He moved to the northeast, keeping to woodland by day, crossing open ground as a thief would, by night. Indeed, he became a thief, stealing a garment from the washing line of a low cottage, a shapeless, much-mended shirt that covered him to the thighs. Close to a smithy he found a rusted knife lying on a bench. The next day, in the shadow of pines, he sawed his tangled locks off to the length of his little finger. The result, viewed in a slow stream under the pale sky of early summer, was less than reassuring. If the thing had been sharper he would have shaved his head entirely. Now he looked less like a mad seer and more like an evil-doer on the run. He would not travel openly; if he was seen and recognized, there would be offers of horses, and messages sent to White Hill that would bring out riders to meet him and escort him back. This was not merely a journey of the body, but a test of the mind and will; it must be undertaken at its true pace. Each step held its own learning; each sunset, each moon-rise was a gift from the ancients, a message to be held and cherished.
Resting that night on a bed of bracken as birds hooted and screamed and cried above him, words crept back to him, words he had once held dear to his heart. There is learning in everything. How many times had he repeated that to Bridei after a frustrating lesson? How many times had he reminded himself of that wisdom when… Images slipped into the space that had been freed for them: himself wracked with illness after an enemy slipped poison in his food, and struggling to go on, to fulfill his duty; Bridei defying him, Bridei making him choose between public acceptance of Tuala and the loss of the perfect king he had dedicated fifteen years to preparing. That day, he had learned that Bridei was his own man.
But, he thought as stars appeared above him, one, three, seven, a scattering as generous as bluebells in a spring glade, that was not the only learning to be had that day at Pitnochie when his foster son came out of the forest, half drowned, with Tuala in his arms. There had been another layer; a layer none of them had recognized. The girl Bridei had made the price of kingship had been Broichan’s own daughter.
He did not sleep that night. He lay quiet, watching the sky, as memories edged back one by one to repopulate his mind. As they came, he considered them in turn: Bridei’s trust, as a child, replaced by a wary truce between them; Bridei telling him, in effect, that he would listen to his druid but, as a man and a king, would make his own decisions. Tuala cold and exhausted after her desperate flight from Banmerren at Midwinter, all alone. The way he had barred her from his house. Tuala more recently, cautious in his presence, delicate in her presentation of the unpalatable truth. Tuala trusting him, reluctantly, in a way Bridei no longer could. Fola, his old friend… Fola who had guessed at the truth, perhaps far earlier than any of them… He would like to see the wise woman. He would like to tell her about the winter and what he had experienced. He would enjoy hearing her acerbic voice, her sharp, wise comments.
When the sky began to lighten and the first birds made their brave small announcements that it was day again, he got up, wiped his eyes, and foraged for edible roots, fungi, and leaves to keep him alive a little longer. He had lost a night’s walking. Today he must lie low; there was a small settlement close by and he would not risk being seen. At dusk, he would resume his journey.
“OH, BUT OF course you must not mind the children again tonight!” Tuala exclaimed. “You’ve already done more than your share today, and you should be there for the feast—there will be music and dancing.”
Eile grimaced. “I’ve never done real dancing, only silly things with Saraid, just for fun. Are you sure?” The thought of the great hall thronged with all the grand folk who were staying at White Hill was momentarily overwhelming. She’d been taking most of her meals in the children’s dining area with Saraid. Besides, what was she to wear? She had returned the clothes Tuala had lent her for the handfasting, and her others were surely not good enough for a king’s celebration.
“Elda prefers not to go,” Tuala said. “She gets tired easily with her baby due so soon, and Garth will be on duty. She says Saraid can sleep in her quarters with the twins, if that suits you, Eile. Derelei and Anfreda have their nursemaids. And I’ve found a gown for you. It should be just right: not too plain, not too showy. I’ve noticed you prefer not to draw attention to yourself.”
“It’s very kind of you, my lady—”
“It’s nothing, Eile. Faolan is my husband’s friend, not just a bodyguard. I view you as the same. Here, take this back to your chamber and try it on. If it fits well, and if you like it, you may keep it. Unless you really don’t want to go…”
“Thank you, my lady. I will go.” Eile took the folded gown, deep green with a tracery of gold thread at neck and wrists. In the face of such generosity, not to speak of forward planning, she could hardly say no.
“I would have put you next to Elda at the table,” Tuala said. “I know how it feels to have nobody to talk to. I’ll ask Dorica to seat you with Ferada, I think. She doesn’t care to sit at the king’s table, although she is entitled to by blood. And Wid—he can translate what you don’t follow. He tells me you are showing great promise; a very quick learner, he said.”
“Oh.” Eile felt a flush of pleasure rise to her cheeks. “He’s a good teacher. Rather strict, but he makes lessons fun. The time passes quickly.”
“I know,” said Tuala, smiling. “He taught Bridei and me, so long ago it sometimes seems like a different life. Make good use of Wid; he’s a rare breed.”
“I’m so grateful, my lady. There is no need to do all this for me—”
“Shh. We’re happy to have the opportunity. I’m just sorry Faolan won’t be here to see you in my green gown; I’ve always had a particular liking for it.”
Eile felt obliged to offer a correction. “It’s not like that with him and me. It’s not the kind of thing he would notice, even if he were here.” Then, unable to hold back the words, “Has there been any message from him? Have you heard when he may be coming home?”
“Nothing as yet. I hope it will be soon. There’s a decision for Bridei to make regarding his chief war leader. He must announce it tonight. It would have helped him considerably to have Faolan’s report before doing so, but it seems that’s not to be.” Then, with a searching look at Eile’s face, she added, “You shouldn’t worry unduly, Eile. Faolan has a habit of extricating himself successfully from the most perilous situations. This delay simply means his mission has become more complex or has taken him farther away than we anticipated.”
Eile thought of Blackthorn Rise, and Faolan with a noose around his neck. He had not extricated himself from that; if she had not been there, he would be dead by now and his family bearing the weight of yet another tragedy. “Thank you for the gown,” she said, “I’ll try to keep it clean,” and departed for her own quarters.
THE GREAT HALL at White Hill had seating for many folk, arranged tonight at three long tables with benches on either side. There was a shorter table on a raised platform at one end. This was for the king and queen and other persons of high status. Many lamps hung from brackets on the stone walls; here and there an expanse of richly colored weaving softened the stark surface. Although Eile could not put names to most of those present, Ferada on her left and Wid on her right were ready to point out who was who and to explain how the celebration would unfold, with the festive meal first, then a formal speech by Bridei recognizing his chieftains’ contributions to last autumn’s war against the Gaels. A presentation of gifts would be next, followed by the music and dancing Tuala had mentioned.
Garvan, the royal stone carver, was seated opposite Wid. Eile wondered if it was by chance or by intention that this allowed him and Ferada to exchange words and glances without being seen to be placed as a couple. Their friendship intrigued her. She thought of the three girls, Tuala, Ana, Ferada, all at Fola’s establishment of Banmerren together, and the fact that each of them seemed to have flouted convention and bent rules to go her own way when she grew up. There was Tuala, an outsider, a child of the Good Folk, marrying
Bridei and becoming queen of Fortriu. Ana had chosen a man of unusual qualities as the future father of her children, and had traveled far from home. And there was the matter of Ana and Faolan, which Eile still did not fully understand. Ferada was the most impressive of all: a woman who was determined to make her mark. Garvan made that picture still more interesting. No doubt a stone carver was not considered suitable for a highborn woman like Ferada. All the same, they looked at each other with the tender eyes of lovers. They gazed on each other with an expression that was a lesson in itself. Eile felt a pang of envy.
“Shining One preserve us,” muttered Ferada. “Look who’s here.” Her eyes had moved to the king’s table, where Breda had just appeared, golden hair dressed in an elaborate crown of plaits, shapely figure clad in a gown of vivid light blue, the color of her eyes. She looked interestingly pale and needed to steady herself with a hand on the chair back before she sat down beside Keother. Even he looked surprised.
“Too sick for her sister’s wedding,” Ferada murmured. “Too shocked for her friend’s funeral. But well enough for this. I wonder if she’ll get up and dance.”
That was not the only surprise. There was an empty space beside Garvan at the table; Eile wondered who had decided not to attend the feast. Just as the first platters were brought in, baked fish with leeks and onions, Dovran appeared, not in the leather and iron of his daily work but in tunic and trousers of dark red wool, his hair tied back with a cord, and seated himself in the vacant spot, right opposite Eile. He offered his shy smile.
“Been given the night off?” inquired Garvan. He was indeed plain-looking, with a square, heavy-jawed face and big hands. It seemed a little unfortunate that he now sat beside the best-looking man in the hall.
Dovran gave a nod. “King’s orders. Garth’s on the job. I’ll be happy when Faolan gets back; a night off is rare.” Then, after a pause, “Green suits you, Eile.” This was delivered awkwardly; his need to pluck up courage before speaking thus was plain.
“Thank you,” Eile mumbled, avoiding his eye. “My lady, who is that very large man with all the tattoos? He seems to be wearing cat skins.”
“A Caitt chieftain,” said Ferada in Gaelic. “Umbrig. He fought in the war, on our side. He lives in Dalriada now—you know where that is?”
“We passed through that region. Faolan and I.”
“Of course. Umbrig took over a Gaelic fortress there; he oversees the former king of that territory who is in custody at Dunadd. The Caitt are ferocious warriors. Drustan is a notable exception.”
“Who are the people in the very bright clothes?” Eile had spotted a woman, a boy, and several men at the next table, each wearing garments of a striking multicolored weave, all squares and stripes.
“Speak your new tongue,” Wid ordered from his place beside her. “If you run out of words, we’ll help you. Some baked fish? I detect garlic in abundance; we’d best all have a serving.”
“Those folk are the wife and son of a chieftain who died in the war, Ged of Abertornie,” said Ferada. “Several men of their household have come with them. Ged’s people are intensely loyal; his death has only strengthened that. He was very close to Bridei. There were many deaths; many losses. Tonight cannot be all celebration.”
“For you,” Dovran ventured, looking at Eile, “this must be difficult. Confusing.”
For a moment Eile was not sure what he meant. Then she realized, and struggled for words in the Priteni tongue. “I am a Gael, yes… But at home, I knew nothing of war… nothing of all this…” She felt obliged to smile, for his comment had shown a sensitivity that surprised her. “You fight in war?” she asked him.
“I did. Not as the king’s guard. I was chosen for that afterward. He took only one of his bodyguards to Dalriada, and that man fell in battle.”
Silently, Eile thanked the gods that Faolan had not been a part of it. Then she retracted it, since such a thought seemed to belittle the worth of the man who had died. War was stupid. A terrible waste. For every hero to be honored and rewarded tonight, there were probably fifty who had never come home.
It was not possible to eat much, though dish followed sumptuous dish: beef, soup, pig’s trotters, vegetables in aspic, puddings, and preserved fruits.
“You have an appetite like a little bird’s, Eile,” said Wid, who was taking full advantage of the spread.
She smiled but did not comment. She could hardly explain that when you had spent years and years on a diet of almost nothing you did not need a feast to satisfy you, only an amount that was enough. Her body had responded already to better feeding. The mirror showed her not a skinny girl but a slight, well formed woman. Her moon-bleeding, which she had not seen for years after Saraid’s birth, had now come back quite regularly: a nuisance, but a good one, for it showed her bodily rhythms had survived that time of deprivation. Of degradation. With Dovran right opposite her, eyes admiring, she would try her best not to think of that.
When the feasting was over and the assembled crowd sat relaxed, goblets of ale or mead in hand and an array of sweetmeats set out before them, King Bridei rose to his feet, flanked by his chief councillors, tall, dark Tharan and gray-haired, weary-looking Aniel. “My friends and honored guests,” the king began, “this is a night of light and darkness; of joyous celebration and profound sadness…”
Eile did not follow much of it, though Wid and Ferada whispered fragments of translation. Here and there she let her mind drift as Bridei’s voice, warm, confident, sometimes almost intimate, as if he spoke not to a crowd but to each individual, held his audience in complete thrall. She watched their faces, seeing there the mingled joy and sorrow the king had mentioned, the acknowledgment that victory and death went hand in hand. After a while, she could pick out those faces that were less captivated by the king’s undoubted gift for public oratory. Keother, king of the Light Isles, seated at the top table: aloof, guarded, wary. Breda: bored and cross. Among the chieftains who sat in silence, eyes alight with the hope and loyalty Bridei’s words conjured, were one or two who wore looks of skepticism or irritation or doubt.
“Who is that?” she whispered. “And that?” She received the names, and a look from Ferada that was entirely knowing.
“He does not have them all in the palm of his hand,” Talorgen’s daughter murmured. “Not yet. And he still has an announcement to make; they are waiting for that.”
First, however, came a call for each of the chieftains to step forward in turn, to receive Bridei’s thanks in person and be presented with a gift. Aniel held a coffer; Tharan stood by a small table where larger items were laid ready. In turn, items of jewelry, fine garments, or pieces of weaponry were bestowed. Eile liked it best when the brightly clad boy, with his mother beside him, went up to receive thanks on behalf of his slain father. He was perhaps twelve years old. Bridei kissed him on both cheeks, formally, and spoke to him as man to man. The gift was a pair of huge hunting hounds: formidable shaggy creatures with a noble grace of expression. The boy was dignified. He thanked the king in a few courteous words, bowing his head. It was only when he turned away that Eile saw him catch his mother’s eye and grin with pure delight.
The massive Caitt warrior in his cloak of many small skins received a heavy arm-ring in silver. Many others went forth; each got his greeting, and to each Bridei spoke as to an old and dear friend. Eile’s eyes went to Tuala, sitting at the high table in what was her first appearance before the full court since her daughter’s birth. The queen wore dove gray. Her flyaway dark curls were part concealed by a short, gauzy veil; her large eyes were intent on her husband as he negotiated his long speech and went through the personal acknowledgments, offering each man the respect due for his courage and sacrifice. It seemed to Eile that Tuala lived each moment with Bridei; that she was somehow lending him her own strength so he could go on. She thought, again, of Faolan in despair, Faolan about to surrender to the darkness, and how her shout had saved him.
The gifts were given. Folk began to stir again;
jugs and goblets chinked and conversation began to buzz around the tables.
“Silence for the king!” shouted someone with a big voice.
Bridei spoke, saying something about music and dancing which Eile could only half translate, and then Wid leaned toward her, murmuring, “I’ll give you a rough translation as we go with the next part; it’ll be an important speech. Stand up now; the king asks us to honor those fallen in last year’s war.”
They stood. The silence was so absolute that Eile thought she could hear her own heart beating.
“Thank you,” the king said soberly. “And I have one last matter of which to speak. My kinsman, Carnach of Thorn Bend, who served with great heart as my chief war leader in our venture, cannot be with us tonight. It is evident he has encountered delays in returning to take up his responsibilities at Caer Pridne, where we retain the core of our fighting force, ready to move again should a new threat arise. I am aware that, in the wake of a great triumph, one must remain watchful. Fortriu has many enemies; we must keep our eyes open and our weapons sharp. For this reason, and because I cannot say when Carnach may be free to come back to us, I will tonight appoint another chieftain as war leader in his place.”
A general sigh went around the hall. Wid whispered in Eile’s ear, “They have awaited this a long time, since the rumors began of Carnach’s defection and a possible rebellion. Bridei doesn’t want to do it; it means publicly acknowledging that he believes the rumors may have some substance. But, failing news of exactly what Carnach is up to, the king must announce this tonight. To delay longer will make him appear less than decisive.”
“Shh!” hissed a man farther along the table, and Ferada looked down her nose at him.