The Well of Shades (53 page)

Eile found that she was crying; she kept it silent from long practice, not to disturb Saraid. This was such a good place. It was a haven. But… but… Watching Drustan and Ana was like looking in a window at something bright and precious, something she would never have for herself. Something Dalach had ensured she
could never have. The two of them seemed to Eile deeply pure and innocent, and their love for each other true and selfless, a thing of wonder indeed blessed by the gods.

The tears flowed in a hot river.
You’ll never have that
, she told herself.
Never. No matter how much you want it
he’s made sure you can’t reach it
. Saraid stirred, making a little sound, and Eile ordered herself to be still,
though her nose was blocked by tears and her eyes stung. She knew she should be happy, grateful, astonished at the good fortune that had brought her to this house of kindly, generous folk. The remarkable fortune that had seen her put on a queen’s gown and take part in the wedding of a princess. The wondrous fortune that had seen Saraid blossom into a different sort of child, one with the confidence
not just to make new friends, but to take charge of them… And she
was
grateful; she understood how far they had come from Cloud Hill. But the tears still flowed. Her heart was a tight core of misery. It wasn’t right. It still wasn’t right. She tried to fill her mind with a picture of the house on the hill, the cat, the garden, the savory smells, but tonight it would not come. She was cold all
through; her body felt the touch of Dovran’s fingers and remembered Dalach. She curled herself into a ball, pulling the green blanket up to her chin. In the darkness her lips formed words in silence:
Where are you?

I
NTERROGATION.
B
EATING AND
being left for dead. Summary execution. A combination of these. As Faolan’s captors hurried him into the darkness under the trees, he considered the possibilities and how he might deal with each one. They had not blindfolded him. He assessed their clothing, their weaponry, the way they carried themselves, and deduced they
were a chieftain’s household men-at-arms or warriors from the court of Circinn. An organized fighting force. Not Carnach’s unless
his troops had put off their chieftain’s colors, for these wore anonymous garb, brown, gray, nothing to draw attention. If they were the new king’s, they showed no particular sign of that, either. Drust the Boar had borne his emblem on a red background; one might have
expected the same from his brother. The gag made questions impossible. Instead, Faolan observed the way they followed, the twists and turns traversed with ease despite the dense shade under the old oaks; wherever they were leading him, the path was so familiar to these men they trod it without needing to think.

They halted at the foot of a natural stone wall higher than a man’s head. The trees
grew close, but more light filtered down here, illuminating the mosses and tiny ferns, the fungi and creepers that occupied each chink and crevice in the rock.

“Through here,” someone said, pulling Faolan by the sleeve.

There was a narrow gap in the stone, well concealed by the undergrowth, hard to spot unless a man knew what he was looking for. They sidled through in single file, Faolan awkward
with his bound hands. The chink opened to a sheltered space bordered by great stones and floored with grass. Here horses stood hobbled and men were packing up gear in apparent preparation for a move. Beyond this scene of activity two men stood together talking. As the tall, red-haired man turned to look in his direction, Faolan made his features impassive. He made sure he gave no sign of recognition.
Carnach’s eyes rested on him thoughtfully. Then the other speaker turned his head, and Faolan’s hands clenched themselves into fists behind his back. The dark-eyed, grim-featured man by Carnach’s side was Bargoit, chief councillor from the court of Circinn.

Faolan was good at what he did. He stood calmly while one of his captors walked over to Carnach and gave what he assumed was a quick report.
Then he was
led forward to stand before the chieftain of Fortriu and the weaselly councillor of Circinn. The gag was removed. The rest of the men turned their attention to horses and gear.

Silence was the best course initially. This looked bad; it looked like a conspiracy. Carnach, then, would have to choose interrogation followed by summary execution. On the other hand, it seemed Carnach had
decided not to recognize him. Faolan kept his breathing steady.
Wait; do not speak. Be ready for whatever they may throw at you
.

“State your name and your business in these parts!” rapped out Carnach. “Be quick about it. We’ve had reports of a man asking questions. Too many questions. If that’s you, you’d best ask them now, and tell us who sent you here to gather information.”

Faolan thought
very fast indeed. A game; a perilous game with Bargoit standing there. He must play as cleverly as Carnach, and hope he had guessed the rules correctly. “My name’s Donal,” he said, aiming for a tone of innocent confusion. “I’m a farmhand, my lord, looking for work to tide me over. Things are not so good at home. My father-in-law threw me out. You know how it is.”

Carnach regarded him thoughtfully.
“And where might home be?” he asked.

“Place called Fiddler’s Crossing, my lord. Other side of Pitnochie, in Fortriu, far to the west.” He did not think Bargoit would remember him. It was six years now since the last time the councillor could have seen him, when Bridei was elected king, and Faolan was expert at the art of blending in. Besides, his appearance had changed; hadn’t Eile said he looked
at least five-and-thirty now?

“What’s this father-in-law’s name?” Bargoit snapped, quick as a snake. “If you’re a farm worker, where are your tools?”

“Garth,” said Faolan. “I made the error of getting too friendly with a certain lady; my wife didn’t take too
kindly to it, and her father’s got a heavy hand. She’ll have me back. She always does. I didn’t bring tools. It’s a long way to carry a
pitchfork.”

Carnach took a step forward and hit him on the jaw, hard. “Hold your tongue,” he said, mildly enough. “Don’t waste our time with your rubbish about wives and dalliances. What are you, a fool?”

Faolan said nothing. What was the truth here? Guess wrong and Carnach must kill him to stop his mouth. Guess right and he might not, after all, need to find some way of evading a large number
of armed men in a confined space with not even a knife to his name.

“A pitchfork?” Bargoit’s suspicious eyes narrowed still further. The snake seemed ready to strike. “Since when do folk stack straw in springtime?”

“In fact,” Faolan looked at the ground, “he took my things. Father-in-law. Locked them up. Didn’t leave me so much as a—”

“Yes, yes,” said Bargoit in irritation. “Why come so far?
Pitnochie’s halfway down the Glen. Surely there’s work nearer home?”

Faolan fixed a dull gaze on him and did not attempt a reply. Carnach and the councillor exchanged a glance.

“Now—what did you say your name was? Donal?—now, Donal, I will put a question to you,” Carnach said with a slight curve of the lips, giving the impression that he found the hapless farm hand something between amusing
and tiresome. “Why should this father-in-law take you back, eh? Indeed, why should your wife do so, if you’ve a habit of straying? Maybe you should be seeking new pastures. Circinn has fine farming land; opportunities for a fit fellow such as yourself.”

Bargoit was getting bored; his gaze had moved to the men-at-arms, and he gestured to someone, indicating a certain horse should be saddled.

“He’ll take me back because, underneath it all, he trusts me, my lord,” Faolan said. “And my wife will take
me back because there are certain activities I’ve a particular talent for. Why would she want to put another fellow in my place when I give her perfect satisfaction?” He looked into Carnach’s eyes, but kept his tone light. Sniggers arose from the men standing closest.

“My advice to you,
then,” Carnach said quietly, “is to be off home without delay. Be there by Midsummer; get your back into your work and show your wife and her father that you have at least a scrap of loyalty left. You’re a fool and, I suspect, a braggart; don’t make things worse by wasting the goodwill of your family. If they’ll have you, you’re a luckier man than you deserve to be.” He turned to Bargoit. “This fellow’s
a halfwit; he’s of no account.”

“Mm?” Bargoit had not been listening; now he fixed his penetrating stare on Faolan once more. “A fool deserves a beating. You, and you!” He jerked his head at two of the men who had brought Faolan in. “Take him back to the place you found him. Teach him a lesson, but don’t take too long over it. We’ll meet you where the path branches north.”

So it would be beating
and being left for dead after all, Faolan thought as they retraced the way through the forest. He wouldn’t be able to fight them, even though there were only two; attempt that and they’d know instantly that he was no farmhand. Trying to escape carried the same difficulty. He did not care to submit to a thrashing; it went against all his instincts. Not hitting back was one of the hardest skills
to master.

They threw him down in the straw by the wall, his wrists still bound. Fortunately they were in a hurry; less fortunate was their decision to use their boots. He was still conscious when they left; still able, vaguely, to recognize that this morning’s episode equated to good news for Bridei. His leg, the one already damaged from last autumn’s battle with wolves, was full of a stabbing
pain, a pain that made his breath falter in his throat. As the sun rose higher and the day warmed to a hint of early summer,
he curled himself on the straw and observed with detachment that there was a fair amount of blood. Then he surrendered to the dark.

B
REDA WAS NOT
sufficiently recovered to attend her handmaid’s funeral rite, a small private ceremony. Only those
closest to the girl were present: Cella’s father, of course, as well as Keother and the young women who had been her fellow handmaids. Bridei and Tuala were both in attendance. The official confinement period following Anfreda’s birth was not quite over, but the queen of Fortriu had made it known she felt great sorrow for this loss, and wished to acknowledge the fortitude of the young woman’s father
by offering her sympathy in person.

Eile knew this because she had been asked to stay with Derelei and Anfreda while Tuala was at the ritual. Dovran was on guard and one of the nursemaids was also in attendance, but Tuala had said she felt most confident that Derelei would stay out of trouble when Eile and Saraid were there. It was a warm day, the garden full of sweet scents, the flowering lavender
and rosemary alive with bees and butterflies. Eile busied herself pulling out wild grasses from the beds; Saraid and Derelei were lying on their stomachs, side by side, staring into the pond. The nursemaid sat outside the door to the queen’s apartments with Anfreda beside her in a basket draped with fine lawn to keep out insects.

It felt good to be asked to help; good to be trusted with the royal
children after so brief a time at White Hill. The sorrow was still there underneath. It surfaced every time Eile saw Dovran walk past the foot of the private garden, sometimes with eyes sternly ahead, once or twice with a glance in her direction and a hint of a smile. At least she hadn’t offended him. It wasn’t his fault that she couldn’t bear his touch.

She was sad for Cella, too, though it
was probably too late for that. Whatever happened when a person died, it had already happened for Breda’s handmaid. Either she was in some other realm, or her spirit had been reborn as a new baby, human, or creature, or she was just beginning the long, gradual crumbling away to dust and the thing inside that had made her eyes shine and her skin flush pink and her body run and dance and ride was gone
altogether, snuffed out as easily as a little candle.

Eile pulled up a root of wild endive that had sprouted between the lavender bushes and put it in her basket. Weeding was an odd occupation. What was a weed, after all, but a perfectly good plant that had simply decided to grow in a place somebody happened to have chosen for something else? Endive had a medicinal use; Elda had told her so when
she was revealing the secrets of the stillroom. It seemed a shame to pull these up, really. By setting root here they had shown enterprise and strength. They had shown they were survivors. Eile glanced at Saraid again; she was up on her elbows, looking at Derelei, who lay utterly still with his gaze on the water.
We’re like weeds, her and me
, she thought.
A couple of scrawny little grasses, sticking
our heads up in a bed full of grand, blooming flowers
. The idea made her smile.