“I believe I can anticipate it,” Talorgen said. These three knew one another well; all had been part of Broichan’s secret council, the council that had worked since Bridei’s childhood to ensure he would one day take the throne of Fortriu. “We inform the household of the safe delivery of the king’s daughter. We let them know the name: Anfreda, a fine old Priteni name, demonstrating Bridei’s love for his mother and reminding folk of his impeccable bloodline. We advise them that, as mother and infant had a difficult time of things, neither will be receiving any visitors other than the queen’s personal attendants and friends for the foreseeable future. We don’t say this ban will continue until certain guests are gone from White Hill; to maintain it so long would arouse more distrust than putting this extremely unusual infant on show might do. However, we’ll keep her out of sight until we get more of an idea of why Keother’s here.”
“Not just Keother and the girl,” said Aniel, “but others, too. We have many folk in attendance who do not know Tuala well, folk who may be ready to use any tool they set hands on to strike a blow at Bridei. I wonder if mother and babe might be better at Banmerren awhile, Fola? Not yet, of course; but when they can safely travel.”
“Bridei would never agree to that.” Fola was glancing around the garden as if unseen presences lurked there. “You saw the look in his eyes; utter devotion at first sight. It is his family that keeps our king strong. I will speak to him and to Tuala. Not tonight. Let them enjoy this new gift from the Shining One in peace for now. Tomorrow I will suggest some safeguards.”
“Make use of Ferada while she’s at court.” Talorgen gave a crooked grin. “She’ll be here awhile; I understand her fellow tutors are capably maintaining the course of instruction at Banmerren. My daughter can be relied upon to see off any unwelcome visitors.”
Fola smiled. “I know that very well, Talorgen. Don’t forget she and I work closely together. Oh, by the way, is it true the royal stone carver is due back at court soon?”
Aniel looked surprised. “Garvan? I imagine so. We’ve work for him here over summer. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” Fola was looking into the corners of the garden again.
Talorgen followed her gaze. “What is it?” the chieftain asked.
“Nothing. I keep thinking I see someone, but it can only be shadows. It’s late. Look, the Shining One is peering out from the clouds in recognition of her fine new daughter. Prayers seem to be in order; I hope the goddess will forgive me if mine are somewhat brief. Let folk know, but be careful. Broichan would agree, I’m certain.”
“Ah, Broichan,” said Aniel quietly. “Would that our druidic friend might walk back into White Hill tomorrow, full of wise advice. Maybe he has terrified me occasionally, and irritated me frequently, but I recognize how sorely we need his counsel.”
“Do not underestimate Bridei and Tuala,” the wise woman said. “They may be young, but they are strong partners and the gods have always smiled on them. As for the child, be glad she is a girl. My sisters at Banmerren will be overjoyed to offer her a home and a calling when she’s a little older. Their attitudes have undergone some changes since the time we had Tuala as a student.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Talorgen said. “Maybe there is no real cause for concern. The royal household has long supported Tuala, for all her difference; she’s proved herself more than capable as queen. As for our visitors, they are here for a turning of the moon, perhaps two or three, a brief span. How much can go wrong in a single season?”
AS IS COMMON at such turning points in human existence, birth, death, handfasting, neither Tuala nor Bridei slept much on the night of their daughter’s arrival, though both were bone weary. After reassuring himself that his wife was well and in good spirits, Bridei allowed himself to be shepherded away by Garth, the influx of women to the royal apartments meaning he must seek his rest elsewhere for now. The king of Fortriu was lodged in his chief druid’s quarters, with his guard in the anteroom, and before Bridei put his head down on Broichan’s narrow bed, he knelt before the druid’s stark shrine, two candles and a white stone on a shelf, thanked the goddess from the depths of his heart, and pledged his obedience anew.
Tuala lay in her bed with the tiny bundle that was Anfreda tucked in beside her; she had refused to let Sudha put the child in its cradle. The midwife and a maidservant slept on pallets across the chamber. Dorica and the other assistants had long since gone to their beds. Candles burned and the fire was banked up to stay warm until dawn. Derelei, tucked up in his own bed in an adjoining chamber with a nursemaid to watch over him, had slept through everything. He would awake to a surprise. Tuala had prepared him as well as she could, explaining her increasing girth and talking about the arrival of puppies and foals as well as human babies, but she could not be certain how much of it her son had understood. Besides, no amount of careful preparation can ready a child for the moment when he is no longer his parents’ only treasure, but one of two.
Fola had gone off to rest in the women’s quarters; she made few concessions to her age, but she had looked tired tonight, once it was all over. Ferada had washed her hands, commented on what a messy business it all was and how happy she was that she had decided to forego the delights of husband and children herself, given her friend a quick embrace, and taken herself off to her family’s quarters.
“And now,” Tuala whispered into the semidark of the candlelit chamber, “you can tell me why you’re here; why you chose tonight to come back.”
The shadowy presences she addressed formed themselves into more discernible shapes: a woman with a cloud of silver hair, clad in a smoky, shifting robe; a man with nut-brown skin, wearing a crown of ivy twists. They were not quite as she remembered them. The Good Folk did not age as human folk did. Nonetheless, these two had altered their outward manifestations to reflect the passage of a number of years since they had last appeared to Tuala. She had not seen them since the night they led her into the forest above Pitnochie and urged her to leap from Eagle Scar, to fly across to another world or die on the rocks below. They’d never come when she wanted them and now, unexpectedly, they were back.
“Tell me,” she murmured, conscious of the sleeping women just across the chamber and her son in the next room. “And don’t ask to hold Anfreda. You know I’m not so foolish.”
Gossamer seated herself on the end of the bed, her garment moving about her like cobweb in a breeze. “You think we would take her and give you a little turnip baby in her place?” she said in a voice like the tinkling of eerie bells. “We will not harm the child, Tuala. She’s one of ours.”
“Will you answer questions?”
“We cannot say until you ask them.” The man of the Good Folk, whom Tuala had always called Woodbine, seated himself cross-legged before the hearth. The firelight made his cheeks shine like polished chestnuts.
“Is Broichan my father?” It was only the first of many questions that tumbled in Tuala’s head. Knowing the capricious nature of such visitors, and recognizing her own weakness on this particular night, she was trying to ask the most important ones first.
“If you need the answer to that,” Gossamer tossed back her shining hair, “you are less clever or less decisive than you should be.”
“That is a yes, I take it.” Tuala shifted a little on the bed; her body was full of aches and pains. The soporific draught Sudha had brewed stood untouched by the bed. She would not dull her senses for one instant while these two were here. Her arm tightened around Anfreda; the infant gave what sounded like a sigh. “Then I will ask you, where is my father? Who has him and when will he return?”
Her visitors turned their large, dispassionate eyes on her. “He is in the forest,” said Gossamer. “He will return when he is ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Ready for the challenge that awaits him. Broichan’s craft has made him stronger than is customary for human folk. His human clay renders him weaker than a great mage must be.”
“H
e’s been ill,” Tuala said. “But he was getting better; regaining his strength. I don’t see how a winter in the forest could help that. He’s no longer young, and it’s cold out there.”
“A druid is accustomed to hardship and privation,” said Woodbine. “It strengthens him in mind and body. Without this season of penitence, of learning and recognition, your father will be unable to meet his greatest challenge.”
“Tell me,” Tuala said. “What is it Broichan must do?”
They looked at her, vague smiles on lips that were pleasing in shape, if not quite human.
“What is it a druid must do?” Gossamer asked. “What is his purpose?”
“To love the gods,” said Tuala. “To obey. To be their voice for those who cannot open the ears of the spirit. In the case of the king’s druid, it is more. He must serve Fortriu with all his faith and all his energy. He must love and honor both gods and king. There is no need to ask me this. I’ve known it since I was five years old. Tell me what this great challenge is that will bring Broichan back to court at last. We need him here soon. There’s my son…”
Woodbine’s smile broadened. His dark eyes seemed to warm a little, though perhaps it was only the candlelight glinting in their depths. “We will teach your son.” His tone was soft, almost tender; it made Tuala’s skin crawl. “Derelei needs no druid. He can learn without Broichan. So small and so clever.”
“If you think using dangerous tricks of transformation on other children is clever, then perhaps I was wrong ever to believe you had the best interests of the king and of Fortriu at heart,” Tuala said. “I want you to leave my son alone. He needs Broichan, not you.”
“But you are not averse to teaching him,” said Gossamer slyly. “In what way is your own facility in scrying, transformation, and mind-reaching so different from ours, Tuala? You possess the same unfettered talents as your son. You do not tutor him in Broichan’s mode, structured, cautious, hedged about by rules and restrictions. You share with Derelei your joy in the freedom this craft allows; you dance with him through the doorways it opens. And now,” the silver-haired woman reached out a finger toward Anfreda’s dark, fuzzy hair, and Tuala shielded the infant with a quick hand, “you have this one as well. Two to teach, two to guard. How much can one woman do, be she queen of Fortriu or no? Broichan is occupied; you are tired, and wish to assist your husband in this season of challenge. We can keep Derelei busy and content. We can ensure he continues to develop his powers. All we want is to help you, Tuala. To help our sister…”
“Sister? Maybe my next question should be, who is my mother?” It had once loomed large; now it hardly seemed to matter.
“One of us,” said Woodbine. “Which one doesn’t matter. A daughter of the Shining One: a chosen daughter.”
Tuala nodded. “Chosen to take the goddess’s place in a kind of ritual, yes, I’ve seen it in the scrying bowl. So the union between my mother and Broichan was planned by the goddess herself. Why?”
“So you would be born, and your children after you. You have your part to play in the great scheme of things, Tuala. Already you walk that path. Without you by his side, Bridei would be crushed by the weight of kingship.”
“What do you see for my children? Can’t they be left to make a free choice of ways?”
“Are you saying your own choice was not freely made, Tuala?”
“I can’t answer that,” Tuala said. “There is no telling how much was my own choice and how much the goddess governed. I’ve tried to follow the paths I believe she intends for me. But it scares me that Derelei and Anfreda, small as they are, may already have some grand plan unfolding for them. They need time to grow and play and be unafraid. They need time to be children.”
Gossamer swept a long-fingered hand through the air; a cloud of tiny stars seemed to trail behind it. “A child with such abilities as your son’s,” she said, “can never be quite as others are. You will always fear what he might do and what others could do to him. It is that, perhaps, which will at last force you to utilize your own powers to the full. The ward you have set over your daughter tonight, to prevent us from touching her, is stronger than any I have yet encountered. You hold that in place, and another over your son, and yet you lie there talking to us as if there were no drain at all on your powers. We know you are gifted with uncanny skills, your mother’s legacy. We know the strength and self-discipline you have inherited from your father. Once or twice, as tonight, you use a little of that potential. It makes us wonder why you do not employ what you have to further your husband’s cause: to rout out enemies, to destroy attackers, to frighten opponents into submission. It would be so easy.”
“The new faith creeps closer to Fortriu,” said Woodbine, now sprawled on the floor by the fire with his head propped on one hand. “In nearby lands it has weakened the goddess; it has driven out her wise women and put her druids to flight. It takes little to send human folk running. From fear or hunger or ignorance, they will turn their backs on all that is ancient and good. Soon your husband will face a great test of his kingship; a deep trial of his obedience. He will need Broichan, for one comes to confront him who is Broichan’s equal in strength and in faith. Bridei will need you, Tuala.”
“I will be here,” she said, somewhat perplexed. “I vowed to stand by his side and help him be strong, and I’ve no intention of breaking that vow. Now I’m tired; I must try to sleep.”
“You misunderstand us.” Gossamer was starting to fade around the edges, a sure sign that she was about to depart. Tuala wondered if it would be another six years before she saw them again. There were so many questions she hadn’t asked. But she was tired… Gossamer was right; maintaining the spell of protection over the two children was hard work. She would not release it until she was certain her visitors were gone. Fortriu was full of stories about changeling babies, little figures of sticks or coals or vegetables left all tucked up in bed for parents to find in the morning.
“You will need to use all the abilities you possess,” Woodbine said. “The threat is powerful. Only by utter obedience and selfless courage can it be countered.”
“Selfless courage?” Tuala stared at him. “Of all the qualities I might expect you to recommend, that is one of the least likely. I doubt your kind has much idea of what the concept means.” The two of them began a rapid fading. “I’ll consider what you’ve said,” she added hastily. “I’ll do all I can. Just leave my children alone, for now at least.”
There was no reply; the Good Folk had dwindled to faint outlines that winked out as a sudden draft blew down the chimney, setting a momentary glow on the coals.
“Was that a yes or a no?” Tuala whispered to her daughter. “Those two always did talk a lot of rubbish. In the old days I was more inclined to believe it. The trouble is, one has to listen, because there’s often sound advice hidden in there. The immediate problem is your brother. I’ll worry about trials of obedience and selfless courage later. Anfreda, I do wish two-year-old boys were just a little wiser…”
9
FEELER?” SARAID’S LITTLE voice was hoarse. “My head hurts.”
Eile was outside preparing the rabbit Faolan had trapped for supper. The child lay within the shelter of the disused hut they had made their temporary home when it became apparent Saraid had a fever and could not go on. With the clearing of the weather had come bitterly cold nights, with a thick mist that hung low over the forested slopes until well after sunup. They had reached the waterway that separated Maiden Lake from the broad expanse of Serpent Lake, which stretched all the way north to White Hill.
“Drink some of this, Squirrel,” Faolan said, supporting the child with his arm so she could sit and take a sip of the herbal draft he had brewed. There was a small hearth inside the hut, and they were keeping a fire burning there in addition to the outdoor cooking fire. Saraid was sometimes hot, sometimes cold; he put a hand to her brow, seeing the flush in her cheeks. Hot; too hot. Yet she huddled under the blanket as if frozen.
P
erhaps they should backtrack and take her to Raven’s Well. It seemed likely Bridei would have invited Talorgen and his wife to court by now, since he’d be needing to hold a ceremony of thanks and recognition before long. But there would be folk at that house, women who understood how to nurse a sick child. There might be a healer. His own skills in herb lore were limited to what might keep a man up and moving when there was a job to be done, and provide sleep even on the hardest bed. All his concoction would do was grant Saraid a short respite from the fever. He did not like the rasp of her breathing. From outside came the sound of Eile coughing.
Saraid had closed her eyes. Faolan took the cup and went out.
They’d been traveling together a long time now. He would not have thought he could become accustomed to the constant presence of others, especially a woman and child who were vulnerable and, in Eile’s case, somewhat volatile. But the fact was, right now he found himself far more concerned about Saraid’s breathing and the exhausted look on Eile’s face than he was about the pressing need to get to White Hill. At the rate they were going, Colmcille would be passing them on the road. It didn’t matter. Eile and Saraid were everything to each other. He had promised to keep them safe, and that was what he had to do.
Faolan set a mask of calm on his face and went out to the cooking fire. Eile was crouching to turn the rabbit on a rudimentary spit. The enforced stay of several days in this lonely hut had led them to invent some improvements in their domestic arrangements: as well as this means of roasting meat, they had gathered bracken to lay on the remnants of the old place’s shelf-beds and had mended the roof to keep out leaks. It was hardly luxury but it was more comfortable than their nights spent on the ground under the stars, coming up from Dalriada.
“You’re limping again,” Eile said, sitting back on her heels to watch his approach. “The cold makes your knee hurt, doesn’t it? Here, stand closer to the fire. Is she asleep?”