnochie men, only that, if they died, they might die cleanly and with purpose. As for himself, he hoped he would get home to White Hill and hold his wife and son in his arms again. But he did not put this in his prayer. He would not request for himself what he knew could not be granted to every man in his army. He prayed that the way he had chosen was a good one. He commended Tuala to the goddess’s care; he asked the Shining One to send his little son sweet dreams. Then he knelt a while in silence, arms outstretched, making his breathing calm.
Something stirred just behind him. In an instant Bridei was on his feet and reaching for his knife. A moment later, Uven hurled himself across the clearing, spear at the ready.
“It’s all right, Uven.” With an effort, Bridei held his voice steady. “It’s only Hargest. By the gods, lad, you’re soft-footed for such a big man.”
“What do you think you’re playing at, sneaking up like that?” Uven addressed the young man in a furious snarl. “Another instant and I’d have run you through!”
“An instant is long enough for an assassin to strike,” Hargest observed, pointing to the knife in his belt. “My lord king, your bodyguards aren’t up to the job.”
“You little—”
“Never mind, Uven,” Bridei said. “I’ll have a word with Hargest about manners; no harm’s been done. If I didn’t hear him, you certainly wouldn’t; I was trained by Broichan. He’d be ashamed of me tonight. Come, Hargest, I’m finished here. Come back to the camp and talk to me a while.”
They stood by the little fire that burned near Bridei’s tent: Uven tense with irritation and unease, Hargest with folded arms and belligerent expression, Bridei maintaining a well-practiced calm. Hargest did not offer an apology. Perhaps, Bridei thought, he did not realize how close he had actually come to a knife in the heart. If so, the boy had learned less than he should have during his time with the king’s men-at-arms.
“Hargest,” he said quietly, “it’s not wise to test the reactions of my guards by approaching me stealthily. Not only are they on orders to kill, but they’ve trained me to defend myself. My foster father taught me to use my ears as a wild creature does. Had I not been deep in meditation, I would have stabbed you in the heart before I had a chance to identify you.”
“When you are at prayer, then, your guards should be doubly alert.”
“Don’t blame Uven,” Bridei said with a sigh. “He was doing his best to balance discretion with vigilance. My men know me well, Hargest. There are times when I do need to maintain the illusion of solitude, if only for my own peace of mind.”
“They say you love the gods. That the Flamekeeper views you as his favorite son.”
“I hope all men here love the gods. As for favorite sons, I can only trust that the Flamekeeper supports our venture and considers me worthy to lead it. Now tell me, why are you here and not sleeping with your allocated group? Why did you approach me as you did? Not solely to draw attention to a weakness in my personal defenses, I assume.”
“I want to talk to you alone.” Hargest’s voice was a growl; he glared in Uven’s direction. “Private business.”
“No chance,” Uven snapped.
“He’s right,” Bridei said, eyeing the young man’s clenched fists and set jaw. “In view of what you’ve just told us you must think your king a fool, that he would dismiss his single guard and conduct a private conversation at night in the woods with a man he’s known for only—what—one turning of the moon? Not even that, I think.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Please, my lord?” Hargest’s voice had quieted marginally. He was looking at his boots.
“Take a few steps away, Uven. Now, Hargest, what is it? Are you concerned about the battle? Have I made the wrong decision, permitting you to join my fighting force?”
“No, my lord.” The young man squared his shoulders. “I’m fit to serve; I’ll take my place. It’s aft
erward I want to speak of.”
“Afterward? Afterward is another battle, Hargest, and another march, and then another battle. That’s what war is about. It’s bloody and sickening. We do it because we must. Believe me, gods or no gods, this is not at all to my taste. When it’s over, if you’re lucky enough to survive, you’ll go back to Storm Crag and you’ll recognize that every day of peace the gods grant you is a precious gift.”
“I would … what if … ?”
“Whatever it is, say it, Hargest. It’s late, and I must at least go through the motions of resting tonight or Breth will be displeased with me.”
“There’s a chance one of your personal guards may be killed or wounded in the battle. If that happens, is there a possibility you might … ?”
Bridei could not suppress a smile. “We’ve refined your combat skills at Raven’s Well; the men are full of praise for you. It seems we haven’t trained you in diplomacy. Are you so keen to take on the duties of bodyguard? They tell me it’s a thankless job: little sleep, constant anxiety, no time to yourself. And the pay’s no better than average, unless you’ve something special to offer. My principal guard, the one who’s off in the north, is an expert translator and has a number of other skills. As for Breth, I will not challenge the gods by predicting his fate in the battle. I’ve several other men I can call on, such as Uven here. Trusted men.”
“You can trust me, my lord.” Hargest’s voice was croaky with eagerness. He sounded very young. “I’ve seen what you are to these men: a king, a leader, a friend. They see you as their brother, their father. They look in your eyes and see the gaze of the Flamekeeper. You know I’m a good fighter, my lord. I’m fit. I’m quick. I’m fearless. Give me a chance, and I’ll prove how good I can be as a bodyguard. I’ll be better than any of them.”
“I don’t require that,” Bridei said levelly. “I’m more than satisfied with the men I have. They’ve proved their worth over a long period; in the case of Uven here, almost a lifetime.”
“Everyone has to start somewhere, my lord. Give me a trial, please. You won’t regret it.” The youth’s voice was shaking with feeling. So young; so full of passion.
“One of the required attributes is the capacity for icy calm in the most testing of conditions,” Bridei said.
“Put me to the test, then.”
“You’re bold, that much is plain. Too bold, my advisers would tell me.”
“Please, my lord king. I will prove myself. I swear it on the Flamekeeper’s manhood.”
“Let us take Galany’s Reach first,” Bridei said, wondering if this explosive package of youth, ambition, and hero worship would be broken on the day of his first real battle, or survive to win the future it seemed he craved. “Let’s see how you acquit yourself there, and maybe I’ll consider giving you a trial. You’ll need to deal with Breth’s disapproval.”
“Yes, my lord.” The young man’s eyes were alight with hope, and a grin of pure delight curved his mouth, replacing momentarily his customary demeanor of sulky belligerence. “Thank you, my lord. I swear you won’t regret—”
“Let us survive Galany.” Bridei was suddenly weary. “I don’t in any way undervalue what you are offering, Hargest. Be clear on that. I honor your courage and your sincerity, and I hope the Flamekeeper holds you in his hand when we advance into battle. You do need to learn a modicum of tact when dealing with my men. You should also remember that I am king of Fortriu. Breth and Uven and the others use a certain familiarity in private when they speak with me. They have earned the right to do so through many years of faithful service. Perhaps, in time, you too may earn that right. Good night, now. May the Shining One give you good dreams.”
“Good night, my lord king.” Hargest sketched a bow. As he straightened, his crooked grin was that of a mischievous son enjoying a private joke with a stern but loving father. It was more than Bridei could manage not to smile back.
IN THE LONG dusk of a summer night, Faolan and Ana made camp on the fringes of a pine wood, high above the glen of a long, lonely lake. They had seen a pair of eagles flying over earlier in the day, heading for the bare peaks that rose beyond the fells, and Ana told Faolan this was an auspicious sign.
“It is Bridei’s token of kingship, and a pair is an especially potent message from the gods,” she said as they gathered wood for their little fire and dealt with the hawk’s evening offering, a fat bird of some unidentifiable kind. Crossbill and hoodie looked on unperturbed as Ana plucked and gutted the kill, another indication, she thought, of their profound difference.
“Mm-hm,” grunted Faolan, striking a spark with knife on flint. “I’d be happier if I knew exactly where we are, and how far we still have to go. If the gods want to be helpful, they might tell us that. Our guide there is leading us on a circuitous dance; it’s almost as if the creature doesn’t want us to get home. Maybe it’s time to dispense with his services.”
“That wouldn’t be a very good idea if you don’t know where we are, Faolan. Besides—” Ana broke off. He was not in the best of humors, and she knew it annoyed him when she spoke of Drustan. Drustan … his absence hurt more with every step she took away from Briar Wood. Time was not healing that heart wound.
“Besides, the birds are all you have left of him, I know, I know.” Faolan blew on the flaring tinder, began to place twigs on top. “They can’t be with us forever. And they’re not helping much; we’re surely too far north here, and likely to lose ourselves if we must go through this woodland on our way to the coast. I’m half inclined to seek out the path myself; to let them go.”
“How would you make them fly off? Surely they answer only to Drustan.”
“I would tell them to leave. Or better still, you would tell them. Think how the hawk comes to your glove, obedient as a well-trained hunting bird. Order him to go, and I’ll wager the three of them will be away the same day.”
Ana said nothing. The hawk’s trophy, skewered on a stick, was ready for cooking; her hands were a mess of blood, entrails, and feathers. If she ever got back to White Hill, she’d do so with skills she had never expected to develop. As for their three guardians, they had become so familiar, each day shaped by elegant flight from glove to sky, by the soft touch of downy feathers on cheek or fingers, by the little sounds they made at night and the mysterious knowledge in their wild, bright eyes, that she knew her life would be incomplete now without them. They were her companions and friends. If the hawk was leading them in a roundabout way there must be a reason for it. Perhaps there was danger on a straighter path; perhaps there was no shorter way save the one they could not take, the one that led across Breaking Ford. The land of the Caitt was every bit as difficult as the tales told, all deep vales and daunting mountains, thick, dark forests and broad wind-whipped lakes. It was grand, vast, and, for the most part, empty of human settlement. Here, the echo of a cry for help might ring on forever unanswered. Here, stag and boar and wolf lived and died never knowing the fear of the huntsman. If the hand of any deity stretched out over this great wild place, Ana thought it was surely that of Bone Mother, goddess of dreams, guardian of the ancient earth. She shivered, moving closer to the fire. Bone Mother governed the portal between this world and the next; her choices determined the span of a life. In the vast lonely sweep of this northern land, the goddess could snuff them out as easily as a pair of candles by the bedside. They would simply vanish, their passing unmarked, their bodies never found. Their flesh would darken and crumble and turn to soil under these trees and their bones would be scattered, crow pickings.
“What’s wrong?” asked Faolan, glancing at her as he balanced the skewered bird over the fire.
“Nothing,” Ana muttered. In the distance a cry rang out over the woods, a greeting and challenge: the uncanny music of wolves. From time to time, during the last few days, Ana had had the sense of being tracked; watched. She had not heard the pad of feet, nor cracklings in the undergrowth, but she had felt it nonetheless. She hoped Faolan would make one of his reass
uring comments, such as, “They’re farther off than they sound,” but he said nothing.
On these summer nights the hillsides were bathed in a pale, cool light until nearly midnight, and the time of darkness was brief. Usually Ana was so exhausted by the end of the day’s walking that she fell asleep soon after they had made fire and eaten. The discomfort of a bed made on rock or earth or forest floor was no longer enough to hold back the dive into a dark well of sleep. She knew she was much thinner; she felt the pressure of her hard bed on knees and elbows, on hips and shoulders that had lost the protective padding of their healthy flesh, and she was glad there were no mirrors here. She saw in Faolan something of the same. Hollow-cheeked, dark-bearded, he had acquired an edgy, dangerous look, the look of a man who fears he is losing control of the situation.
Tonight sleep was not going to come. The bones of their meager supper gnawed clean, they sat close to their fire and listened to the howling. There was a pattern in it: a call, an answer. A summons, a consent. The pack was drawing nearer. The moon hung low in the sky, near full, a pale presence more guessed at than seen against the cold gray-blue of the summer night. The pines seemed darker, taller, more ominous than any Ana had seen before; the spaces beneath them were secret hollows, gaping mouths tenanted by unknown presences ready to swallow any intruder. Ana glanced up at the birds. The hawk perched high; he was restless tonight, moving about on the branch, a pair of eyes, a shadowy swathe of feathers. Hoodie and crossbill huddled close together like a pair of nestlings. From deep in the woods she imagined she could hear rustling, growling, the pad of many feet.