Faolan must have seen her expression. “I’ve had worse than this in my time,” he said. “Forget it. It’s stopped bleeding. I can still walk. Be glad we’re alive. That was too close for comfort.”
“Faolan?”
“Mmm?”
“What did you mean, you’re not the one I should be asking? You must have known he was nearby, to call him thus. Have you been keeping something from me?”
“Ask your precious Drustan. I think you’ll find he hasn’t been entirely truthful with you. Now he’s here, you’ve got what you want, and it’s time for him to give you the full story.”
This was odd; but perhaps not so very odd, save that it meant Faolan had knowledge of Drustan that he had kept from her. A suspicion was creeping up on her, one that was strange and wondrous, and made sense of a great many things.
There was a little silence as they watched Drustan approaching in the dwindling rain, the moon touching his damp curls to silver. He bore a heavy armload of fallen branches.
“He’s strong,” Faolan observed. “That’ll come in handy.”
“You’re so angry. I can almost feel it. He just saved our lives.”
“Ask him for the truth. Ask him where he was and why he didn’t make an appearance until we were looking death in the face. Ask him if that’s what a man puts a woman through if he really loves her.”
Drustan came up to them, dropping his load and stooping to help with the fire. “We must keep it burning,” he said. “I don’t think they will come back. But you have no warm clothes, Ana, and the two of you look half-starved and worn out. Here—” He shrugged off his tunic and the fine wool shirt he was wearing beneath, passed the shirt to a wordless Ana, slipped the tunic back over his head. “Wear this, please. Your gown is ruined. You must be freezing. I’m afraid there’s still a long way to go.”
“You know the way?” she asked him, feeling again that curious tension between them that was partly the stirrings of physical desire, not wholly dulled by hunger, cold and shock, and partly a kind of reticence, a shyness that held back the words she longed to say. To speak what was in the heart, what awoke every moment in the body, seemed somehow dangerous. It was too soon.
“I can guide you to the east coast,” Drustan said. “I can lead you to a meeting of two rivers, from which it will be easy to make a way south to Bridei’s court. I will find shelter soon, good food, warm clothing. In these parts there is nothing. I’m sorry.”
Ana snuggled into the shirt, which was still warm from his body and long enough to cover her almost to the fraying, cut-off hem of her tattered gown. She looked up at Drustan; his bright eyes regarded her, solemn, a little wary. “Thank you,” she said. “This is wonderful. And thank you for saving us. I don’t know how you did that, but it was … it was like magic. Beautiful and mysterious.”
“You have something to tell the lady.” Faolan glanced at the other man. “An explanation.”
Drustan was staring into the fire now. “That is for tomorrow,” he said quietly. “It is for a place other than here; for a place of safety, in sunshine, when Ana has rested and eaten. I will tell her. But not tonight. Not yet.” He reached out and took Ana’s hand in a firm grasp, drawing her down to sit beside him, next to the fire. The rain had abated and the blaze cast welcome warmth on her chilled hands and face. Opposite them, Faolan seated himself awkwardly, stretching his injured leg out straight. Drustan’s arm came around Ana’s shoulders. She felt his touch all through her body, she who had for so long been too tired and sad and hungry to desire anything beyond the next day’s meager supper, the next night’s uncomfortable sleep. The blood surged to her cheeks; she laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.
“Drustan,” Faolan said, “I have to tell you that Deord is dead. Alpin killed him. He fell bravely.”
Drustan nodded, as if he had known this already. “A grievous loss,” he said. “He deserved a life; he deserved the freedom he won for us.”
After a little, Faolan said, “You mentioned guiding us to the coast. Does that mean you don’t intend to come all the way to White Hill with us?”
“It depends.” Drustan’s voice had gone very quiet.
“On what?”
“On what Ana wants. It depends on tomorrow.”
Ana took a deep breath. The two men seemed lost in some cryptic game of which she had no understanding. There was nothing for it but to speak quite honestly. “I want you to come with us, Drustan,” she said. “I don’t ever want you to go away again.”
A wave of tension ran through him, startling in its intensity. Then he said, “If you can say that tomorrow as we sit by our fire and watch the birds fly in to roost at nightfall, then I will tell you yes, I will never leave you, not in all the days and nights of my life. If you cannot, I will guide you to the safe path southward, and then go home to Dreaming Glen and tend to my land alone. No—” as she made to protest, “say no more now. We are all weary. Let us wait for the sun, and then we should move on to a place of shelter. A place where wolves cannot reach us.”
AT DAWN THEY quenched their fire and moved on. Crossbill and hoodie accompanied them, darting off from time to time in their usual manner. Ana did not ask where the hawk was. She had gone very quiet; Faolan wondered what she was thinking and how much she had guessed at.
They did not go far. After that night of fear and struggle and no sleep, they were all weary. Faolan’s injured leg had stiffened alarmingly and he was finding it difficult to walk. Ana’s stumbling progress suggested she was asleep on her feet.
They followed a stream that gurgled through the forest, and in a clearing where sunlight filtered down through the interlacing of alder and willow, they stopped to rest. Faolan’s knee did not want to bend, and when he had eased himself to the ground, he found that the others were both staring at him. “It’s nothing,” he snapped.
“All the same,” said Drustan, “a poultice of healing herbs can relieve this greatly. We still have a long way to go. Along this stream there’s likely to be found a number of useful plants, including something to stave off fever.”
“There’s no rush.” Faolan winced as he reached to remove his pack; the shoulder was a mass of fiery pain.
“You need this now, Faolan,” Ana said. “Don’t be foolishly brave about it. Let Drustan help you.”
“You know what’s required?” Faolan eyed Drustan skeptically.
“I have sufficient knowledge not to harm you, yes,” Drustan said, smiling. “Rest now; I won’t be long. When I return I will stand watch a while. Of us all, my need for sleep is least.”
He walked off, footsteps silent on the forest floor. Ana and Faolan settled as best they could. It should be easy enough to stay awake until the bird-man got back, Faolan thought. This pain was sufficient to keep the most placid of men on edge. He listened to Ana’s soft breathing; glanced across at her still form, head pillowed on hands, eyes closed, the small blanket spread over her. He looked up into the canopy of leaves; saw hoodie and crossbill perched together, utterly still. A moment later, he was asleep.
Faolan woke to a pair of hands at his throat, squeezing; a man kneeling astride him, a hoarse whisper, “Now die, Gael!” and, through the miasma of sleep, a sudden fierce urge to stay alive. He twisted, his heart thudding, his knee in agony. He bucked and kicked even as Alpin’s furious face swam in and out of focus above him. Unconsciousness was close; he had been slow to wake. Beyond those mad eyes, that contorted mouth, he saw movement: Ana waking in silence; Ana getting to her knees, eyes wide with shock; Ana seizing a piece of fallen wood and lifting it to strike …
Faolan made himself suddenly limp; against all instinct, he rolled back his eyes, then closed his lids. An instant later his assailant let go, jumping to his feet and out of the way of Ana’s makeshift weapon.
“Oh, so you’ll fight me now?” Alpin sneered, turning toward her. “Well, your Gael’s done for and my brother’s nowhere to be seen, so it’s just you and me, my dear. By all the god
s, I’ve waited too long for this—” And as she swung the branch again he seized the other end and tore it from her grasp.
Faolan, behind him, reached out for his knife. His knee would not take his weight; he could not get to his feet, and he would not be able to fight. The moment Alpin turned and saw him, he was dead meat. The knife was by his pack, close, so close … He could not reach it without sliding along the ground, making a noise … If Alpin heard him, if Alpin killed him, Ana was lost. Run, he willed her. Don’t try to fight, run. Find Drustan. Get away.
She ran. It had been a waking from too little sleep to sudden terror, and she stumbled. For a moment, Alpin stood with hands on hips, laughing at her, and then he set off in pursuit. Faolan rolled to his side; stretched out his arm. Just a little farther …
“You!” It was Drustan’s voice, the tone astounded, and Faolan, his fingers closing around the weapon at last, saw Drustan emerging between the trees, a sheaf of foliage in his hands, a bird now on each shoulder. He was staring at his brother as if struck by a dark revelation; as if looking into an abyss.
In the middle of the clearing, Alpin reached Ana, seizing her from behind, one arm around her waist, the other across her neck. “Make one move, bird boy,” he said, “and I’ll snap her in half.”
“You …” Drustan was frozen, his expression that of a seer in a trance. “It’s the same as Drift Falls,” he breathed, “just the same … shouting … Erisa running … you after her … I saw you …” Abruptly, his eyes became focused, his expression ferocious, and his tone a war cry. “By all that’s holy, it was a lie! You killed her. I saw you. Let Ana go! Let her go at once or I’ll strangle you with my bare hands, brother or no brother!”
“No you won’t,” Alpin said, backing away with Ana still captive in his arms. “You won’t kill me because, if I die, I’ll take her with me. As for Erisa, you’ll never prove that. Who’d take the word of a mad freak against mine? A delusion, that’s all it is.”
Drustan took a slow, deliberate step toward him, and another. His eyes, now, were deathly calm. Back him up toward me, Faolan willed him, give me a clear target.
“You think I wouldn’t do it?” said Alpin. “I don’t want her as much as that, little brother. Not after the two of you have been there before me. If you come any closer I’ll just tighten my grip like this—”
Drustan launched himself forward, hurtling through the air with hands outstretched like talons.
A brother should not kill his brother. That stain sits too heavily on a man’s spirit. Faolan threw the knife. Before Drustan could touch him, Alpin crumpled to the ground, the weapon protruding from his back and Ana pinned beneath him. For one chill moment, Faolan thought his knife had pierced her body as well. Then Drustan rolled his brother’s limp form over and, shakily, Ana got to her feet. There was a red stain on her gown.
“I’m all right,” she said before either of the men could speak. “Gods … How did he … He came from nowhere …” Then, clapping a hand over her mouth, she staggered to the clearing’s edge and retched up the contents of her stomach into the undergrowth.
“A clean kill,” Faolan said, managing to stand and hobble forward, his knee on fire. “Better than he deserved. More merciful than he meted out to Deord. I must offer you both an apology. I fell asleep on watch. I have no excuse.”
Alpin’s eyes were open. Even in death, their baleful glare was disturbing. Drustan knelt and closed them, gently enough. “Any one of us would have killed him,” he said. “For Deord; for Ana; for Erisa …”
“What did you mean?” Ana had returned, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. She looked wretched, sheet-white, with eyes like saucers. “About Drift Falls, and Erisa? You remembered at last? Did you say he was responsible?”
“He lied.” Drustan was still kneeling by his brother’s side, as if unsure what should come next. “All those years, he lied to save himself. When they called me”—he glanced at the two birds—“when I came back and saw him running after you … it was the same, just the same … They argued, and she ran from him, and he pursued her … and then she fell. He did not intend murder. Even he would not wish to kill his unborn son. It was an accident. But his doing. His, not mine … Gods, to remember now, after all those years … He’s right. Who will believe me? There is no way to prove my innocence.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” Ana said. “Find the old woman, Bela. Hear her story. With Alpin gone, she may be prepared to tell it. Do that and folk will at least listen to you.”
“A remarkable tale,” said Faolan. “I’m sad Deord cannot hear it; he believed in you, Drustan. He said you could be something. This death”—he touched the body with the toe of his boot—“will make things still more complicated for you.”
“What do we do now?” Ana asked shakily. “Go on? Go back?”
The two men looked at her.
“We bury him,” Faolan said. “Then we go on. You and I do, at any rate. Wild horses couldn’t drag me back to that place. Drustan’s choice is up to him.”
“I will accompany you to the coast, at least,” Drustan said. “For now, nothing changes. For the future, everything changes. It is too much to come to terms with.” He had taken his brother’s lifeless hand in his. Faolan saw in his pose both love and disgust, relief and anguish.
“At such times,” Faolan said, “practical work is useful. I still need those herbs; my knee feels as if it’s about to split apart. Ana probably knows how to make a poultice. She was educated by wise women, after all. You and I must dig a grave. And Ana must rest before we go on; indeed, we all should do so. You may wish to say prayers; to speak formal words of farewell. I don’t know. I don’t know if you are a man of faith.”
“I would have killed him,” Drustan said, getting up. “If you had not acted in that moment, my brother’s blood would be on my hands.” His odd, bright eyes were fixed, unwavering, on Faolan’s.
“Exactly. Be glad one of my trades is that of assassin,” Faolan said.
“And I would have killed him.” Ana’s voice held both horror and a certain pride. “If I had been a little stronger … We’re all responsible for this. I think we must bury him, say a prayer, and be on our way. A tale might be told later, at Briar Wood, of our discovering his body in the forest. Folk suffer mishaps in these parts all the time.”
Faolan was astonished at her coolness, her presence of mind. “This journey has surely changed you,” he said. “You’re suggesting Drustan lie about it?”
“Not exactly,” said Ana, putting her hand on Drustan’s shoulder. “There are times when not all of the truth need be told. Times when it’s best to get on and let certain things go. If Alpin had followed that advice he would still be alive.” She shivered. “You don’t think he has others with him, do you? A hunting party, so far from Briar Wood?”
“One would have thought that likely,” said Faolan. “But it seems not, or they’d be here, surely. All the same, your advice is sound. We’d best get this done and move on.”
After that, little was said. Drustan dug out a shallow grave; Ana and Faolan collected stones. If prayers were spoken over the fallen man, it was done in silence. Then Faolan submitted to the application of herbal poultices for knee and shoulder. Later, Drustan said, he would brew a draught as well, to stave off fever and allow Faolan to rest. Not now. They no longer wished to stay in this place.
They did not walk much farther that day. It was clear to Faolan that he was holding them back, and he gritted his teeth and did his best to maintain a steady pace, with limited success. When they had reached the far side of the woodland, where an open valley lay before them and rocks provided shelter from the wind, they halted. Drustan made fire and, true to his word, brewed a herbal concoction of bitter taste and muddy appearance. He stood over Faolan until it was all gone.
As drowsiness crept over him, mingling with the dizzy, hot feeling in his head, Faolan wondered what Drustan’s choice would be: let Ana go hungry, or reveal his other form so he could hunt and pr
ovide for her. Before there was a chance to find out, Bridei’s right-hand man sank into sleep.
THE NEXT DAY the sun shone, the clouds vanished, and the travelers made their way down into the valley. Drustan seemed tireless. The herbal remedies had eased Faolan’s discomfort, and he could walk more freely. All the same, today he would almost have welcomed the pain; anything to distract him from the sight of Drustan and Ana together. He watched them as the day wore on and they came to a sheltered stretch of lakeshore, where sunlight bathed the pale trunks and glinting foliage of birches and spread its warmth over the silvery water like a blessing. With every step they took, it seemed to Faolan that the distance between himself and the two of them increased, a distance not to be measured in strides or steps, but in something far less tangible. Drustan and Ana were walking in a different world from his, a world in which everything was good and joyful and easy to understand. They did not talk much; they did not walk hand in hand; they did not embrace. It was the smallest things that spoke to him: the not-quite-accidental brushing of fingers together, the brief touch of bodies in passing, the way Drustan’s hands lingered at Ana’s waist as he helped her down a steep drop. The color in their cheeks and the brightness in their eyes. Their drowning glances.
Once or twice they did move on ahead of him, for his leg was still slowing him down. Crossbill and hoodie stayed close to Faolan. He wondered if, when Drustan was not keeping an eye on him, these two were bound to perform that duty. It was a good thing, Faolan conceded. Despite the dark jealousy Drustan aroused in him, accepting the fellow’s help was a lot better than being left behind for the wolves.
Late in the afternoon, Drustan and Ana went ahead along the shore to look for a place to camp, for Drustan had suggested they stop their day’s walk early and rest. It was evidently plain to him that Faolan could not manage much more. It was a bitter feeling to become the weak link. Faolan hoped his wounds would mend quickly. He was still Bridei’s emissary. It was bad enough to be returning to White Hill with news of a mission turned to disaster. He would rather not be carried in burning with fever and owing his survival to this eldritch bird-man, this creature who was even now taking Ana away from him, step by inevitable step. No, that was foolish. She could never have been his. He was a Gael. He was an assassin, a man whose very existence relied upon his personal obscurity. He had destroyed his family; he had shattered all he held dear. And he was kin to the king of Dalriada. Like it or not, he was an Uí Néill. It made an impressive list of reasons not to think of her the way he did. Unfortunately, the heart took no account at all of logic. The heart whispered that, when he had had the opportunity, he should have thrown that stone.