The Well of Shades (62 page)

“Bye, Mama,” Saraid said, blowing a kiss.

“Bye,” Eile said, deciding she must be brave. “Enjoy your supper.” It was possible, she thought, that she wouldn’t even see him in the hall anyway. Despite so many folk packing up and leaving court, there were still fifty or more at the table every night, a press of people, and the only ones she
got to talk to were the folk seated near her.

Hovering in the children’s dining area had made Eile later than usual. She scanned the hall but could not see
Faolan. Dovran was guarding the king; he stood behind Bridei’s chair, stern and watchful. Bridei looked tired. Tuala, seated beside him, was pale and drawn. Eile knew the queen was worried about Derelei. He’d been behaving increasingly oddly
in recent days, not that he wasn’t always an unusual child, but he’d been much harder to cajole out of his fits of melancholy. Eile resolved to offer her services for tomorrow morning. She would take Saraid and Derelei for a really long walk, an exploration of new parts of White Hill. She would tire them out so they had a good sleep in the afternoon. That way, Tuala could at least get some rest.
She was feeding a baby, after all.

Garth was holding up a hand, beckoning Eile. The usual assortment of folk sat close to him: Elda, Wid, Garvan, and Ferada, these last two tonight seated almost side by side; there was one empty place between them. Eile made her way to the table and sat in the spot they had kept for her, between Garth and Wid. A surreptitious glance up and down; she couldn’t
see him. Perhaps she’d been braver than he had tonight.

“Did you hear about the Christians?” Ferada was asking the old scholar.

“Mm,” murmured Wid, applying himself seriously to the barley broth. “Expected, of course. That they’d make their way to court with a request or a petition or suchlike. They want the king’s permission to spread their doctrines throughout Fortriu, as others of their kind
are doing in Circinn. I suppose Bridei should be pleased that they’re taking the trouble to ask. What nobody expected was an arrival attended by miracles. Folk like feats of magic. That kind of thing gets their attention. This Colm is astute.”

“You think it’s true, then?” Garth asked. “That this priest raised a fellow from his deathbed?”

“Who knows? Perhaps the man wasn’t as sick as everyone
thought.”

“Even Broichan could not perform that feat,” said Elda. “Raising the dead.”

“The almost dead.” Wid broke off a chunk of oatcake and dipped it in the soup. “Then we have to ask ourselves, was it magic or miracle, and what is the difference between the two?”

“You need Fola to debate that question,” Ferada said, then turned her head. “Ah, someone’s even later than you, Eile.”

There
he was, walking down the hall toward them between the tables. He was clean-shaven now and dressed in fresh clothes, blue and gray, the anonymous kind of garb he favored. He was trying not to limp. And it seemed to Eile that, once she set her eyes on him, there was nothing else in the hall worth looking at. She did not smile or nod or offer a greeting; she simply fixed on his well-schooled features,
his dark, guarded eyes that held, tonight, the same expression she had seen when he uttered those words:
I will dream of you every night
.

“Sit here, Faolan,” Ferada said, indicating the place between herself and Garvan. “You nearly missed the soup.”

Faolan halted, standing behind the bench, gazing at Eile across the table. For a moment she wondered if his knee was so painful he could not perform
the maneuver required to scramble over the bench and sit. Then his eyes moved to Garth and he gave a little jerk of the head. Garth sighed, slid his own bowl, knife, and spoon across the table and put the untouched ones from the empty spot in front of him. He got up and moved around the table, which involved edging behind a large number of folk and drawing considerable attention to himself. Elda,
Wid, Ferada, and Garvan watched with undisguised interest. Faolan came the other way. If the leg hurt, he disguised it well. Eile felt him settle beside her. As he sat down, his hand brushed hers and she felt the blood rise to her cheeks. She reached for the ladle and spooned soup into his bowl; it was something to do.

After that, although the talk went on, lively and at times combative, about
the Christians, the threat they posed and what the king should do about it, Eile heard it without
comprehension. The awareness of him beside her, so close, the new feeling that engendered, something sweet and good and at the same time deeply unsettling, robbed her of the ability to take in anything else at all.

“You two not eating?” inquired Garth with a smile.

Faolan had consumed barely a mouthful
of the soup. Now he had a small piece of tonight’s pie on a platter before him, but he had not picked up his knife. Eile found herself unable to speak; she could not even manage an inconsequential remark that might make this more like any other supper. To divert herself she looked up toward the king’s table, and was surprised to find two pairs of eyes fixed intently in her direction: Dovran’s,
somber and questioning from where he stood guard and, more alarmingly, Breda’s, narrowed in apparent fury before Ana’s sister turned pointedly away. Eile knew she had displeased Breda with her entirely reasonable refusal to become a handmaid. But that look seemed quite out of proportion. Maybe she’d done something else wrong, something she didn’t even know about. Well, at least this had put a
topic of conversation into her head. Faolan had seen Dovran’s stare and was returning it in kind.

“Don’t forget you have to work together,” said Garth.

Eile spoke to Faolan in Gaelic, keeping her voice low. “While you were away, I had the opportunity to assist at the wedding, Ana’s and Drustan’s. Ana’s sister was unwell that day and I was invited to take her place. It was beautiful, Faolan.
A druid came from the north to conduct the ceremony. It was at dusk, out of doors. I know they will be happy together. If you want, I can tell you all about it.”

Faolan nodded absently. His hand was right beside hers on the bench.

“I know it’s a little difficult for you,” she went on, “but I think it would be good for you to hear it. What I saw, and what I know of Drustan, convinced me that
she will be loved and looked after for the rest of her life.” She hoped the babble of talk around them would prevent
those of their neighbors who understood Gaelic from hearing too much of this rather personal statement.

After a moment Faolan said, “If you wish, tell me.”

“I… It was not so much my wish to tell it… More your need to hear.”

He was looking down at his platter. His reply was little
more than a whisper. “It was not of Ana that I thought while I was away.”

Eile drew a deep, steadying breath. “Perhaps we should talk about something else,” she said.

“I cannot tell you where I have been or what I have been doing. I regret that, but it’s the nature of my work for the king.” His hand had edged closer; it touched hers for a moment. It was extraordinary how such a little thing
could make a flush rise to her face; how it could set her heart racing thus.

“I could tell you what I have been doing. It’s not very interesting.”

“I want to hear it.”

“Eat up that pie and I’ll tell you. You look tired and I know you’re in pain. Good food will help you mend more quickly.”

“Does what you’ve been doing include ordering small children about?” Faolan cut his pie, then used the
knife to convey a morsel to his mouth.

“Not ordering. Usually they just do as I tell them. Actually, it’s Saraid who’s taken to issuing orders…”

“Use your new language, Eile,” put in Wid, a look of mock ferocity on his craggy features. Eile and Faolan turned their heads toward him in unison. Something in their faces made the old man say, “Ah, well, maybe not tonight. The return of friends merits
some relaxation of the rules, I suppose. Your young lady there has proven to be quite a scholar, Faolan. She’s apt; very apt.”

“I don’t suppose Eile likes to be called my young lady,” Faolan said. “She is her own woman. If you’ve been spending time in her company, I imagine you know that already.”

“Fortriu abounds in women who know their own
minds.” Wid chuckled, glancing at Ferada. “It must
be something in the water.”

“I am not a woman of Fortriu,” Eile said in the Priteni tongue. “He means well,” she added in Gaelic, finding that, without any real decision at all, she had moved her hand just far enough to curl it around Faolan’s on the bench between them where nobody else could see. She saw the color rise in his face; his fingers tightened on hers, and she felt warm all through.

“I heard that,” said Wid, grinning. “Best watch her, Faolan; now she’s got two languages she’s becoming dangerous.”

“You should see her with a pitchfork,” said Faolan. His voice was entirely calm. The tension in his hand told Eile a different story.

Over the pie and the pudding that followed it, she gave him an account of her daily routines at White Hill; of Saraid’s blooming confidence, of
the bond between her daughter and Derelei, of the trust Tuala had placed in her. She even described the clothes she had been lent and the wedding dress she had constructed for Sorry. “But,” she said eventually, “I don’t imagine this is really of much interest to you. Apart from being reassured that I did quite well without you.”

“I did not do so well without you,” said Faolan. “It’s difficult
to talk here. I find myself not at all in the mood for eating, nor for making conversation in public.”

They were keeping their voices low; their companions at the table were now involved in a debate about the nature of miracles, and if they were listening to the soft flow of Gaelic they gave no sign of it.

“I’m going soon anyway,” Eile said. “I have to collect Saraid and get her to bed. You
need to remember… You shouldn’t…”

“I understand, Eile. I know people see things and jump to conclusions. I’ll wait awhile here. All the same…” His hand tightened around hers once more.

Dovran was still looking at them, and Eile did not
much care for what she saw in his eyes. Perhaps, after all, she should have been entirely honest with Dovran from the first. If she had told him she thought he
was a nice young man, but that she still had to work very hard not to flinch when he touched her, he would likely have turned his attentions elsewhere. It had been unfair to be friendly when she knew she could never meet Dovran’s expectations. As for what was between herself and Faolan, there was a barrier to surmount before the true nature of that would become apparent. Perhaps the talk of miracles
was apt. No, best not think that way. She was in danger of setting her expectations too high; of wanting the impossible. That was to invite disappointment. It had been an early and hard-learned lesson, and she’d best not lose sight of it now. Causing your own heart to break was surely the ultimate stupidity.

“I’d best be going,” she said with artificial brightness, and rose to her feet, her hand
still in Faolan’s. “I must fetch Saraid. Good night all. Ferada, good wishes for your journey.”

“Thank you.” Ferada was somber now. “You should come and visit us at Banmerren some time, Eile. I think my work would interest you.”

“I expect it’s all singing and fine embroidery,” Eile said, grinning. “Not my sort of education at all.”

Ferada gave an uncharacteristic snort of laughter. “I hope
you will come. I have hopes for Saraid, in a few years’ time. Perhaps her calming influence on small boys may extend to girls as well.”

“Thank you. I don’t know how long we’ll be staying here. But I’m grateful for your kindness.”

Faolan’s hand clung to hers a moment longer. She felt his fingers brush hers in a slow farewell before he relinquished her touch altogether. Then Eile turned and left
the hall, not looking back.

S
HE MUST HAVE
been waiting. When he scratched on her door, she opened it immediately. Faolan slipped through; Eile closed the door without a sound.

Saraid was still awake, bolt upright in bed with her big eyes fixed on him. “Feeler sing a song,” she ordered.

“I’m sorry,” Eile said. “I told her you were coming, and she was too excited to go to sleep.
We generally have a song before bed, or a story. I’ve tried to keep that up.” Then, to Saraid, “I’ll sing it, Squirrel—”

It seemed to Faolan there might be a number of tests presented and that he must do his best to pass every one. “What kind of song is it to be?” he asked the child as he moved to sit on the bed.

“A song about Sorry.” At a look from her mother, Saraid added, “Please.”

For a
man who had once been a bard, albeit a long time ago, this was not a difficult challenge. He gave a tale of Sorry’s exploits, cast in the form and style of a mythical adventure, while the little girl stared, enthralled, and Eile, seated on the storage chest, spoke not a word. He had Sorry suffer a terrible accident and endure surgery in stoic silence; he had her ride in a boat over monstrous seas;
he had her gifted with new clothes that made her the loveliest creature anyone had ever clapped eyes on. This seemed a good place to stop; he put in one final chorus. By now Saraid’s small voice could be heard joining in the fa-lala’s and fol-de-riddle-o’s.