The Well of Shades (57 page)

“Who is that?” she whispered. “And that?” She received the names, and a look from Ferada that was entirely knowing.

“He does not have them all in the palm of his hand,” Talorgen’s daughter murmured. “Not yet. And he still has an announcement to make;
they are waiting for that.”

First, however, came a call for each of the chieftains to step forward in turn, to receive Bridei’s thanks in person and be presented with a gift. Aniel held a coffer; Tharan stood by a small table where larger items were laid ready. In turn, items of jewelry, fine garments, or pieces of weaponry were bestowed. Eile liked it best when the brightly clad boy, with his
mother beside him, went up to receive thanks on behalf of his slain father. He was perhaps twelve years old. Bridei kissed him on both cheeks, formally, and spoke to him as man to man. The gift was a pair of huge hunting hounds: formidable shaggy creatures with a noble grace of expression. The boy was dignified. He thanked the king in a few courteous words, bowing his head. It was only when he turned
away that Eile saw him catch his mother’s eye and grin with pure delight.

The massive Caitt warrior in his cloak of many small skins received a heavy arm-ring in silver. Many others went forth; each got his greeting, and to each Bridei spoke as to an old and dear friend. Eile’s eyes went to Tuala, sitting at the high table in what was her first appearance before the full court since her daughter’s
birth. The queen wore dove gray. Her flyaway dark curls were part concealed by a short, gauzy veil; her large eyes were intent on her husband as he negotiated his long speech and went through the personal acknowledgments, offering each man the respect due for his courage and sacrifice. It seemed to Eile that Tuala lived each moment
with Bridei; that she was somehow lending him her own strength
so he could go on. She thought, again, of Faolan in despair, Faolan about to surrender to the darkness, and how her shout had saved him.

The gifts were given. Folk began to stir again; jugs and goblets chinked and conversation began to buzz around the tables.

“Silence for the king!” shouted someone with a big voice.

Bridei spoke, saying something about music and dancing which Eile could only
half translate, and then Wid leaned toward her, murmuring, “I’ll give you a rough translation as we go with the next part; it’ll be an important speech. Stand up now; the king asks us to honor those fallen in last year’s war.”

They stood. The silence was so absolute that Eile thought she could hear her own heart beating.

“Thank you,” the king said soberly. “And I have one last matter of which
to speak. My kinsman, Carnach of Thorn Bend, who served with great heart as my chief war leader in our venture, cannot be with us tonight. It is evident he has encountered delays in returning to take up his responsibilities at Caer Pridne, where we retain the core of our fighting force, ready to move again should a new threat arise. I am aware that, in the wake of a great triumph, one must remain
watchful. Fortriu has many enemies; we must keep our eyes open and our weapons sharp. For this reason, and because I cannot say when Carnach may be free to come back to us, I will tonight appoint another chieftain as war leader in his place.”

A general sigh went around the hall. Wid whispered in Eile’s ear, “They have awaited this a long time, since the rumors began of Carnach’s defection and
a possible rebellion. Bridei doesn’t want to do it; it means publicly acknowledging that he believes the rumors may have some substance. But, failing news of exactly what Carnach is up to, the king must announce this tonight. To delay longer will make him appear less than decisive.”

“Shh!” hissed a man farther along the table, and Ferada looked down her nose at him.

“Talorgen of Raven’s Well
has agreed to take up the position, on my invitation.” Bridei spoke with quiet confidence. Eile was pleased to discover that she was understanding more than she had expected of his speech; she needed Wid’s whispered translation only for the most complicated parts. “I have faith in Talorgen’s abilities,” the king went on. “He is a warrior of long experience. At his hand I honed my own skills in armed
combat; under his leadership I took part in my first battle. I ask you to acknowledge my choice and I expect you to support it wholeheartedly. Talorgen will be training men at Caer Pridne over the summer, against certain possibilities. I thank him for his readiness to take up this onerous duty. After the bloodshed of last autumn, each of us holds strong hope for a season of peace and time to rebuild.
But if war comes again, we will be ready for it.”

Eile was startled when, instead of applause and words of approval, a chorus of shouts broke out around the hall, challenges, objections, men’s voices raised in protest. “Why wasn’t this done in open assembly?” “Why no vote?” “Choose a younger man!” “What about Morleo?”

The king’s councillor Aniel, who was not a tall man, rose to his feet and
held up a hand. The hall fell silent; Aniel’s authority was widely respected. Talorgen was already standing; he was at the head of one of the long tables with his younger son by his side. Ferada had begun gnawing on her fingernails; across from her, Garvan murmured, “He knows what to say. It’ll be fine.”

“I should make it clear,” said the chieftain of Raven’s Well, “that I agreed to take up these
duties on certain conditions. I trust that, when I explain them, your concerns will be laid to rest. Be assured that, when and if the position of chief war leader becomes available on a long-term basis, it will be contested in open session, and any man who thinks himself worthy of consideration will have the opportunity to put his name forward.”

“Explain yourself!” someone shouted. Immediately,
another voice rose across that, “Hold your tongue! Talorgen’s the best choice anyway!” The first man hissed, and Eile saw Ferada turn pale. She put her hand over the other woman’s on the table. Ferada might on occasion appear intimidatingly capable, but this was her father being publicly attacked.

“I’ve agreed to act in the position only until Carnach returns or King Bridei decides it is time
to appoint a permanent replacement,” Talorgen said. “Nonetheless, I will carry out my new duties with all the energy and dedication I have to give.” He himself looked pale. Ferada’s father was still a handsome man, for all the touch of gray in his russet hair, but tonight he was plainly ill at ease.

“He’s worried about the boys,” Ferada muttered. “Bedo in particular. This is a lot for my stepmother
to handle. Father doesn’t really want to do it.”

“That’s all very well,” someone spoke up over a continuing rumble of unrest, “but where’s Carnach? That’s what we all want to know. The men need certainty, not short-term measures. We all do, in the aftermath of war.”

“If you ask me,” said another man, “there’s no better time than now to appoint this permanent replacement.”

“Shut up!” yelled
someone from down the hall. “What are you trying to do, defy the king?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Keother of the Light Isles got to his feet; all eyes turned to the top table. “Indeed,” said Keother, running a hand through his thatch of fair hair, “a celebratory banquet is hardly the occasion for such… robust debate. King Bridei has made his decision. Now is not the time to challenge
it. If he has appointed Talorgen here, then I am certain Talorgen will do an excellent job.”

Ferada said something under her breath.

“No doubt in time, perhaps in relatively little time,” Keother went on smoothly, “due process will be followed and a new appointment made. We’ve all heard what folk are saying about Carnach of Thorn Bend. In times of such
threat, what’s required is a decisive leader.
One who does not shy away from difficult choices.”

“When does the dancing start?” A ripple of laughter followed this query, which had boomed forth in the sonorous voice of Umbrig of the Caitt.

“Thank you, Umbrig,” said Bridei levelly, “for you remind us why we are here: principally for a celebration of victory and valor. There will be time to debate this other matter. That I promise you. And
I assure you that it will not be debated before its due time. To choose a path on the basis of rumor and conjecture is the decision of an impulsive fool.”

“Then why not cast an augury?” put in Keother, who was evidently not finished yet. “Let the gods advise you.”

“That’s a low blow,” whispered Wid.

“You are a man of deep faith, my lord king,” Keother went on. “Should not the Flamekeeper have
the final word on this matter?”

Then an exceptionally bold, or foolish, man from somewhere at the third table called out, “Where’s the king’s druid, then? Where’s Broichan? Ask him what he thinks!”

“Enough!” There was a quality in Bridei’s voice that cut the interjection off as crisply as a sharp axe splits dry pine. “We are done here. Let the musicians commence their work, for it is time to
put weighty matters aside awhile. Be assured that I will hear every man’s concerns in due course. But not tonight. We have waited long to celebrate.”

Folk got up; serving people began to move aside benches and tables. In the press of bodies, Ferada could be seen heading to her father’s side to speak to him reassuringly, while Garvan hovered, far enough away for decorum. Wid rose to his feet more
slowly; Eile offered him her arm. An instant later Dovran was on the old scholar’s other side, doing the same.

“I’m not in my dotage yet, young people,” Wid chuckled.
“But it’s true, I would prefer a comfortable seat; my capering days are long over. Put me beside Fola and her wise women over there in the corner. They should keep me entertained. Now go off and enjoy yourselves; that’s what the
king wants. Let’s see you dancing, the pair of you. I’ll wager you’re light on your feet, Eile.”

It’s a challenge
, Eile told herself grimly.
Let Dovran take your hand, let him touch your waist, convince everyone you’re having a wonderful time. And hope you can convince yourself
. The music was good, not that she had much to compare it with. She thought she could remember a wedding or something
similar at Brennan’s in Cloud Hill. A long time ago. Maybe so long ago that her father had been there, and her mother had still been able to smile. There’d been a little bowed instrument that made a scraping sound, and a goatskin dram—she’d liked that—and a reed pipe, high and shrill. She thought she could remember getting up to dance and someone—Deord?—saying with an approving grin, “That’s my girl.”
These musicians were as far above those as the sun is above a little yellow daisy in a field. The flute throbbed and sang, the drum set feet tapping. There was a harp as well. That Eile loved best of all, a magical kind of music like a voice from a fairy world. It made her think of Derelei and his visions in the water.

“Will you?” asked Dovran, holding out his hand.

“I… not know… steps. Never
do… before.”

“Nor have I.” He grinned.

Eile was disarmed. “I suppose we’ll have to tread on each other’s toes, then,” she said in Gaelic, then gave him a demonstration of her meaning, making him laugh. By the time that was done she had taken his hand and they were moving out into a swirling mass of couples.
It is possible
, she told herself,
to bear his touch. If I concentrate on other things,
I can do it. Just. I wonder if Faolan knows how to dance?

I
N THE AFTERMATH
of King Bridei’s victory feast, the household at White Hill began to shrink toward its usual number. Chieftains and their families rode for home and men-at-arms headed to Caer Pridne in anticipation of a season’s training under the new leadership of Talorgen.

Bridei had made his decision and intended to stick by it, but he was uneasy.
He had asked Fola to conduct an augury, in Broichan’s absence, to obtain the wisdom of the gods as to the immediate future and the question of Carnach. Was it best to send a force southeast, to be ready to hold the border against armed insurgency from that quarter, or should he wait in hope of clearer information? How could he set strategies in place against an uprising when he did not yet know
who Carnach’s allies were?

The gods had provided no clear answers. It was not that Fola lacked skill in the interpretation of a pattern of birch rods cast on a stone table. She was a priestess of long standing, learned and deep. Bridei himself, raised in a knowledge of such tools, could see the message of the rods was obscure, hinting at one interpretation, then another. He had consulted Tuala,
who had in the past proved more astute than anyone in her comprehension of the gods’ messages. Even she had been unable to reach a conclusion. “We face confusion,” she had said. “Challenges; fences and bridges. But we knew that already.”

Late one afternoon Bridei called his inner circle to a meeting in his small, private council chamber. There were an oak table, two benches, a narrow window looking
out over the forest below the parapet wall. A lamp stood in a niche, for the place was naturally dim. Otherwise the place was bare, stone floor swept clean, walls
devoid of decoration. With the window set so high and the door both unobtrusive and effectively defensible by one man—currently Garth stood guard—it was a place where conversations on delicate matters could be held with confidence.