The moon was creeping out of view; there was barely enough time left. “Please,” Tuala made herself say through gritted teeth. “Please let me finish. You can watch; you can make sure I do nothing wrong. This has to be done now, while the moon still shines in the window It must be done before they send me away”
Something in her tone made Ferada’s expression change, though the eyes were still wary. The red-haired girl moved closer to the pallet where her young brothers lay “Go on, then,” she said crisply.
It was hard to pick the ritual up again; hard to slow the pounding heart, swallow the tears, pace the breath. This must be done properly or there was no chance of it working. Bridei had impressed on Tuala from earliest times the significance of ceremony; the immense privilege it was to be granted the ears and eyes of the gods at such solemn times.
“I offer this token of myself,” Tuala said, laying the long, glossy lock of hair on the sill beside the other objects. “The rest I will relinquish to fire, that the Flamekeeper, guardian of warriors, may also know my lifelong loyalty. And I offer this.” A slash of the knife across her right palm, quickly, before she could think too hard—she heard Ferada’s gasp—and she was holding up her hand so blood could run from the deep cut scored there onto the talismans of power set under the window. “Thus I show my reverence to the ancient ones, which lasts as long as blood flows in my veins; as long as breath passes through my body; as long as my feet walk the paths of womankind; as long as my heart knows truth.”
The Shining One was almost fled; a mere sliver of her lovely shape was all that remained in the window space, although her light could be seen on the frail forms of the birches beyond the house. “You know that he is wise and strong and good,” Tuala whispered. “But he is also human, beset by fears, plagued by doubts, open to deep sorrows. I ask only this, that if I cannot be by his side to help him, you will ensure he does not face his times of darkness without a true friend to light his way. This I ask in recognition of the bond you made between us, Bright Mother . . .” There was more she would have said, but Ferada’s presence made it impossible. Indeed, to have any of this overheard was not only unsettling but felt in some way dangerous. Tuala put the knife back in her belt and clutched the bag against her wounded hand in an attempt to stanch the bleeding. She managed a formal bow as the moon slipped beyond the window frame and out of sight; then things began to blur before her eyes, and she sat down suddenly on the end of the bed. The children slept on, undisturbed.
“Ancients preserve us!” Ferada exclaimed in an undertone, crouching down by her side. “That, I most certainly didn’t expect. Here, show me your hand—that needs salve and a bandage—”
“It’s nothing.” Ferada’s sharp features were coming and going; Tuala heard a buzzing in her head. “I’m fine. And this is finished. You can go now.”
Ferada lifted her well-shaped brows. “You don’t look fine. Besides, I can hardly leave you here with Uric and Bedo. Come on. I’ll fetch some clean linen, Mother has some—”
“No! Don’t wake anyone. There’s nothing wrong with me, I’ll just go off to bed now . . .” As Tuala rose to her feet a new wave of dizziness came over her, and the walls reeled around her. She swayed.
“Stupid girl,” Ferada said. “Where’s your own chamber?”
They got there easily enough and paused in the doorway. Letting Fox Girl into the only part of Broichan’s house that was all her own was not something Tuala planned to do, now or ever. “Thank you,” she said as firmly as she could. “Good night.”
“Not so fast.” Ferada had pulled aside the rough curtain that was all the door this little space possessed, and was peering into the darkness within. “You can’t dress that wound properly yourself. Besides, I have some questions.”
“I don’t need you. I don’t want you.” The pain in her hand and the fogginess in her head made Tuala blunter than courtesy required. Under that lay the realization that the Shining One had given no sign, no recognition that she had heard the prayers and accepted the offering. Fox Girl’s interruption had probably ruined any chance of that. The goddess was displeased, and would cast both Bridei and Tuala adrift, apart and without friends to help them.
“Too bad,” said Ferada, helping herself to a lantern that burned on a stone shelf near the doorway and carrying it into Tuala’s little chamber. “By all the ancestors! I thought Bridei’s room was small enough, but this must be like sleeping in a closet. How quaint. Don’t glower like that. You know very well that if I choose to tell my mother what I saw you doing she’ll refuse to take you to Banmerren. But maybe that’s what you want. Maybe you don’t want to go.” The brows rose again; the eyes were very shrewd in the lamplight.
“That’s not your concern,” Tuala said, knowing even as she spoke that there would be no winning a war of words with this confident young woman. How old could Fox Girl be, fifteen, sixteen? Not so very much older than herself and yet, worlds away.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” Ferada challenged. “Where do you keep cloths, linen—in here?” She rummaged in the storage chest. “You really don’t want to go to Fola’s school, even though you’ll get the best chance any girl could have of escaping the marriage bed and making something of herself. You’d rather molder away here in Broichan’s odd domain, hoping your brother will come home at last. I can’t believe it.” While she talked, Ferada found linen, relieved a mute Tuala of the knife, tore a serviceable strip and began to tend to the wounded hand with quick, deft fingers. “You have some salve? Good, here—just a little, then I’ll bind it. You know, I suppose, that there are hundreds of girls who’d kill for a place in Banmerren? Fola doesn’t accept just anyone.”
Tuala was sorely tempted to respond, She took you, didn’t she? But there was no point in such cheap barbs. Besides, Ferada’s mother was the king’s cousin. Reared on Erip’s lessons in genealogy. Tuala understood the privileges and responsibilities such a connection must carry. “If I don’t go I have to marry.” she said quietly. “Being at Banmerren will be better than tying myself to a man I don’t love.”
“Love?” Ferada mocked. “Love’s got nothing to do with marriage. If I were you, I’d count myself lucky if my proposed spouse had ten fingers and toes and all the required bits in between. Mother says men can be molded. Love is for tales. It has nothing to do with you or me or the lives of most young women of Fortriu. The best we can hope for is some control over the paths we follow. Some slight element of choice.” For a brief moment she sounded different, as if the dauntingly competent exterior housed another girl entirely.
“I wanted to choose for myself,” Tuala said. “But in the end, all the choices were Broichan’s.” This was not quite true; there was one choice she could not speak of.
“Who was it you were praying for?” Ferada asked. “Your brother, I suppose?”
Tuala did not reply.
“I shouldn’t think he needs such a degree of devotion,” Ferada said drily “He’s always appeared pretty capable to me. Lacking in humor, a little dull maybe, but very much in control of his own affairs. If I were you I’d stop fussing over him and get on with my own life. Be realistic about it, Tuala. A place at Banmerren is a great opportunity for such as you. I mean, where else would you go?”
That this part was plain truth did not make it any less hurtful.
“Funny,” Ferada went on. “Bridei never talks about you. I only knew you existed because Gartnait told me. Really, I think you may be wasting your time.”
Tuala waited a little, making herself breathe before she spoke. “I’d like to go to sleep now,” she said politely. “If you don’t mind. Thank you for bandaging my hand. I would be grateful if you didn’t mention this to the lady Dreseida.” He didn’t mention me because what is between us is special; precious; not to be shared.
Ferada regarded her closely, eyes narrowed as if trying to work out a puzzle. “Hmm,” she said. “She’ll know soon enough when the boys are asked to explain the mess of hair and blood on the w
indowsill.”
“I’m not asking you to tell a lie,” Tuala said.
“We’ll see,” said Ferada. “You know, this could be quite interesting. I’m beginning to think sending you to Banmerren is a bit like putting a stray kitten into a cage of wild dogs.”
“Kittens have claws.”
“Indeed. It should make for lively entertainment if nothing else. I think it’s best if Mother knows as little as possible. For now, at least.”
Tuala put her hand up to mask a yawn.
“No need to overdo it,” said Ferada. “There are still questions needing answers. But they can wait. Good night, Tuala.”
“May the Shining One guard your dreams.” Even at such a moment, the right farewells must be spoken.
The curtain lifted and fell. Soft footsteps faded. Tuala was alone once more. Clutching a shawl around her shoulders, she felt the deep throbbing in her hand become a fiery aching up and down her arm; she felt the tears as they built up behind her eyes, then began to fall, hot and bitter, down her cheeks. Mist slept on. What was in her feline mind, there was no telling. Her paws twitched from time to time; maybe she was dreaming of rats. As for Tuala, her thoughts were on certain things Fox Girl had said, things that were lies, wounding, horrible lies. He’s not dull. He’s the best person in the world, he tells wonderful stories, he always listens properly. The gods love him. And I’m not fussing. I’m taking care of the future. Someone has to do it for him, and he’s only got me.
These thoughts did not seem to make it better; the tears only flowed more quickly, too fast to wipe away. She worked hard to stay silent; there was no way she would let Fox Girl, or anyone else, hear that she had been reduced to weeping. What if the Shining One did not accept her offering? What if Bridei had to go on his pathway all alone? He won’t be alone, a small internal voice reminded her. What about the vision, Midsummer at Dawn Tree Hill? He wasn’t alone then, was he? Who do you think that was with the russet hair and the elegant gown? A wife fit for a king, that’s who.
Tuala lay down, closing her eyes tightly, putting her hands over her ears. But the voice could not be silenced thus, the insidious, intimate voice of the leaf man, one of her own kind, determined to open her mind to her own folly. It was her, wasn’t it? Highly suitable. And if she cares nothing for love, what matter if she thinks him a bore? He’ll be a king. That’s all that counts.
At length Mist awoke, or half woke, crept up the bed, circled three times, and settled again close to Tuala’s neck. Much later, worn out by sadness, her bandaged hand curled into the cat’s soft fur, Tuala surrendered to sleep.
THERE MUST HAVE been a strong wind that night, a capricious wind that eddied in circles. When Bedo looked out of the window to see what sort of day it was, he noticed the eagle feather was gone. This was a disappointment; he had planned, secretly, to slip it into his baggage before they traveled on. He looked about; it wasn’t on the floor, nor on the bed amidst the crumpled blankets. After breakfast he went to check outside, but there was no sign of it. All that the wind had left on the bare sill was the three white stones.
The next morning they rode on toward Caer Pridne, taking the witch girl with them. Her hair was looking odd; it had been roughly hacked off level with her ears, and now somewhat resembled Bedo’s own, although it was a lot less tidy. The girl was very quiet. Her mouth was set in a thin line, as if she was trying not to cry. As the druid’s house vanished into the oaks behind them, she didn’t look back, not even once.
BROICHAN’S MAN HAD set out before his master left Pitnochie, equipped with a small pack of rations, adequate means to defend himself, and a message to Talorgen in his head. The message was not complex: there were only two parts to it. First, the old man, Erip, was dead and the news should be passed on quietly to the boy. Second, the boy must have a taster from now on. It was easy enough to remember.
The messenger was accustomed to covering ground swiftly, even in the most inclement of conditions. It was expected he would catch up with the advancing army within the space of twelve days or so, less if the rain held off. He knew how to avoid wolves and cramps and spies from Dalriada. He knew how to keep going on scant rations and little sleep.
He was no match for the rock slide above Maiden Lake. It had been wet; he was traversing a narrow path high above the water when he heard the unmistakable grumbling sound above him, growing rapidly to a splitting, roaring cacophony of tumbling boulders. Grimly he clung on, pressing himself against the incline, gritting his teeth and praying to Bone Mother that it might not yet be time for her to gather him to her breast. The tumult abated; small stones dribbled down the hillside to bounce and settle on the massive pile of rubble far below. And, after all, it was not time; not quite yet. The messenger blinked the dust from his eyes. He took a deep breath, full of joy that he had been spared. His leg was hurting; he looked down to assess the injury and felt the blood drain from his face. A massive stone had lodged itself hard against the rock wall where he had sheltered. Between boulder and cliff face, his leg was trapped to the thigh. Cold sweat broke out all over him. That single glance had told him the leg was crushed almost beyond recognition; he would never walk again.
For some time he tried to free himself by straining against the rock with his hands and by chipping at it with a smaller stone. His pack was still on his back; he blunted his knife scraping at the hard surface, leaving a network of desperate scratches. He had food for many days, water for three. At first he rationed the supply, a sip at a time, thinking of rescue. But nobody came. When the water ran out, he thought of taking the knife to his leg while he still had the strength, of severing the limb somehow, and then . . . and then what? He would bleed to death, crawling along paths known only to badger and squirrel, marten and beetle. It would be quicker, at least. But the knife was blunt, and he could not bring himself to try.
Rain fell the day after he emptied his water skin. He licked it from the rock that pinned him, wondering through a haze of fever at his own will to cling to life, despite all. He had forgotten the message. He had forgotten all but the pain and the cold and the creeping darkness of despair. That night, moving in around him like death’s own messengers, the wolves came.
WHEN IT CAME to the point, it was not possible to think very much at all. Paused in their march, gazing across the lonely glen toward the hill of Galany’s Reach, they saw smoke rising, a banner flying above the settlement, and they saw that the Gaels were ready for them; the walkways behind and below that rampart of sharpened stakes were lined with archers. On the hilltop beyond, even at such a distance, the tall form of the Mage Stone stood out against the skyline, guarded by rowan trees. It drew the eye and set purpose in the heart.
“They are not so many,” Talorgen said, eyes narrowed. “That is why they have chosen to go within, to defend rather than come out and face us. We proceed to plan. Are you ready? Morleo? Ged? Fokel?”
Grunts of assent. Ged’s troop, resplendent in its rainbow colors, was to take the right flank, Morleo’s the left, with the main force to approach the gates directly. Close behind Talorgen’s men rode Fokel’s small band. Bridei had seen this leader’s dangerous eyes, his air of barely contained energy, as if he were in imminent danger of exploding. The bristling armament borne by each of Fokel’s grim followers did nothing to lessen his unease. These men resembled some Otherworld dispensers of arbitrary justice. Perhaps they would not trouble to look where they struck until it was all over. Their close proximity was scarcely reassuring.
The king’s councillor, Aniel, had sent his two personal guards to join this venture in the name of Drust the Bull. Now his man Garth came forth, bearing the staff with the king’s banner, and others lifted high the symbols of every chieftain here present, Longwater, Abertornie, Raven’s Well, and the ancient flag of Galany. Talorgen raised a clenched fist into the air and gave a great ringing shout, “Fortriu!” A hot, rushing pride coursed in Bridei’s blood, like the touch of the Flamekeeper himself. He raised his own voice along with the
rest of them in response, “Fortriu!,” and the men of the Priteni marched forward into battle.
The approach to the settlement was across a wide vale, where a stream flowed down to empty itself into the vast waters of King Lake. The ground was boggy and their boots sank deep. There was little cover beyond a few bushes and meager trees hugging the banks farther upstream. As they approached the water, the gates of the settlement swung open and the enemy came out to meet them. It was not, after all, a desperate defense of an undermanned outpost, but a well planned counterattack, army against army; someone had given the Gaels good intelligence and they had used it well.
“How many?” Bridei managed to shout to Donal, who was shadowing him grimly, spear in hand.
“Enough,” said Donal. “We’ll do it. They’ll try to draw us within reach of their archers. Talorgen will hold the fellows back, that’s if that madman Fokel doesn’t charge in first. Stay close if you can, Bridei. I need you in sight.”
Still, thought Bridei, still, on the brink of battle, Broichan’s hand reaches out over me, as if I were a child to be sheltered. When will it be time for me to be a man?
Then, beside him, before him, behind him the men began to run, and to shout, and the day turned to madness. The cries rang like trumpet calls in his ears; his heart, already racing, now took on the rhythm of a fierce drum, his own legs carried him forward in the surge, the press, the hot wave of bodies and then, abruptly, arrows began to rain down, men fell pierced in eye or throat or shoulder, there were bodies underfoot, blood bright on cloak or helm, on clutching hand or staring eye or shattered limb. He could not stop to help them; it was on, on, his feet carrying him forward with the tide, the ranks thinner now, his own throat hoarse with screaming above the din, “Fortriu! Fortriu!”
Past the arrows and into the melee, thrusting-spears used to skewer and pierce, Donal with a fellow spiked like a fine trout, wriggling on the shaft; Gartnait, glimpsed between straining, gasping figures, piercing a downed man’s heart with one savage thrust of his dagger. Gartnait’s eyes strange, exalting, almost as if he were in the presence of a god. A big man, Breth, seeking the space allowed by a hillock crowned in low bushes, using his bow steadily, coolly, to pick off one then another from among the chaotic tangle of men.