The Well of Shades (19 page)

Maybe she’d lie down for a bit. She could stay alert and still rest. Her back was aching from the ride and her head was spinning. She lowered herself to the bed beside the slumbering child. A warm blanket; they treated their servants well here. A soft pillow, which seemed to be stuffed
with feathers. No wonder that woman hadn’t wanted Eile’s filthy head on it. She observed, with detachment, that her hair was drying out quite a different color from its usual muddy hue. It seemed to have all shades of red in it, from fox fur to autumn beech leaves. Back in the old days, Father had had red hair. When he came back from that place, Breakstone Hollow, it had gone white, and he’d shaved
his head. Mother’s hair had been soft brown, like Saraid’s.

“Father,” Eile whispered, “I’m afraid. But I’ll do my best. Mother, I’ll look after her. I promise.” And she was asleep.

A
RE YOU SURE
you want to take the child in with you? The lady will be expecting a full account of what you did. You wouldn’t want the little girl to hear that, would you?”

They were outside a grand oak door with a heavy bolt and two guards. Maeve stood frowning, hands on hips. Eile, jittery with nerves even after her long sleep, held Saraid’s hand
tightly.

“She can sit in a corner, somewhere she can see me but not hear. She’ll be good.”

Maeve sighed. “I’ll ask the lady if that suits. Are you ready now?”

She’d never be ready for this, Eile thought. She was strung up tight enough to snap at the least touch. “Mm,” she managed.

“By the way, that dog you asked about is still here. Hanging about the kitchen door making a nuisance of itself.”

“And Faolan?”

“I can’t tell you about him. You could ask the lady. Not straight out; later, when you’ve answered her questions. Remember what I told you.”

“I’m not an infant.” Eile made herself take a deep breath. If she wasn’t careful she might cry, or make a bolt for it, or do something else that was all wrong. “My mother did teach me good manners.” It was true, though there hadn’t been much
call for them in Dalach’s house, where threats and blows were the main currency.

They went in. This house was full of huge chambers, and this one was the biggest Eile had seen so far. The walls were hung with tapestries of men on horseback hunting deer and wolves. The hearth was broad, fashioned
of a greenish-colored stone, with a warm fire glowing; these people clearly didn’t see the need to
conserve their wood supply. A little dog ran toward them, yapping. Saraid shrank back against Eile’s skirts, then, as the creature came closer and the shrill greeting turned to tail-wagging and snuffling, the child reached down a hand to touch its head.

At the far end of the big room a woman sat in a tall chair. The light from a western window shone on her face, making it an oval of stark white
against the dark hangings on the wall behind her. Armed guards stood on either side of her chair. The lady remained utterly still and completely silent as the housekeeper led Eile and Saraid, with the little dog prancing around their feet, all the way along the flag stoned floor to stand before the thronelike seat.

Maeve bobbed a sketchy curtsy. Eile copied her, trying to summon up the proper
attitude of respect owed to highborn, powerful folk and failing utterly. Instead, fear and resentment churned within her. These people had been kind enough to her. But they’d hurt Faolan and taken him away. Now this lady was looking at her and Saraid as if they were rats in her kitchen or beetles under her mattress.

“My lady,” Maeve’s voice was apologetic, “this is the young woman, Aoife. The
child is her daughter. She wouldn’t let me take her away.”

Blue eyes bored through Eile; passed briefly over Saraid, who had crouched down to pat the dog. The Widow was young. Eile judged her to be less than thirty, though the veil that covered her head and neck, concealing her hair, made it difficult to tell. Her features were neat and small, her mouth hard, her brows artfully shaped. The eyes
gave away nothing at all, save that this woman knew she was in control. It was clear she took that as her right.
Don’t get angry
, Eile warned herself, but it was already too late.

“Take the child over by the fire,” the Widow ordered
Maeve. “Keep her occupied. Step up closer, girl. That’s better. You understand why you’re here?”

Eile met the challenging eyes full on. A large part of finding courage
was not letting your fear show. What to say? How to do this? They knew who she was; of course they’d believe those men at the bridge, not a—what was it they had called her—a piece of roadside rubbish? On the other hand, perhaps Faolan had already told them his lie, and by contradicting it she’d get all of them in more trouble.

“No, my lady. We were on our way to Fiddler’s Crossing when your people
attacked my friend and took him captive. What have you done with him? Where is he?”

A calculating look entered the well-guarded eyes; the lips tightened. Eile glanced over her shoulder. By the hearth, Saraid was sitting on the floor playing with the little dog, while the housekeeper had seated herself on a bench nearby.

“Maeve!” the Widow called. “I asked you to explain the situation to this
young woman.”

“I did, my lady.”

The dark eyes returned to Eile, assessing. “You are fond of risks?” the Widow asked.

“No, my lady. I take them when I have to.”

“You should learn to guard your tongue more skillfully. Do you know who I am?”

“You’re a landholder; the widow of a great chieftain. You have a grand house, men-at-arms, servants. You have power. That’s all I know. Power over folk
like him and me.”

There was a brief silence. Then the lady said, “What are you implying, exactly? Is that what you admire, power? Is it what you would wish for yourself?”

No time to weigh her answer, to calculate what might serve best. “Not power over other folk, to put them in fear, to twist and turn them. Only enough power so I can protect her properly.” Eile glanced toward the fire. “My daughter.”

“Who did you say you were?” The question came smoothly, like an expertly cast line.

“I didn’t, my lady. My name’s Aoife.”

“Maeve tells me someone’s abused you, Aoife. She says your body bears a record of many beatings, not to speak of the fact that you seem half starved. On the other hand your child, though thin, has evidently been well looked after. Are you sure you’ve told the truth? Is she
really yours? She isn’t perhaps the offspring of a cruel mistress, whom you stole for reasons of your own? This doesn’t add up, Aoife. I know Maeve’s told you what you’ve been accused of. Unless you’re half-witted, and I can see that’s not so, you must surely realize how serious this matter is. Telling lies cannot aid your cause. If you have been ill-treated, you should give me the details. If you
have taken a man’s life, you must confess that also. Account for yourself, and make it the truth! Lies do not win power; that path is sure to see you lose your child. Don’t waste what strength you have in fighting me, young woman. Use it to make your case.”

“I’m not in a court of law now,” Eile said, lifting her chin. “Give me one reason why I should trust you.” She heard Maeve’s gasp of horror
behind her. Saraid was murmuring to the dog.

The Widow sighed, leaning back in her grand chair. “Your existence up till now has not given you great cause to trust, I imagine,” she said levelly. “In fact, I do not require trust from you, only the truth. Folk do not customarily demand that I prove my goodwill. I stand as chieftain of this region in my late husband’s stead. I have the power to decide
your future. You will be fairly treated if you are honest, Aoife. I know that is hard to believe, but it is true, in my territories at least. If you conduct your business with the attitude of a wildcat shut up in a little cage, all snarls and biting, you make it hard for folk to help you.”

“He helped us. Faolan. All he got for it was a beating. You still say I should trust you? Show me that he’s
all right and I’ll answer all the questions you want.” Eile was
pleased with her tone. It sounded bold and challenging; the lady could not know how she was quaking inside.

“Maeve,” said the Widow, “take the child away.”

“No!” They could not do this, it wasn’t fair, she must stop them. “Leave her alone!” As Eile spoke, one of the guards moved down to position himself beside her, spear across
to block her path. Beyond that barrier she saw the housekeeper take Saraid’s hand and lead her toward the doorway. The child looked back, big eyes anxious, but kept her silence. The little dog pattered after them. “You can’t take her!” Gods, it was happening, what she feared most. Saraid would vanish out that door and she’d never see her daughter again.

“You think not?” the Widow said. “It’s
as easy as one, two, three. Don’t look like that, girl, we treat children kindly here. Indeed, I think your daughter, if such she is, may be better off at Blackthorn Rise, growing up among the children of my household and, in time, being trained in skills that will provide her with a home and a living, than wandering the byways with her mother, never more than half a step from trouble.”

Eile
made a dash for the doorway. Before she had taken three steps the guard had dropped the spear and grabbed her around the arms, halting her flight. She tried to fight him, but he simply held on as she struggled and kicked, and the Widow watched in impassive silence. “It’s not fair!” Eile shouted. “She’s only three! She won’t understand! What have we ever done to you?”

After a time it became apparent
that all her efforts would change nothing. The second guard had stationed himself in front of the door, and there was no other apparent exit. Saraid was gone.

The Widow waited. Eile drew a sobbing breath, then said, “Tell your henchman here to let go. I need to wipe my nose. Then ask your poxy questions. She’d better not be harmed or—”

“Enough!” said the Widow. “No threats. Seamus, let her go.
Fetch a stool; the girl needs to sit down. And some
water. Compose yourself, Aoife. Or would that be Eile, by any chance?”

Eile wiped her nose on the sleeve of her borrowed shirt and stiffened her back. “How much do you know already?” she asked.

“I want you to tell me all of it. Who is the child’s father?”

Eile flinched. Where had this question come from? “I’m not saying that. I’ll tell about
what happened. The other doesn’t matter. Saraid’s mine. Her father’s dead.”

“I see. And what about your father and mother? Where are they? What are their names?”

“Do you think I’d be here like this if they were still alive?”

“Their names?”

“Deord. Saraid. My daughter’s named for her, but my mother never knew I had a child.” No tears. She had to get this right from now on, win Saraid back,
and then, at the first opportunity, they’d be out of this cursed place. How dare this woman play games with little children as the pieces?

“What was your father’s trade, Eile?”

“He was a mariner. A traveler.” That barely touched it: the epic adventures, the wondrous tales. The shell of a man that came home from Breakstone. It did not encompass the love, the hope, the shattering of her fragile
dream that everything could one day be all right again.

“Sit down,” the Widow said as the guard set a stool beside Eile. “Now give me a simple, truthful account of the last few days.”

Eile drew a deep breath. “I stabbed my aunt’s husband in the heart,” she said. “He was… hurting me. When I knew Father wasn’t coming home, I had to do it. For her; for Saraid. Then we ran away. If you want me to
say I’m sorry, I can’t; not if you expect the truth.”

The Widow nodded, features composed. “When you knew your father wasn’t coming home?”

“I thought he’d come back someday. I hoped he would.
But he died. He never did come.” Eile paused to get her voice under better control. “That’s all I have to tell. Let Saraid come back in. She’s not used to strangers.”

“The man who was with you; the one
you call Faolan. He said you were his wife, and the child his daughter. Was that a lie?”

“He was trying to protect us. To get us safely away.”

“Why would this man lie for a girl who had just murdered her kinsman? Is he well known to you?”

“My father’s friend. At least, that’s what he said. I only met him two days ago.” A curious feeling was coming over Eile as she watched the woman’s face:
the feeling that the Widow was not interested in her or Saraid at all. The growing conviction that the one she’d been wanting to know about all along was Faolan. There was something wrong here. Eile could see it in the Widow’s eyes when she spoke his name. He was in danger.

“Answer the question!” the Widow rapped out. “Why would he lie for you? What promise did he extract from you in return?”

Eile stared at her, bemused. “Promise? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t be disingenuous, girl. The fellow’s a stranger to you; he could be anyone. You have no money, no resources; you have only one thing a man’s likely to want, and evidently you’re not reluctant to offer that. Why else would this Faolan take up with you?”

Eile felt the blood rush to her cheeks, then as swiftly ebb. It didn’t
seem to matter that insults were more or less her daily bread; that did not make them any the less hurtful. “Think what you like,” she said, quite unable to summon a pretense of civility.