The Well of Shades (17 page)

“I just thought… I suppose I’ve been thinking about Derelei and what will happen with Broichan gone. Our son is too little to understand the concept of
never.
He looks for Broichan every afternoon. He sits and waits, more patiently than is natural
for any child of his age, and when Broichan doesn’t come he curls up and puts his thumb in his mouth like a baby.”

“He still is a baby. Didn’t you say he is too young for such intensive study? Perhaps this will allow Derelei to spend more time being a child before he must become a mage or a druid or whatever future awaits him.”

“I do let him run about with Ban, and kick a ball, and play with
Garth’s boys,” Tuala said, an edge in her tone that was unusual. “And he enjoys those things. Not long ago I would have told you that is quite enough for any child of his tender years. But Broichan was right all along: Derelei’s precociously talented. He can’t help what he’s inherited, from me, from you, from Broichan himself. He savors his tutelage in the craft. He craves it. Already he misses his
lessons terribly. It would be so much easier if we knew how long Broichan planned to be gone.”

Bridei grimaced. “From the sound of things, there wasn’t a lot of planning in it. All I know is that, if he does not wish to be found, it will take a person of remarkable skill to track him down. I doubt the ability of Aniel’s man to do it.”

“Agreed,” said Tuala. “But I think I could. Not by scrying;
Broichan will be using all his craft to block such seeking eyes. There is another way.”

“Wh—?” Bridei bit back his response. Tuala was not given to statements of the foolish or ridiculous kind. In that, she took after Broichan. “That fills me with trepidation,” he said. “If you mean what I believe you mean, it would be fraught with risk on so many levels I could barely start to list them. Broichan
has acted unwisely. He
doesn’t deserve such a response, Tuala. Besides, there’s the child.”

“This one, you mean?” She laid a white hand on her belly. “Breeding does not stop a vixen or a hart or a she-badger from traversing the wildwood, Bridei, whatever the season. As for deserving, if he is my father I’m bound to care about his safety whether he deserves it or not. You’ve gone white as fresh
cheese, dear one. Don’t be alarmed, I’m not planning precipitate action, all I’m doing is thinking aloud. Perhaps we’ll get a message soon to tell us he’s arrived at Pitnochie and that there’s no cause at all for our fear. My mind turned to that partly because of Derelei. I think I may need to continue what Broichan began with him. He had learned some tricks now, some skills that could prove perilous
if left to develop unguided.”

Bridei nodded; this, he had been expecting. Not the other. “Set safeguards in place,” he said. “Take Aniel into your confidence. He is completely to be trusted and thinks highly of you. Wid could be useful, too. I’m confident you have the goodwill of everyone at court now, but those who come and go are less of a known quantity, and we’re heading into a difficult
time, thanks to Drust’s demise.”

“I’ll be careful,” Tuala said. “I wouldn’t do anything to undermine you, Bridei. I hope you know that.” She sounded suddenly close to tears.

“I didn’t mean that—Tuala, don’t cry, please. Of course that wasn’t what I meant.” He wrapped his arms around her, aware of how slight she was, unborn child and all. “If I speak of safeguards, it’s because I fear for you,
not for myself, dear one. I won’t have you hurt, not by the least cruel word. You know the way some folk think. They’ll seize on the slightest oddity in the king’s personal life if they think it’s a means to discredit him. In the light of my decision not to stand for the dual kingship, we’ll be under ever closer scrutiny.”

“Oddity. I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.” Tuala grinned
through her tears.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I’m joking, Bridei. I seem to weep over the silliest things these days; I put it down to having a child on the way. Once she’s safely born, I trust this weakness will cease. And don’t worry about my other suggestion. If I take it into my head to attempt a magical transformation I’ll warn you first, so you know that beetle on your pillow may actually be your
wife.”

“Just as long as you can change back again,” Bridei said lightly. The terror that clutched his vitals at the very thought of her trying such a thing, he kept entirely to himself.

A
REGULAR, JARRING
pain. A horse, cantering, each step another stab through his neck, another jolt of his lolling head. He was over a saddle, head down. They forded a stream and it
wet him up to the eyes. All he could see was the horse’s side and a leather strap with a buckle. Gods, this hurt.

Eile. Where was Eile? Nobody was talking; this was serious riding, swift and purposeful. If he’d been unconscious a while, those fellows back at the bridge might already have her and the child well on the way back to Cloud Hill and punishment. Curse it! Why in the name of all the
powers had Echen’s people taken it into their heads to apprehend him now? At least, Faolan assumed they were Echen’s people, though their chieftain was said to have been gone these four years. He’d know that blue and black gear anywhere. He’d been seeing it in his dreams since his last night under his father’s roof, a night whose restless sleep had been preceded by another sharp tap to the skull.

Maybe the chieftain of Blackthorn Rise was dead, but his men hadn’t changed their methods. Surely the old feud wasn’t still alive, after all that had happened? Surely there was nobody, on his side at least, with any
will to keep it going? Only himself; and his quarrel had been with Echen, not with the man’s kinsfolk. Now it was too late for vengeance.

Eile. Saraid. He had to get out of this somehow
and go back for them. For all her bravado, the girl was scared, and with good reason. What she’d done had to catch up with her sometime, and in the face of formal justice she’d be powerless. Chances were the child would be handed over to the aunt, and not receive a kindly welcome. As for Eile, he was not certain what penalty she would face, but he could think of several possibilities, none
of them pleasant. He couldn’t let that happen, not to Deord’s daughter. The girl was frail; skin and bone. He had to get her, get
them
, to safety.

The horse was going uphill. Faolan’s head was jolted about, his teeth biting involuntarily into his tongue. He tasted blood and caught a glimpse of other riders, black boots, blue shirts, and the glint of silver on their harnesses. A hill with birches;
a tower. He thought he recognized the place. A dog. He knew that, too. Persistent creature. Its flanks were heaving and its tail was down, but it kept pace. So maybe she was here. Why? Why take her?

The muddy track turned to gravel and then to flagstones. They had reached somewhere. The horse halted; rough hands untied Faolan from the saddle and dropped him to the ground like a sack of turnips.
The dog licked his face, above the gag. He sought Eile with his eyes but could not see her, only a circle of male faces.

“Take him in, lock him up,” a woman’s voice said. “Don’t untie his hands and feet until you have him secure. He has a reputation for getting away. Don’t dawdle, move.”

A large man who smelled of garlic picked him up bodily. He was conveyed over this person’s shoulder to a
stone building, dumped on straw and then, mercifully, bonds and gag were removed by the big man while two others held thrusting spears with the tips uncomfortably close to Faolan’s chest.

“After that ride,” he croaked, “believe me, I haven’t the inclination so much as to attempt a crawl to the door, let alone make a bolt for freedom.” Gods be merciful, could this be the prelude to another sojourn
in Breakstone Hollow? His skin crawled at the thought of it.
Deord, my friend, what have you done to me?
“Don’t tell me my informant’s got it wrong, and Echen Uí Néill’s not dead after all?”

“Shut it, will you?” muttered the big man. “It’s the Widow gives the orders here, and it’s not for you or me to question them. Now don’t try anything stupid or we’ll have those bonds back on before you can
so much as blink. Here.” Another man, perhaps a groom, had appeared with a blanket, and the big fellow tossed it into the straw where Faolan half crouched, half lay, willing some feeling into his cramped limbs. There was no point at all in trying to resist. It would only get him spiked. The blanket seemed a positive sign.

“Thank you,” he muttered, pulling it closer. “There was a girl. And a child.
Did you—?”

But, at a word from their leader, his guards had backed out of the room. “No funny business,” the big man said from the doorway. “There’s an armed man up the end and more outside.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Then, as the fellow moved away, “I don’t suppose you can tell me why I’m here? What is it she thinks I’ve done, this widow?”

“No idea. We just do as we’re told. Looks as if you’ve
offended her somehow. She’ll tell you when she’s ready.”

“Now why don’t I find that reassuring?” Faolan murmured, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.

The big man folded his arms, leaning on the door frame. “She can be tough,” he said. “As tough as any man. But if you’ve a clear conscience you’ve nothing to worry about.” The grilled door closed; Faolan heard the bolt slide home with a
clang. Footsteps retreated.

What now? It seemed an interrogation was coming. He was practiced at those. It would help to know what
this woman wanted with him. Who was she? The Widow; it had been spoken like a title. He had to assume that meant Echen’s widow, though he did not remember the fellow having a wife back in the old days. Someone had said, across the river, that she held the lands for
her son; that Echen’s brother, who’d stood to inherit them, wasn’t interested. So she was powerful; her husband all over again? Faolan caught himself shivering and forced himself to stop. It had been years since the summer his brother had led a local resistance against Echen’s cruel chieftaincy and paid, not just with his own life, but with the very fabric of family.

Did this widow know who Faolan
was? One of those fellows at the bridge last night had seemed to guess at his identity. Could his return have been of sufficient interest to spark an urgent message to this lady, precipitating her appearance on the riverbank this morning? Surely not. She’d know the story, of course; everyone in these parts had to know, it would be part of local legend now. But nobody had confronted him with
it in her hearing. He had not had time to give his name before they disabled him. Maybe this was a simple case of mistaken identity.

There was another possibility. She was an Uí Néill, by marriage at least, kin to the High King and to Gabhran, deposed monarch of Gaelic Dalriada. And he was on this shore as a spy. He was in the pay of the enemy: Bridei of Fortriu, the very man who had just scored
a stunning victory over a force rich in Uí Néill princes. He didn’t think she could know this; he was expert at covert missions. They’d taken his bag, but very fortunately had not asked him to strip. They did not know, therefore, the amount of silver he carried, nor the full extent of his concealed weaponry. He could deal with this.

Faolan made an efficient examination of his place of imprisonment.
The last time he’d been locked up, in Alpin’s fortress at Briar Wood, a bird had come to fetch him the key. That wasn’t going to happen here, nor was a more ordinary kind of escape, for the single window was
sturdily barred, the door was strong and, short of starting a tunnel under the stone walls, there was not much he could do. An image of Eile and the child was in his mind, captive and marching
back to the scene of that bloody killing. That bloody and altogether justified killing. It disgusted and repelled him to think of it, that wretched lump of a man forcing himself on her, stealing her childhood, making her a kind of slave, using her love and fear for the little girl to keep her compliant… The aunt was no better: too weak to do what was right. Eile had only survived, in Faolan’s
estimation, because she was her father’s daughter. Strong; indomitably strong, for all her waifish build. He must hope she would be safe until he could reach her. He must hope she wouldn’t do anything foolish, like try to fight or make the wrong people angry. In Fiddler’s Crossing, long ago, he’d been robbed of the opportunity to try to save his sister. But he could save Eile. He could save her and
her daughter, and he would, no matter what it cost him. They were survivors, the two of them; he would help her. He lay down on the straw, the blanket over him, his eyes narrowed to slits. Whatever might come, he would be ready for it.