The Well of Shades (60 page)

“I’m told Ana conducted herself, as hostage here, with dignity and discretion. She’s made a marriage that benefits both Bridei and myself. Allies among the Caitt are difficult to secure. A marriage for you may prove harder
to arrange. It certainly will if tales of your escapades travel outside
White Hill.”

“I don’t want to get married. A child in my belly every year and some oaf in my bed who imagines a quick fumble is going to satisfy me—I’d die of frustration. You have no idea—”

“You may have no choice. There’s every likelihood Bridei will require you to stay in Fortriu when I go home. If that occurs, he’s the one who will decide when and where to bestow your hand.”

Breda stared
at him then erupted into a peal of laughter. “Bestow my hand? You’re so stuffy, Keother, you sound like an old man. I don’t know how Orina puts up with you, I really don’t. But then your wife’s not exactly the lively, vivacious kind, is she? An illustration, in fact, of how quickly women lose their figures and their charm over those early years of marriage—”

“Hold your tongue!” Keother strode
over to her and raised his hand. Breda took a step back and giggled. The sound fell somewhere between alarm and excitement. He lowered his arm. “You disgust me,” he said. “Let me not hear a single concerned comment about your behavior from now until the end of our stay at White Hill. You’re severely restricting my capacity to gain ground in my discussions with Bridei and his councillors; you’re wasting
my opportunity here. What’s got into you? I thought you wanted a permanent invitation to the court of Fortriu. I distinctly remember you telling me how exciting it would be after the tedium of my own court.”

“I was wrong,” Breda said, crushing the last of the flower petals in her hand. “It’s even worse than home. So many things just aren’t right in this place. But I can deal with that.”

Keother
narrowed his keen blue eyes. “What do you mean, you can deal with it?”

Breda turned a guileless smile on her cousin. “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

Back in her bedchamber, she lay flat on the quilt staring
up at the arched roof, and made some adjustments to the list in her head. No point in putting Keother on it; bossy and irritating as her cousin could be, she was forced to acknowledge
that he did provide many things that made her existence more bearable. He was generous about paying for clothes and shoes, and plenty of attendants, and a good horse, not a mad one like that brute that had nearly thrown her.

Dovran; she was of two minds about Dovran. He’d disappointed her; not only had he been unbelievably slow at picking up her cues, he had actually begun showing interest in
that pasty little Gael to the exclusion of anyone else. It was truly bizarre. It would be easy enough to lose Dovran his position of trust in Bridei’s household. On the other hand, if Eile were out of the way, there would still be possibilities where he was concerned. Breda would enjoy the challenge of getting that tight expression off his face and making him sweat a bit. So, no punishment for the
king’s bodyguard, even if he had offended her. He’d change in time. They all did; Breda had a sure touch.

But Eile, ah, Eile was another matter. To think she’d come so close to bestowing her friendship on the wretched girl! To think she’d confided in her, done her best to help her, and all the time the skinny wretch was scheming to get Dovran for herself. Upstart.

Breda rolled onto her stomach,
resting her fair head on crossed arms. What on earth had possessed Eile to refuse her offer of a privileged position as handmaid? The argument about the child was just silly. Anyone could care for a child. All they needed was feeding and cleaning. Eile was a fool if she thought herself indispensable. Well, she was a Gael, after all. They’d lost the war, hadn’t they? Eile wanted too much. The girl
had one bodyguard already, the mysteriously absent Faolan, another Gael, another loser. That hadn’t stopped her moving in on Breda’s territory while the fellow was away. Breda had seen them, her and Dovran, exchanging looks
over the supper table, playing their silly little games with the children in the garden. She’d seen them dancing on the night of the feast. She could have put a stop to that
quickly enough. All she’d needed to do was get up and dance herself; she had a number of techniques for ensuring the eyes of all the men went straight to her. But Keother had stopped her. She could still feel his hand gripping her arm—he’d bruised her—and his furious hiss,
No, you don’t!
Wretched Keother. Maybe he should go back on the list after all. But at the bottom; others deserved their treatment
first.

Eile at the top of the list; it would be quick work to discredit the girl. Let her see how easy it was to provide for her child when she lost the queen’s patronage and got thrown out of White Hill. Let her see how much her lover cared about her then. Breda was sure the girl came from quite humble origins; Eile was moving far above her due place in society. All she planned to do was put
the little Gael back where she belonged: at the bottom of the heap. It was very satisfying to be able to set things to rights.

The child: she’d be caught up in it, which was a pity because she was a pretty little thing, but if she survived she’d doubtless grow up like her mother, who must have conceived the infant when she was a child herself. Slut of a mother, slut of a daughter. White Hill
was best rid of the two of them.

Breda sat up, easing her back against the pillows. They were lumpy and uncomfortable. Cella had been the only one of her maids who knew how to get them just right. Stupid Cella. If only the girl hadn’t taken a liking to Talorgen’s elder son. Bedo was young, certainly, but the fact was, he bore royal blood. He had possibilities Breda had not recognized when he
first came bumbling in with his awkward introductions. If only Bedo in his turn had not shown an interest in Cella, with her too-innocent smile and her endless stories about her poxy terrier. Cella had made a bad mistake; Bedo had been caught up in it. Too bad for them. They’d never get in Breda’s way again.

A sudden brilliant thought came to her, making her laugh out loud. She saw how it could
be done; how not only Eile but the next on the list, that weird little child, could be handled in one bold move. They were always together, the three of them: the Gael, her daughter, and the queen’s fey offspring with his scary eyes and his odd silences. The deformed baby was beyond Breda’s reach. It was clear they didn’t trust her, Tuala and Bridei; they had extraordinary measures in place to
keep her out of the royal apartments and out of the garden, as if she had some filthy disease. And they let Eile in. They left her in charge of their son. It was wrong. It was an insult, and it was up to Breda to put it right.

W
HEN THE KING
and queen of Fortriu returned from their council, Derelei was sitting on the floor by the hearth, rocking to and fro. The nursemaid
said he’d been that way awhile. Anfreda had woken, cried, had her wrappings changed and been soothed, and all the time her brother had done nothing but rock. His eyes had stayed fixed on the wall and when the nursemaid had knelt by him he had not seemed to see her.

Tuala told the young woman not to worry and dismissed her for the evening. Then she sat down to feed Anfreda and Bridei settled himself
cross-legged a little way from their son. This did not seem the trance of a seer; the eyes were too blank, the small body too rigid. Equally, it was not a seizure, something that might be dealt with by the administration of a herbal draft. That Broichan’s apparent defection had wounded and confused her son, Tuala knew well already. It had become evident that time was not healing that hurt.
It seemed to her, tonight, that the damage done had been more grievous than anyone had realized. Derelei seemed shut off, unreachable. It sent a chill through her heart.

“I did ask Eile how he was earlier,” she murmured to
Bridei. “She said he was quieter than usual. And apparently Saraid keeps saying he’s sad. But this is new, this… withdrawal.”

“Derelei,” said Bridei quietly. “Derelei, Papa’s
here, and Mama, and Anfreda. You’re safe.”

The rocking continued. Bridei reached out a gentle hand to touch his son’s shoulder. Derelei shrank away as if terrified, then began his steady movement once more.

Tuala saw the stricken look on Bridei’s face. “He doesn’t see you,” she said. “I think he’s not only sad, but frightened as well. The scrying bowl has not shown me Broichan for a long time.
My confidence that he’ll walk back into White Hill when it suits him is beginning to wane, Bridei. It’s been too long. Something’s happened to him; something Derelei knows but can’t tell us.”

“You believe Broichan is gone from us forever? A victim of the winter or of his own misguided attitude to the truth?”

“I cannot believe the revelation that I may be his daughter would drive him to complete
despair. He is too strong for that. But perhaps, if it compelled him to seek solitude and he lost sight of the fact that he is of mature years, in indifferent health and not only druid but frail human as well, he might have fallen victim to the harsh season. All the same, I can’t bring myself to accept that he’ll never come back. I’ve had all kinds of feelings toward him over the years: distrust,
anger, terror, concern. If he is indeed my father, it would be deeply sad if I never got the opportunity to show him a daughter’s love.”

The little white dog, Ban, had been watching the child from under a chair, wary-eyed. Now he crept out and went to Bridei; in the quiet of the family apartments the creature was prepared to forget his dignity awhile, to climb onto his master’s knee, curl up
and fall heavily asleep. Anfreda finished feeding. Tuala walked up and down awhile, holding her daughter against her shoulder. Eventually Derelei’s rocking slowed and ceased, and he lay down on the mat before the hearth, thumb in mouth. When
Bridei, dislodging Ban, reached to gather up his son, Derelei made no protest. Bridei held him close, cradled like a baby.

“He’s shivering,” Bridei said.

Tuala could see a terrible fear in her husband’s eyes. The touch of the Nameless God was everywhere: the god whose command Bridei had disobeyed long ago at the Well of Shades.

She put Anfreda to bed and came back with the little blanket Derelei liked to hug at nighttime. They wrapped it around him; he had turned his face into his father’s breast now and clutched onto Bridei’s tunic.

“You remember,”
Tuala said, fetching a jug of mead and two cups, then sitting down beside her husband, “when Broichan first went away and I said I thought I would be able to find him?”

“I remember.” Bridei’s tone was full of unease.

“Perhaps I should try. Derelei’s really scaring me. I can’t be with him all the time. I’m reluctant to trust his care to anyone but Eile. Elda is close to delivering her own infant;
with the twins to watch over, she has more than enough to handle. But I think there will come a point when, if we take no action, even Eile’s firm kindness and Derelei’s attachment to Saraid will not be enough to keep this in check. Just now, he seemed… almost crazed.”

“You know I’ve always respected your decisions. You know I’m as worried about him as you are; guilty, too, that other matters
occupy me so much I cannot give you the support you need.”

“You do very well, dear one; no need for apology. We always knew it would be like this. Kingship is a lonely road. Go on, finish what you were saying. I can sense what is coming.”

“You just said you think Broichan may be dead. We performed the most thorough investigation and the most rigorous search; the only thing we didn’t try was
sending Drustan out to scour the forest from the air. How can it help even to talk about that other possibility now?”

“You’re not saying what you really want to say, Bridei.”

In his father’s arms, Derelei now seemed asleep, lids closed, thumb plugged in mouth. Bridei moved a hand to stroke his son’s soft curls. His voice was very quiet. It was not the strong, sure voice that had become so familiar
to his chieftains and advisers. “The thought of your trying this fills me with utter terror,” he said. “A transformation, becoming some other creature, then going off on your own into the forest with no idea if he’s dead or alive, or even if he’s there at all… I will not say, what about Anfreda? I will not ask what would happen to our son if he lost not only Broichan but his mother as well.
I will not even point out that you’ve never tried this kind of metamorphosis before; that you do not know the risks. If you think you can do it, you probably can. But, Tuala… everything in me shrinks from the idea. Surely we can wait a little longer; seek the wisdom of the gods; give Derelei a chance to recover on his own. Perhaps I am selfish. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t think I could go on
without you.”

She met his eyes. “Would you forbid me to attempt this?” she asked him.

“You know I would not, despite my fear. You must make your own choice. I wonder at your capacity for forgiveness. Broichan has hardly shown you the same degree of concern. Not only has he never risked his life for you, quite the contrary: he was prepared to sacrifice you for what he saw as the greater good.”