There was only one person Bridei could talk to about this, and that was Donal. He had to wait awhile for the opportunity; supper was an extended meal, the family sitting at the upper board, the large household filling the long tables in the great hall, while the many men at arms who were quartered at Raven’s Well in preparation for the spring campaign took the benches along the walls. Dogs roamed, torches smoked, ale flowed.
As Bridei’s longtime mentor and bodyguard, Donal sat at the family table. Bridei tried to meet his eyes, to signal that he wanted to talk later, but Donal was debating a point of strategy with Talorgen, and it was Lady Dreseida who seemed keen to speak to Bridei tonight. Dark hair drawn back tightly into a headpiece with a fringe of pearls, beringed fingers resting with some elegance on the table before her, she leaned forward, fixing him with her searching gaze. Her interrogations were unpredictable and made him deeply uneasy; he had learned that whatever answers he gave, she always seemed dissatisfied.
“So, Bridei. You’ve been quite the hero today. I imagine Broichan would be very proud of you.”
Bridei opened his mouth to reply, but Gartnait’s sister, Ferada, was too quick for him.
“Broichan’s a druid, Mother.” Her voice dripped with scorn. It was very like Dreseida’s, and so was Ferada’s proudly upright bearing, her queenly lift of the head and her immaculate appearance, every hair in place, every fold of the gown just so. Ferada was younger than Gartnait; nonetheless, one could not look at her without seeing the formidable woman she would one day become. “Druids aren’t concerned with feats of arms and deeds of bravery. If Broichan were here, he’d be asking Bridei whether he learned anything from spiking two men with his arrows then hauling them home to suffer a painful demise at the hands of Father’s thugs. Isn’t that right, Bridei?”
There was a hush, in which Ferada realized the talk and laughter around her had died down as she spoke, so that her final words were heard clearly by all at the upper table, her father included. A crimson flush of mortification rose to her cheeks.
“What Ferada says is true.” Bridei spoke quickly, filling the awkward silence. “My foster father would be interested principally in what was to be learned from the experience, rather than in the occurrence itself. All the same, druids do care about feats of arms; it is not so many years since Broichan rode at King Drust’s side in his great encounters with the forces of Dalriada. It is part of the role of a king’s druid to advise him on matters of war: to cast auguries, to make predictions, to determine the best time for advance and retreat. To help the king in his decisions and to draw down the good will of the gods.”
“Ferada may have spoken truth,” Talorgen observed, frowning at his daughter, “but I am dismayed that she cannot control her tongue sufficiently to frame her comments with appropriate restraint.”
Ferada’s lips tightened and she blinked rapidly.
“Nonetheless,” put in her mother, “your daughter deserves an answer to her question, however inelegantly she may have expressed it.” Dreseida turned her piercing eyes on Bridei, arching her brows.
“What question?” queried Gartnait, perplexed. “She didn’t ask any question.”
Now Talorgen was watching Bridei, and so was Donal.
“True,” Bridei said as evenly as he could, “but the question was there, unspoken. Broichan’s question: what can be learned from today’s events?”
“And?” Gartnait prompted. It was clear he did not intend to put forward any answers himself.
“One does not learn so quickly” There was a profound longing in Bridei to be home at Pitnochie, where the day held enough silences for the mind to contemplate questions like this, where there was the space to hear the voices of the gods, where there were folk who would sit silent and let him work his way through his thoughts in his own time. He needed Broichan; he missed Wid and Erip; he longed for Tuala and her deep quiet. “I would not wish to pronounce on this as if I held myself as wise as my foster father. This was our first encounter with the enemy, Gartnait’s and mine.”
“And well done,” Talorgen said.
“Bravely acquitted,” added Donal, but there was a question in his tone.
Bridei knew he must say more, although he would far rather have kept his thoughts to himself. For Gartnait’s sake at least, he should continue to pretend that this had been an irrefutable triumph. Curse Ferada; she was a meddler and too sharp for her own good. “I was surprised to find this enemy had a human face,” he said quietly. “That troubled me, for everything in our people’s past binds me in enmity toward the Gaels until the day we drive them from our shores. Those things I must still learn to acquit. In time I will do so. On the field of war one cannot afford such scruples. I saw courage today. Cenal would tell us, I imagine, that the same courage was in evidence to the end.”
Fortunately, Talorgen did not seem to take Bridei’s speech amiss. “Maybe so,” the chieftain said, “but we will not dwell on that, not with women and children present. War is a brutal business. You are young men yet; this is only a taste of what is to come. Believe me, all of us started with such sensitivities, but they cannot last long. If we did not suppress them they would cripple our will. Now let us speak of other matters. Change is upon us; spring’s venture will be significant. Once the hostilities commence, Raven’s Well will no longer be safe. Dreseida will travel up the Glen before Maiden Dance and take the family with her to the protection of Drust’s court.” He turned his gaze on Ferada, who had composed herself once more and who now met his stare with a distinctly challenging look. “That will provide, if nothing else, an opportunity for you to learn some restraint, daughter,” Talorgen said, not unkindly. It was well known that he preferred his children to express their opinions, even if the results were occasionally an embarrassment. Indeed, he had been heard to comment that if Gartnait took as much interest in the affairs of Fortriu as his sister did, he might in time make something more of himself than merely a competent fighting man. “You will be lodged in the household of the wise women at Banmerren, where you can avail yourself of the excellent general tuition they provide for girls of noble birth. My wife will stay at court with her kinswomen; the boys, too.” Talorgen could not have been unaware of the tense silence of both Gartnait and Bridei; their own places in this neat plan had yet to be clarified. Were they enumerated as boys still, to be sent off to safety as soon as anything interesting started to happen?
Donal cleared his throat. “I have Broichan’s permission for you to be part of the venture against the Gaels, Bridei,” he said. “He’s not altogether happy about it, but he knows it’s time; more than time, truth to tell. In fact he’s contributing a small force from his own household, so we’ll be seeing some old friends, Uven and Cinioch among them. I imagine Talorgen will let Gartnait here ride with you; you’ve proved your worth as a team today.”
Talorgen smiled. “We’ll make good use of the two of you. Be warned: it won’t be like today’s capture, a balanced man-to-man affair. War is dirty, cruel, and dangerous. A good man cannot fail to be sickened by it. But it’s necessary as long as there are evil scum like the Gaels in this world. They’ve polluted our shores and devastated our lands long enough. Spring should see a turning of the tide: a new hope for the Priteni and for the king. Take Galany’s Reach and we see hope restored, hope of bigger things to come. You’ll be part of that.”
“Don’t grin any wider, Gartnait,” Ferada remarked, “or your face might split in half.”
Gartnait grimaced at her, entirely failing to conceal his shining-eyed delight. As for Bridei, his feelings were more mixed than he had expected. To be accepted, at last, as a man and a warrior, that was good, that warmed his heart. Still, after today, he wondered if he had the least understanding of what it really meant. The images from the Dark Mirror were close to the surface of his thoughts, full of sorrow and confusion, full of a terrible courage like that of the young man whose death he had caused today. Yet that man had been a spy. He had been the enemy, the same k
ind as those blank-eyed warriors of old who killed without thinking. How could one fight as one should when plagued by such misgivings?
“It’s not fair.” That was Gartnait’s youngest brother, Uric, an explosive presence of seven years old, now leaping up and thumping the table so violently that platters and knives danced in their places. “We’ll never be old enough to go to war! Who wants to visit court again? A lot of old men mumbling in corners, that’s all it is, and people telling us to be quiet.”
Talorgen’s gaze moved to contemplate his youngest child, and under it Uric fell silent.
“It’s true,” put in Bedo, one year older and marginally wiser. “We’re expected to be on our best behavior all the time at Caer Pridne. We’d much rather stay at home where the action is, Father. We could help. There are all sorts of things we could do. If Gartnait can stay, why can’t we?”
“Fat lot of use you’d be,” Gartnait said under his breath, digging his young brother in the ribs.
“You haven’t the least idea what this is about, Bedo.” Ferada’s tone had returned to its customary note of calm superiority. “Gartnait and Bridei are men. You two are little children. Gartnait and Bridei could be dead by the end of spring. Did you think of that? Be glad you are too young to go. You’ll get your turn soon enough. And if you think it’s unfair, try being a girl for a while.”
“Let us have no more talk of unfairness,” said their mother, rising to her feet. “You’ll do as your father and I bid you and that’s an end of it. And now it’s time for you lads to go to bed. Ferada, I have some tasks for you; let us leave these men to their war talk.”
Much later, Bridei found Donal alone by the northern dike, gazing out over the dark hillside and down toward the dim, pale ribbon that was Maiden Lake. It was clear to him that Donal had been waiting; after so long as teacher and student, and then as something more like friends, they understood each other well. For a little they stood in companionable silence, listening to the small sounds of the night.
“About today,” Bridei ventured.
“Mm?”
“Maybe I’m imagining things. I couldn’t say it in front of Talorgen; it sounds foolish. On the face of it that was a good capture, the retrieval of useful prisoners. But something about it didn’t add up.”
“Oh, aye?”
“I don’t know about the man Gartnait took. But the one I captured wasn’t the kind to fold quickly under torture. And he may have been bleeding, but it wasn’t enough to kill him. I aimed carefully; I always do. So why did they handle things the way they did? Was that necessary?”
“You tell me,” said Donal.
“I’ve been over it and over it,” Bridei mused. He kept his voice down; there were still other folk about. “That was a man who could have been useful, I sensed it. Maybe he wouldn’t have talked, but he would have been of some value, perhaps as a hostage. It would have been better to patch him up and hold onto him, keep him in custody. What Cenal did was just . . .”
“Inhumane? It’s the way things are, Bridei. There’s no place for scruples when spies creep up to a man’s very doorstep. These folk show no regard for niceties when they take our fellows prisoner. Their methods would disgust you.”
“It was crude,” Bridei said, undeterred. “Crude and, I suspect, entirely unsuccessful, whatever Talorgen chooses to say about it. Why take that course? Talorgen’s neither stupid nor wantonly cruel. There’s something here he’s not telling us.”
Donal nodded. “Maybe so. Still, unless you plan to ask him outright, I don’t suppose you’re going to find out what it is.”
“You don’t think,” Bridei said, voicing his deepest concern, “that the whole thing could have been set up, do you?”
“What do you mean, set up?”
“I mean, somehow entirely faked so that Gartnait and I got the chance to prove ourselves without being in any real danger. A false ambush, men acting as enemy, a strangely convenient opportunity for the two of us to take them unaided. It bothers me that Broichan is so anxious about my safety. That was all very well when I was a child, back in the days when it seemed someone was out to get at him by injuring me. But I’m a man now. Doesn’t it frustrate you that you must always be close to me, you or another of the chosen guards, that you must still sleep across my doorway and be my watchdog rather than my friend? It seems to me that, even as Talorgen tells me I am a man, the safeguards my foster father has set in place mean I am still a child to him, to be shielded from harm. Perhaps today’s small triumph was a child’s triumph, engineered for me by my elders and betters.”
“I am your friend, Bridei.” Donal’s voice was very quiet.
“I know that; and a better one I could not hope for. But I must be allowed to stand on my own feet some time.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Donal said. “The body I saw being taken from Cenal’s house of pain this afternoon was no fake.”
The chill returned to Bridei, fastening on his heart like the hand of a wraith. “Body? Which man was it?”
“Fellow with a bandage around the leg. Don’t know about the other one; I didn’t hang around to see him brought out. Their kind are rubbish, Bridei. They’re not worthy to be under your boot sole. You shouldn’t waste another thought on them.”
Bridei was silent.
“As for boys and men,” Donal said, setting a hand on Bridei’s shoulder, “you’ll play your part in the campaign as a warrior amongst warriors; it’s something you have to face, you and Gartnait both. But Broichan’s been right to set up protection for you. Maybe he could have explained the reasons better. That’s something you’ll have the right to demand of him, I reckon, after this campaign is over. It’s time he told you more. As for me, I do as I’m bid. I know you think there’s no need for such vigilance. But there’s every need. You are a king’s son, after all.”
“We are a long way from Gwynedd,” Bridei said.
“All the same. When spring’s over, things might change. In the meantime you’ll have to put up with me a little longer.”
Bridei glanced at the tattooed warrior; Donal’s expression was unreadable in the dim light. “I have no complaints,” he said quietly. “Without you here I’d find it intolerable to stay. You’re my bit of home when I’m away from Pitnochie. You help me make sense of things. But when I ride into battle, I want to be on the same footing as the other men, to have the same chances and take the same risks. You must not devote yourself to protecting me, but to pursuing the enemy. I don’t know what instructions Broichan has given you, but I hope you will respect that.”
“Oh, aye.” It was not possible to tell what Donal meant by this.
“A man died today because of what I did.”
“And more will die when you ride to war, your own as well as the enemy. You’ll feel your knife twist in a man’s heart. You’ll see the expression in his eyes as he screams for his mother while you gut him with your spear. The first time’s always the hardest. But it never gets easy; it never comes naturally. You have to remember what they’ve done, the filthy wretches. What has to be in your mind, every moment you’re out there, is the evil they’ve inflicted on our land, the rape of our women, the slaughter of our children, the torching of our settlements, the destruction of our sacred places. Keep those thoughts alive and your hand won’t hesitate to grip the sword and strike a blow for freedom.”
“And today?”
“Put it behind you. Ask if you’d have such doubts if you’d seen Gartnait’s throat cut this morning. You did the right thing. You did what a man has to do. That’s all that matters.”
SOMETHING FERADA HAD said gnawed at Bridei’s thoughts, distracting him from the all-important tasks of preparation for war. By spring, Gartnait and Bridei could be dead. He had known this, of course. Protectors or no, he recognized that he would face the very real chance of falling foul of a Gaelic spear or stepping into the path of an accurately loosed arrow. It was not the prospect of death itself that troubled Bridei so much. It was t
he thought of dying without knowing the truth; of not being sure if the future for which Broichan was preparing him so assiduously was indeed the one he had increasingly come to suspect. He did not wish to wait, as Donal had suggested, and ask Broichan for answers in the spring. By spring it could be too late.
It was awkward. Talorgen, as Broichan’s friend, could not be approached with such a question, not if Bridei had not first raised the matter with his foster father. Dreseida would be able to give him the piece of information he required, but he was reluctant to approach her. Her manner made Bridei uneasy, verging as it did on the inimical for no good reason he could see. She would tell him if he asked, but not without another volley of testing questions, the purpose of which was beyond his comprehension.
There was another avenue, and this he took when the opportunity offered itself. One morning before the day’s work began he went to the kitchen garden at Raven’s Well for a little solitude. It was a quiet spot, full of the pleasing scents of herbs, with a small pond in the center and low, clipped hedges neatly dividing the beds of culinary plants. There were not many places at Raven’s Well where one could be quite alone; meditation was well nigh impossible. Even in this small sanctuary one was likely to be interrupted by Uric or Bedo chasing a dog, or someone with a knife and basket, seeking parsley for a pie.
Today, Bridei sat on a stone bench for a while, trying to set his thoughts in order. The capture; the Gael with his calm eyes and air of superiority; the battle to come. Broichan and his plans. Bridei thought of his family, far away in Gwynedd, the family he had all but forgotten. It had seemed for a long time that Broichan would bring him up, educate him, then send him back to Gwynedd to live his life among his own people. It was for this that most noble families sent sons out for fostering: to broaden their horizons early so that they might contribute more fully later as councillor, sage, warrior. As king’s son. Bridei supposed his brothers were both seasoned fighters by now, riding out proudly at their father’s side. It occurred to him that he might even have other siblings, younger ones of whom he knew nothing. A sister, perhaps. That was a strange thought. No sister could ever be closer to him than Tuala was, blood kin or no. Bridei smiled to himself. Although his little wild thing had grown now to a girl of nearly thirteen years old, he could not think of her without remembering that night: the moonlight, the snow, his frozen feet, and the moment when he first saw the Shining One’s remarkable gift; the best moment of his life. He would never cease to be grateful for it. As for his own family, they seemed ever more distant as the years passed. All the same, it would be good to see them sometime, his father in particular. When the battle was over, perhaps Broichan would let him travel. Perhaps. Unless he was right about what the druid’s plans really were.