The Well of Shades (20 page)

“What I think is that you’ve been ill-treated and that it’s very fortunate you now find yourself at Blackthorn Rise, where we can provide shelter for you and your child. If we’d handed you over to those fellows
from Cloud Hill you’d have had far rougher handling, I assure you. How old are you, Eile?”

“Sixteen. And, before you ask, my daughter’s three, and no, I didn’t have her because I was wanton, but because a man forced me. If I’d had a knife and a little more courage back then, I’d have spared myself four years of bruises and worse. And if I had to kill him all over again I wouldn’t hesitate.”

“And Faolan?”

“I told you. He’s my father’s friend. He didn’t ask me for anything. He brought breakfast, and he left me his knife.”

“And that was the best gift you ever had,” said the Widow with a strange little smile.

Eile did not answer. This was an odd game indeed.

“I’ll need more,” the Widow said. “More details; more of your background. But not now. Go to your daughter. My guess is that
she’ll be in the kitchen with a lot of folk fussing over her. She’s a pretty little thing. It takes a lot to bring out Maeve’s motherly streak. Go on, now.”

“I—I need to know about Faolan. Where is he? Why did you let them beat him and tie him up? He had no part in what I did. He’s just a traveler.”

“Didn’t you say it was his knife that struck the fatal blow?”

“He didn’t know what I was going
to use it for. I want to see him.”

“He’s not here, Eile. Far from proving a friend, it seems he couldn’t wait to see the back of you. Such men have no time for women and children. Your Faolan moved on today, while you were sleeping.”

The flat statement hit her like a fist. This could not be true, surely. “But—” Eile faltered, “you arrested him, your men attacked him, why would you just let him
go?”

“I made a mistake. After all, he was not the man I was looking for. We offered to wake you; he said not, he’d be best on his own.”

Eile was shocked into silence. She had imagined all manner of terrible fates for Faolan, but not this. Not the familiar old pattern. “I can’t believe it.” The words were
a forlorn whisper. She despised her weakness; this should not matter at all.

“It’s what
men do,” the Widow said. “They just pack up and go when it suits them. Forget Faolan. He’s not worth your tears.”

“What tears?” Eile scrubbed a furious hand across her cheeks. Hearing her own theory about men from this lady’s lips only seemed to make things worse. Foolishly, she had begun to believe that this man might be different.

“You’re dismissed.” The Widow rose to her feet; she was not
very tall. “Find your daughter, reassure yourself that she is safe and so are you. We will shelter you and deal with the law on your behalf. You’d be surprised what can be achieved by a word or two in the right ear.”

I
T TOOK MANY
days to reach Pitnochie, far more than it should have done. Broichan walked in rain, in sleet, in snow; his sandals splashed through streams
and sank into mud, slipped on wet stones and slid in gravel. The cloak was less than adequate as protection from the weather, and he would not squander his strength in magic merely for the purpose of keeping dry. Back at White Hill, he had performed such small feats only in order to teach Derelei. Out here in the forest there was no tiny apprentice to crouch by his side, sharing a wondrous journey
of discovery. Derelei had been left behind, and Broichan knew a piece of his own heart had been left in the child’s keeping. More than aching limbs or uneasy belly, that wound pained him.

Each night he prayed.
You said I must open my heart to love. I did that long ago. Bridei is as dear to me as a son; his child also. Your meaning is obscure to me.
And if this last was not quite true, he refused
to acknowledge it, even to himself.

Sometimes he sensed responses to his questions, but more often the gods were silent, and this he understood.
It was a druid’s way to learn by seeking his own answers; a good teacher provided only the questions, and the means to discover what answers might exist. For a long time, most of his life, Broichan had studied the druidic lore and the craft of magic,
the stars and the elements, the patterns of the seasons, the mysteries of the plant and animal kingdoms. As king’s druid, he had also been intricately involved in matters political; he had been power broker and peace maker, tactician and arbiter. It had been he who had labored, over fifteen years, to prepare Bridei for the throne of Fortriu. Bridei: the perfect king. Broichan had seen the first part
of his long dream come to fruition. He’d been right about Bridei. His solemn little fosterling had grown up to be the finest leader of men any kingdom could wish for.

Unfortunately, Broichan had also been right about Tuala. He’d known from the first that she was trouble. She’d been the unpredictable element, the one factor that could spoil his plan. He had tried to remove her from her position
of influence, but by then she had already worked her Otherworldly charms upon his foster son, and it had been too late. Bridei had refused to give her up. He had made her the price of agreeing to be king.

It had been a bitter defeat, for all the joy of seeing his protégé crowned and Fortriu victorious over Dalriada a mere five years later. Those five years had seen a shift in the druid’s dealings
with Bridei’s wife. He accepted, now, that she loved her husband and wanted only the best for him. Her intentions were all good. He recognized that she loved her child, as indeed did Broichan himself. They had exchanged gestures of wary trust. There was respect between them now; respect and understanding. Or rather, there had been. Then she had shared her vision, and he had been struck by doubt
all over again. Why do it? Why meddle? What was it she wanted from him?

At length Broichan reached the place where, looking down from the fringe of the forest, he could see the
broad valley of Pitnochie below him, the bare-limbed birches, the dark bones of the oaks and, half screened by them, the long stone house with smoke rising lazily from its hearth fires. The rain had cleared and the day
was bright and cold. The druid stood awhile watching, and there was nothing in his body but a longing to be warm and dry, and nothing in his head but,
Home. I’m home.

He could see folk about, his own folk: Fidich and his sons moving sheep into the barn, with dogs pacing the back of the flock, all bunched muscle and intent eyes; Brenna hanging washing on a line between bushes; a child squatting
to stroke a cat. He imagined others inside his house: Mara grim and capable as ever, Ferat clattering things in the kitchen. There was a new cottage taking shape beside the one where Fidich and Brenna lived with their children. That would be Cinioch’s. Cinioch, a man of middle years who had never been other than a warrior by occupation, had requested permission to marry and turn his energies to
farming. Pitnochie had seen heavy losses in last autumn’s conflict. Cinioch’s closest friend had been among the fallen. It was good for these survivors to come home. That was what Bridei wanted for all of them: a season of peace.

With that sentiment Broichan had been surprised to find himself entirely in agreement. He had not let folk know that, of course; it was essential that he be seen to
show strength at all times. His position as king’s druid made him pivotal in the affairs of Fortriu, for all Bridei was a man who made his own decisions. People would expect Broichan to want the advantage pressed hard; they’d anticipate his advising the king to push borders farther south or to challenge Circinn openly on the issue of Christian missionaries preaching the new faith in that land. But
something had changed in the druid while his foster son was away at war. He knew, from the moment Bridei rode safely home with banners flying, that the young king needed time, that Fortriu needed time before its sons were sent again to the slaughter. There had been
grievous losses. Victory did not change that. And Bridei, for all the near-godly status bestowed by kingship, was only flesh and blood.
He must have time to make a settled land, to build his alliances. He must have time to see his children grow. There were still territories to be won, barriers to be pushed back. But not yet. For now, for the next few years, winning Dalriada was enough.

If his own motives for wishing this were selfish, Broichan thought, if his personal affection for Bridei weighed as much in the balance as the
desire to see Fortriu’s king fulfill his destiny, so be it. Peace was good for the Priteni. His own folk at Pitnochie, down the hill there, had lost two and seen a third severely wounded. Enough. The gods were surely satisfied, at least for now. Let there be no more untimely deaths.

For a moment, the druid wondered if he was growing old, for he could remember a time, not so long ago, when his
burning ambition to see the lands of the Priteni united in adherence to the ancient gods was so strong he would not have brooked any delay; he would have urged Bridei to drive ahead, expanding his borders and punishing those who brought new gods and new ways. Bridei could do it; last autumn’s move on Dalriada had proven that. This king was both visionary and man of power. In time, it would happen.
Something had changed in Broichan; he knew he was prepared to wait. He could be patient, as the rocks and trees are patient, knowing all things come in their right time.

He gripped his staff and began his walk down the hill. He was pleased to observe that Uven, whom he’d placed in charge of security here, had guards on duty where fields met forest. Go a little farther, and someone would look
across and see him; they’d call, and he’d raise a hand in greeting, and before long he could be in his own house again and let his own folk tend to him.

Of course, Ana and Drustan were there. That was a little awkward. Never mind; Mara would fit them all in
somehow. And this would provide him an opportunity to talk at length with Drustan, whose unusual gifts interested him. The Caitt chieftain’s
mastery of shape-shifting went far beyond that of the most adept druid. There would be plenty to keep them occupied until… until…

Broichan halted. His breath caught in his throat. Before his eyes, the landscape was changing, as if a veil were being drawn across it. The plume of smoke dissipated and vanished. The tiny figures of man and woman, the moving shapes of dog, sheep, horse winked out
like doused candles. Snowdrifts lay suddenly around house and barn, as high as a man’s shoulder. The barn doors, which had stood open to admit the flock of privileged sheep as Fidich herded them to their winter quarters, were now shut and bolted. Strangest of all, where the bare limbs of birch and oak had formed a sheltering network around the stone and thatch of Broichan’s dwelling, now stood a thicket
of bristling thorn, a menacing barrier to any traveler who dared approach. Shade hung over the valley. Nothing stirred.

He felt defenseless. He felt like a little child whose prize has been snatched from his hands. It was more than uncomfortable. He could in no way summon the self-control proper to a king’s druid.
Why?
he asked without a sound, but the answer was already in his mind. He saw another
day, long ago: the day when Tuala, on the eve of her fourteenth birthday, had reached this very spot after a desperate, solitary journey through the snow in search of shelter; a day on which he, a figure of authority, the man responsible for her upbringing, had cast a spell to keep her from reaching home. Pitnochie had stood open that day, its fires burning, its folk busy preparing the Midwinter
feast. They could have offered her shelter; they could have received her. But Broichan, fearing her influence on his foster son at the critical time of the election, had used his craft to disguise the house. He had set
bars on doors and drifts against walls; he had used a charm of glamour to conceal his folk from her eyes, and to make the place appear empty of life. So Tuala had turned away. She
had made her lonely walk to the Vale of the Fallen. That night she had almost died, and it had not been Broichan who had saved her. He had never told a living soul what he had done. And if Tuala had been right in her interpretation of the vision…

Good.
A voice spoke from behind him. He recognized its nature, and did not turn.
This is the first step.

His bones ached for home. The longing tugged
at his heart and weakened his limbs. He could not give in to it. He would not beg.

Come
, said the voice. It was melodious and deep. He thought it was a woman’s, but this was no earthly woman.
You know what you must do.

He did know. It was clear. He must finish Tuala’s journey; go to the lonely vale and seek his answers in the seer’s pool, the Dark Mirror. Seek the forgiveness of the goddess
and, if the Shining One could not pardon his insult to her Midwinter child, could not overlook his refusal to recognize his own, he did not know what he could do.

Broichan turned away from the valley and began to climb again, under the shelter of the forest fringe. A figure moved with him, a form cloaked and hooded, a shadowy outline.
Walk
, the voice said.
With every step, remember. Remember
your pride. Remember your ambition. Remember your cruelty.