“Indeed,” said Aniel, folding his hands on the table before him. “I discussed that delicate issue with Drust the Boar, or attempted to. I see little possibility of winning him over at this stage. The atmosphere was less than cordial. He does need to deploy a considerable force on his southern border, I acknowledge that. All the same, I had hoped he might be prepared to begin planning for the future.”
“One had hoped for an agreement to a joint council, at least,” Broichan said.
“I did my best.”
“Nobody doubts that, my friend,” said the druid. “The king sent you because you were his strongest chance of influencing Circinn. That even your efforts could not secure their agreement is a sign of the desperate state of affairs.”
“If the Gaels decide to make a move this season, next season, we’ll be hard pressed to do more than hold a certain line,” Donal said sourly, “and it may not be the line we want. I’d like to see a well-planned offensive, not merely a scrambled reaction to what they throw at us. It sticks in the craw to know our own kind won’t lift a finger to help us.”
“We all want the Gaels gone,” observed Aniel. “To drive Gabhran and his forces back across the sea to Erin, that is a mighty challenge, a goal to aspire to. It will not be quickly achieved, not with our own land so bitterly divided. To drive out the Christian faith and win back the hearts of the folk of Circinn to the true way, that is perhaps still more of a challenge. Until the lands of the Priteni are united once again, I do not think that will be possible.”
There was a pause. It seemed to Bridei that he could almost hear people thinking.
“My lord?” he ventured.
“Yes, lad?” Aniel’s gray gaze was very sharp. Like Broichan, he was a man on whom one could ill afford to waste words.
“I just wondered—if the south won’t help us in the struggle against Dalriada, perhaps we could seek other allies. That would enable us—enable the king—to begin planning for the future, at least.”
“What allies did you have in mind? Reliable friends are few and far between these days, as no doubt your tutors have informed you.”
“Yes, my lord.” Bridei had debated this particular issue at length with Erip and Wid, and not got particularly far. “There’s the tribe of the Light Isles, those that call themselves simply the Folk. They are strong in battle, so I’m told, and kin of our own people. They could be called in. I know we haven’t always been allies, but their cooperation could be secured with hostages. And—” He hesitated.
“Go on, boy”
“And there’s the Caitt,” Bridei said, hoping the king’s councillor would not snort with derision.
Aniel’s brows lifted. “One might as well attempt to control an army of wildcats,” he commented. “The ancient name they bear is an accurate reflection of their true nature. Who in his right mind would volunteer to cross that border as an emissary? He’d like as not be sent back in several pieces, and there’d be no message of thanks attached.”
“All the same,” Bridei said, glad that Aniel had not laughed at him, “they are of our own kind, steeped in the ancient ways of sun and moon, and they are fighters, we know that much. Fierce and dedicated fighters. Nobody seems to be threatening their borders. Perhaps, wildcats or not, they have something to teach us.”
“That’s an appealing argument,” Aniel said. “But false. It’s the nature of their territory that keeps the Caitt secure from invasion. Beside the crags and chasms of the northwest, the Great Glen looks like easy pasture land.”
“Besides,” put in Wid, “as I’ve already told Bridei, the Caitt are as divided as we are. Having no incursions to whet their teeth on, they war amongst themselves, princeling against princeling, chieftain against chieftain, tribe against tribe. It would take a phenomenal sort of leader to pull that into a coherent fighting force. A leader such as, unfortunately, we don’t have.”
“Could not King Drust the Bull do it?” queried Bridei. In the ensuing silence he realized he had asked one question too many.
“It’s late,” Broichan said to his visitor, “and you’ve had a long journey. We might speak privately over a jug of mead, perhaps, and then you’ll want to retire.”
Aniel ignored this completely “Do you play games, Bridei?” he asked. “Crow-corners, maybe, or breach-the-wall?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good. We have time for a game before bed, if my host here will allow it.” The clever eyes met the druid’s for a moment and Broichan inclined his head in consent. Under the rules of hospitality he could hardly do otherwise. “Nothing like a test of the wits to finish off the day” Aniel added, rising to his feet. “It will be good practice for you to meet a different opponent, one who will stretch you. If you wish, of course.”
For a moment Bridei hesitated, imagining Tuala awake, alone and restless, missing her story. She’d not been herself lately; something was worrying her, something she would not tell. That bothered Bridei, for they did not keep secrets from each other. Broichan was watching him. Broichan, he thought, knew him all too well. And this was indeed a test. During this whole visit, every word he uttered would be weighed, every decision he made measured. Why, he did not know He only knew it was important, so important he could not afford one false move.
“I’d be honored to give you a game, my lord.” Bridei moved to fetch the inlaid board and set it on a small table while Erip produced the bone playing pieces and Donal and Uven moved stools into place. The meal over, the men at arms, in ones and twos, were retreating through the kitchen to their temporary haven in the barn. Donal remained, seated on the bench by the wall, and Broichan settled himself in the shadows near the hearth. A discreet distance behind Aniel, one of his guards remained watchful.
The game was long. As it progressed past early forays to more serious maneuvers involving the loss of flag-bearer, champion, and priest, it became clear to Bridei that however ably he might have defeated Erip or Wid in the past, and there was no doubt the two of them were expert strategists, he was going to need a great deal more subtlety and cunning to vanquish the king’s councillor. Despite his clammy palms and, at times, thumping heart, Bridei was enjoying the struggle. But Tuala’s pale face and shadowed eyes were still in his mind. He had promised that he would be there to tell her a story every night. She was almost certainly asleep. Of course she would not be lying awake waiting; it was past midnight. He had to concentrate . . .
“Ah,” said Aniel softly “If I move thus, and thus—I think your chieftain is trapped. And he no longer has his druid to conjure a way out.”
By this stage Bridei had Erip at one shoulder and Wid at the other, whispering helpful suggestions. Broichan had neither moved nor spoken.
Concentrate. The position looked hopeless: his druid captured and most of his tiny men at arms knocked from the board. His chieftain stood proudly alone, the height of a man’s little finger and near-surrounded by Aniel’s bone warriors. In the far corners of the board the wise women, his and the enemy’s, looked on. The wise women were embodiments of the goddess, the Shining One . . . the Shining One, maker of pathways, finder of futures . . .
“An untenable situation,” Aniel said. “It’s quite acceptable to concede defeat, Bridei. You play very ably, and you are, after all, barely into your thirteenth year, or so Broichan tells me. I expect it’s well after your bedtime.”
This was an insult, although kindly expressed. You had to let insults flow over you. That was one of Donal’s lessons. When an opponent in battle shouted things like son of a slack-bellied sow and blue faced savage, you couldn’t let it put you off or there’d be a spear in your belly before you could snap your fingers. You had to let it pass you by and get on with things. Which meant, in Donal’s case, yelling something in return such as carrot-haired wife-beater, and getting in first with the spear.
So, look at the board closely, and think about the wise women. There was his own, small and grave in her hooded robe of carven bone, moon-white. There, almost oppo
site her but not quite, stood Aniel’s, identical save for the color, for one set of pieces had a mellow tinge, a touch of earthen gold-brown about the bone of their origin. Erip and Wid had fallen completely silent.
Bridei moved his wise woman forward into the path of the other. Erip sucked in his breath; Wid made a little hissing sound.
“A sacrificial move,” observed Aniel. “Are you sure?”
The Shining One, opener of pathways. “I don’t move unless I’m sure,” Bridei said.
“It grieves me to do this.” Aniel picked up his own playing piece and shifted her forward to knock Bridei’s little priestess off the board. “At times this game appears quite disrespectful to the gods. Let us hope they take it in good humor. We are done, I think.”
“Not quite,” Bridei said, reaching to move an insignificant piece, a forgotten foot-soldier, one square to the left. “I think your chieftain is unable to escape now.”
Aniel narrowed his eyes. Erip and Wid leaned closer. It was true. Whatever move the king’s councillor made, there could be but one outcome: Bridei’s chieftain would take his opponent’s wise woman from the board and, in the next move, his lowly spear-holder would account for Aniel’s chieftain, winning the game. Bridei hoped very much that Aniel would not be offended; that Broichan would not be annoyed. Judging by their grins, Erip and Wid were beside themselves with glee.
A frown appeared on Aniel’s composed features, adding to the many weary lines his brow already bore. He stared at the board, as any true player does at the moment of defeat, searching to make sure that he has not somehow missed the one factor that may still allow him to triumph. Aniel looked back at Bridei and, a moment later, began to chuckle.
“Don’t look so desperate, boy, I’m not about to bite your head off. I have been beaten in living memory, but not by a lad of your age, I must confess. You did well, very well. I must be wearier than I thought. Tell me, what made you see that? It was an unusual move; legal, of course, but well outside the conventional flow of the game.”
“Erip and Wid taught me how to play. I learned all the moves from them.” Bridei gave his old tutors a glance of acknowledgment, as was only respectful and proper. “Sometimes I do think beyond that teaching. I mean, it’s not just a game on a board, is it? It’s like the real world only smaller: warriors, leaders, and goddesses, and the things that happen in the real world can give you strategies for play. Or the other way around. I just remembered the Shining One is the illuminator of pathways and the bearer of unexpected gifts, and then I saw the move in my mind, that was all. Thank you for the game, my lord.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” Aniel said smoothly. “I’ll play you again when you’re fifteen. If I practice every day I should be able to beat you by then. Come, my friend,” rising and addressing the silent Broichan, “let’s have that quiet word and then, most definitely, sleep. That’s a promising lad you have there.”
“Yes,” said Broichan.
THE NEXT DAY Donal scheduled archery for first thing in the morning, and Bridei had no time to look for Tuala as he had intended, to apologize for missing her story again. The archery lesson turned into a contest, for one of Aniel’s guards had quite a reputation with the bow and wanted to prove himself against whoever was willing. When he got word of what they were doing, Ferat sent breakfast down in covered baskets: fresh barley bread, honey in a crock, and cold slices of last night’s roasted mutton. The kitchen servants made a second trip to bring ale. Nobody could complain about the hospitality.
Some of the men were absent, of course, for the guard must always be maintained on the perimeters of Pitnochie, but most were there and keen to join in. They set up targets and shot in pairs. One by one the losers were eliminated. As the competition progressed, the targets became smaller and more difficult. The crowd of onlookers grew larger as more men failed the test; it also grew louder as excitement built. Aniel’s man, Breth, was exceptionally skillful. He was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, a man in his prime, and watching him ready himself, draw his great yew bow, sight, and shoot was a beautiful thing, like seeing a wild creature take its prey or a sailing boat make a true course before the wind. Thus far, he had not missed a single mark. Nor had Donal, nor Enfret, nor Bridei.
Fidich, enticed away from his farm duties, was setting the targets. Erip and Wid had ventured out to watch; the men at arms had found them empty barrels to sit on, but the old scholars were leaping to their feet and yelling like everyone else each time a shot met the mark. Somewhat later both Aniel and Broichan, shadowed by the councillor’s other bodyguard, came out to look from a distance. Bridei glanced up toward the oaks, to the place where Tuala should be sitting, the place where she always sat to watch when he and Donal were working here in the yard by the stables. She wasn’t there, and it worried him.
“Your turn, Bridei,” Enfret said.
This time the target was a pine cone set on the dike at the far end of the southern walled field, a distance of three hundred paces. It was just as well all the sheep were up on the fells for summer grazing.
Bridei set an arrow to the bow, drew, sighted, narrowing his eyes, and released the string. A whirr, a small whacking sound and the cone was gone from the wall.
“Well done, lad,” Breth said. “Wish I could claim to be your teacher. Of course, it’s a smaller bow and easier to draw.”
“It’s a smaller bow and less powerful,” observed Donal levelly. “Were you using a full-sized weapon at his age?”
“He can’t remember.” Enfret grinned. “Too long ago.”
“Last stage of the contest should be men only,” Breth said. “I didn’t come here to be matched against children. Men only, same size of weapon, only fair.”
“Scared the boy will beat you with his child’s bow?” queried Uven. “Go on, give the lad a chance.”
Fidich was fixing a new target, a glinting silver spoon hung by a string from the lower branches of a solitary oak. The sun caught the glittering metal, flashing its light into the eyes of the archer. A rising breeze made the thing dance like a will o’ the wisp.
Breth shot first and severed the string, which was the desired result. The spoon fell to lodge itself between the oak roots. They all applauded, even Donal; it was an exceptionally clever shot. Fidich tied the spoon up again.
Enfret shot next and missed, his arrow lodging itself, shuddering, in the trunk of the great tree. The archer muttered under his breath; not a curse, Bridei could hear, but an apology. One did not lightly meddle with the powers of an oak.
Donal shot next. The arrow made the silver spoon spin on its cord, but did not release it. “Up to you, Bridei,” he said.
Bridei was fairly sure he could do it. Then there would be another target, and another, and at some point either he would humiliate Breth by winning, or Breth would be the victor and himself a gallant loser, his youth canceling out any taint of failure. Actually, it wasn’t very fair. He glanced up the hill to the place where Broichan, pale in his black robe, stood watching by Aniel’s side. It was possible, Bridei thought, that in this particular contest winning was not the right thing to do. Breth was a visitor, a guest; he was a skilled man with a reputation to consider. To lose publicly, with his fellow guard and Aniel as witnesses, would cause him deep shame. Was that worth a momentary satisfaction for himself? Besides, Breth had been right. Bridei’s bow was much easier to draw. On the other hand, telling lies was a bad thing, and losing on purpose was a bit like telling lies. Tuala would know what was right. Even at six, she had a gift for putting simple truth into a few well chosen words. But Tuala was not here. The place under her favorite tree was quite empty.
Bridei drew his bow. The breeze, obliging him, had died down; the target was almost stationary. Everyone had fallen silent. Bridei glanced at Donal, hoping for some kind of hint. Donal’s lips twitched in a little smile. He shook his head so subtly nobody else would have seen it. It might have meant better shoot wide. It might equally well have been merely this is your problem, do
n’t ask me for advice. That didn’t matter. Bridei knew what was right. You didn’t gain men’s loyalty, you didn’t influence them to do the right things themselves by making them look weak in front of their friends. It was good to win sometimes, but not good to win all the time. You had to learn which contests were vital and which could be sacrificed for a greater good. Bridei sighted, the hanging silver like a scrap of moonlight against the dark foliage of the oak, and released the string.
His arrow struck the spoon with a small metallic sound and fell to the earth beneath the tree. The wind got up again almost immediately, making the target near-invisible amidst the rustling leaves. It was just possible to discern that the string was intact.
“Oh, bad luck, Bridei!” That was Erip. “So close!”
Donal, who was well aware of the rules of hospitality, was first to congratulate Breth and to suggest some of them might follow up archery with swordplay or wrestling another day. Others clustered around, clapping the visitor on the back and offering their own words of praise. Breth was grinning now, pride salvaged, clasping a hand here, exchanging a joke there. It had been a good contest. And the boy had done remarkably well, considering. A real little archer in the making. Donal had done a fine job with him.
When the others were gone, Bridei and Donal began gathering arrows and dismantling the various targets.
“Bridei?” Donal asked.
“What?”
“Would you ever shoot less ably than your talents allowed you to do?”