Spirit of the Mist (24 page)

A sudden apprehension struck her. Had he had gone beyond the place where she could help him? Filled with a terrible fear, a kind of fear she had never known before, Muriel walked close to the rock where he sat and reached up to take hold of his arm.
 

“Brendan,” she said above the ceaseless noise of the waves, “please talk to me. Tell me what you are thinking. Tell me what I can do to help.”
 

For a long time he remained silent and still, watching the waves as they rushed onto the beach and then receded over and over again, as they had done since the beginning of time.
 

Then, just as Muriel was ready to shout at him or drag him down off the rock or even douse him with seawater to get his attention, she saw him take a sudden long, deep breath.
 

It was as though this were the first real breath he had taken in ages. And then, very slowly, he turned his head in her direction.
 

For a moment she felt nothing but relief. Perhaps she would be able to get through to him after all. But with a shock she realized that he was looking not at her, but through her, past her, far up the beach, to the place where the path from Dun Bochna met the sand, the place where nine druids and thirty warriors now came walking toward them.
 

Chapter Fifteen
 

Muriel thought that Brendan would throw the cloak back from his head and shoulders in order to face the approaching druids and warriors with nothing hidden, but then she realized that was something the old Brendan would have done.
 

She knew well that Gill had kept his hood up over his head as part of his effort to hide who he was, in order to keep Brendan—and anyone else—from ever suspecting that he could be Brendan’s father. And it seemed as though Brendan now was the one who wanted to hide what he really was.
 

The nine druids stopped, and then they lined up from the cliffs to the sea, as if blocking the way to Dun Bochna. The warriors gathered close behind them. At last one of the druids—Loman, who had recited the contracts with some difficulty at the marriage ritual— stepped forward and began to speak.
 

“Brendan,” Loman called. “We are here to tell you that the council of druids has reached its decision.”
 

Brendan sat unmoving on the rocks. Muriel stayed very close to him and raised her chin to look at Loman. “You have not wasted any time in making this decision,” she said, even as a cold feeling of fear crept through her.
 

“That is true, we have not,” agreed the druid. He took another step forward. “Brendan,” he said again to her husband. “You have been considered a member of King Galvin’s family almost since your birth. You became one of our boldest warriors and you were chosen as tanist by the free men of our tribe. We had no reason to doubt that you should be our next king. But now such things have come to our knowledge that cannot be ignored.
 

“You were taken into the king’s own family. He considered you his son, and as his son you were one of those who could rule over us as our sovereign. Such adoptive sons have been kings in times past—yet it was always the case that they had been originally born into some family of high rank and so still carried the blood of free men.
 

“The son of a slave, however—even if raised by a king—is not, under the law, one who could ever be considered to rule.”
 

Muriel closed her eyes. Brendan said nothing.
 

“A new king has been chosen.” Loman glanced over his shoulder, and two of Dun Bochna’s warriors came forward through the row of druids.
 

Between the two warriors was a small man with a gentle face, his eyes large, his glance nervous…a man dressed only in the long tunic and flowing cloak of a druid, but with a sea-dragon torque now resting large and heavy on his neck.
 

“Colum!” cried Muriel. She looked up at Brendan, and then back at Loman again. “Colum is a fine man, but he is a priest, hardly a warrior! And I do not believe that he ever wished to be a king.”
 

Brendan raised his head to look. “He is the image of Galvin, my lady. There will never be any doubt of his parentage.”
 

“Colum is the choice of the free men of Dun Bochna to be their tanist,” said Loman. “He will be confirmed as king at Lughnasa next.”
 

Lughnasa next…

“What will happen to Brendan now?” Muriel asked. “I have made a contract of marriage with him. What of that?”
 

Loman turned to her. “We have discussed that matter, too, among ourselves. I am sorry to tell you, my lady, that under the law your marriage contract is invalid.”
 

“Invalid,” she whispered. “How can this be?”
 

“It was a union of deception. Yours was contracted as a marriage between a man and a woman of equal rank, but now we are aware that this was not true. A man born of slaves has no legal right to make such a contract. And so we have determined that your marriage no longer exists.”
 

She held tight to Brendan’s arm. He sat quietly, listening to the druid’s words.
 

“Lady Muriel,” Loman continued, “you are of course free to return to your own family at Dun Farraige, and to take your bride gifts with you.” He shook his head, and his mouth tightened. “If Brendan had a family of any means, they would be required to pay your honor price—but since they are only slaves, it would seem that you can gain no further compensation for this wrong that has been done to you.”
 

Muriel pushed away from Brendan. She stood facing Loman and all of the druids and warriors across the stretch of sand. “I care nothing for compensation. Just tell me—what do you intend to do with Brendan, and with Gill?”
 

The druid shrugged. “Gill can remain among us as a servant. Or you could take him with you as your property, since he owes you your honor price but cannot pay it. As for Brendan…”
 

Loman looked back at the other druids, and then returned his gaze to Muriel. “We have no wish to destroy him. Yet a displaced king cannot remain among us. I am sure that you, my lady, being of high birth yourself, can well understand such things.”
 

When she made no answer, Loman went on. “Your affection for Brendan is well known. If you wish, he may return with you to your home at Dun Farraige, and the two of you can make a marriage contract there—but it will be a contract between unequals, and Brendan will be named a man supported on a woman’s property.”
 

Muriel turned away. Loman continued speaking as though he did not notice. “If such a contract is made, Brendan may rise to the rank of a craftsman, since he would be married to a noblewoman. But he would have to master ironworking or wheelwrighting or some such, and he would never be your equal in rank, my lady.”
 

Slowly she turned to look at the gathering once more. She echoed Loman’s words. “We could go to Dun Farraige…and I could marry him once more…and he could master a craft and live as a free man.”
 

“Do you wish to do this, Lady Muriel?” asked the druid.
 

She looked up at Brendan, intending to answer,
Of course I do!
But as she stared at him, the words would not come. She caught her breath and struggled to say what must be said—but images of her sisters filled her mind, and she could not find the words.
 

Brendan actually smiled, if a bit sadly. “You need not think of it now. There will be time for that later. Do not think of it now.”
 

But Loman looked directly at Muriel and shook his head. “You must decide soon, my lady. If you do not, Brendan will return to the servant’s life to which he was born and be sent to the nearest kingdom that will have him. You must make your decision by morning.”
 

The druids and the warriors turned away, taking Colum with them, and began making their way down the beach toward the path that led back to the dun. “Go with them, Muriel, please,” Brendan said. “I will be back before long. Do not worry for me. I am at peace now. Go, so that I know you are safe and well.”
 

“I do not want to leave you here,” she said, allowing her pain to enter her voice. “Come home with me, and tomorrow we will go back to Dun Farraige and be married once more, and make a life for ourselves there.”
 

“They are leaving,” he said, gazing out toward the men walking down the beach. “I will be there soon. Go now and wait for me… Please go.”
 

She started to reach for him, but he was so still, so quiet, that she let her hand fall. “Then I will see you soon,” she whispered, and turned to follow the druids and the warriors down the windy strip of sand.
 

Muriel tried to tell herself that her husband simply wanted a little time alone to think, to absorb the terrible loss and wrenching change that had suddenly come into his life. Such an adjustment would be extremely difficult for anyone to make. She would just have to give him time, give him understanding.
 

But again, the cold dread crept into her mind. How could she be so calm? She was in great danger of losing all her powers. Why wasn’t she angry that she had been deceived? Why wasn’t she furious that she had found herself married to a man who was the son of slaves, a man who may well cause her to lose everything? Was she weakening? Was this the first sign that her spirit was beginning to fade?
 

Yet even as she struggled with these questions, a kind of peace settled over her. She had not been deceived. Brendan himself had known nothing of his origins.
 

She was the one who had failed to heed the message of the water mirror…and now, knowing Brendan as she did, she did not believe she could ever have walked away from him no matter what the mirror said.
 

He was her husband. She was his wife. They had a true love for each other and he was nothing like the men her sisters had married. She would not, could not turn away from him now, not now when he needed her the most.
 

As she reached the path that led up the cliffside to the dun, she could not keep from turning to look at Brendan one more time.
 

He jumped down from the rock. His rough cloak flew open and she could see that he still had his sword in its scabbard hanging from the old worn belt. And as she stood paralyzed, unbelieving, he threw off the cloak, drew his sword, and walked into the sea—just as old King Galvin had done.
 

“Brendan! Do not do this! Come back!” Muriel called.
 

But of course, there was no response.
 

She turned and raced up the cliffside path. The party of druids and warriors had already started back down toward her, their attention caught by her cries.
 

She shouted, “Look, there! You know what he means to do! You must help him. You must stop him!”
 

The men strode down to the sand and got a clear view of Brendan—but to Muriel’s shock, they simply stood quietly at the edge of the beach and watched.
 

“It is his choice,” said Loman. “Perhaps the best one. We cannot have a king who is false, who has no right to rule, and Brendan well knows this. He would rather give himself to the sea than become a pitiful outcast with no place anywhere in the world.” The druid shook his head. “He cannot have a king’s life, but we can allow him a king’s death. We will not interfere.”
 

Muriel looked at them in horror. “You cannot let him die this way! You cannot! I cannot!” And she kicked off her boots and ran down to the shore, splashing in the shallow water.
 

She was suddenly caught and held by strong hands on either side of her. “My lady, you must leave him,” said one of the warriors who gripped her arms. “You must respect his choice, even as we respect it. As we did for the old king.”
 

She struggled against the two of them, against their hard grip on her upper arms. “This is no aged king making a merciful end to a long and happy life! This is Brendan! Help him! Stop him!”
 

But they only held her fast as her husband waded deeper into the sea, shouting at the waves and striking at them as they rose up to meet him.
 

Muriel could not break free. But neither could she let Brendan walk into the sea to his death as his foster father had—the sea that surged cold and merciless around her bare feet.
 

She raised her chin and gazed steadily out at Brendan, and at the waves, and then raised both hands as much as she could against the grip of her captors. Holding her palms flat out toward the water, she then turned them sharply inward toward herself.
 

The waves swelled. The largest of them caught Brendan, lifted him up, and carried him back to shore. He was harshly deposited on the wet sand in the shallows.
 

He got up again. He was angry and frustrated and covered with mud. Again he waded out into the sea, shouting and striking at the waves.