The Well of Shades (68 page)

“Going where?” Faolan asked, but the truth was already creeping up on him, weary as he was.

“Changing,” Tuala said. “Assuming another form. I do not believe our son will
be found by an ordinary search, however persistent and brave your men may be. His skills in magic will make him hard to track. I know what I intend is dangerous. But it’s unthinkable that I risk Derelei’s life simply because I lack the courage to do this.”

Bridei was saying nothing. Faolan read the king’s reluctance in the set of his shoulders and the tightly clenched hands. His heart bled for
him. It was a terrible choice. The cost of rescue—possible rescue—for Bridei’s son was risking death or worse for his wife. The transformation she suggested would be fraught with peril.

“It goes without saying,” put in Aniel, “that this must be kept secret. We all know the possible consequences of drawing undue attention to the queen’s special abilities. Dorica knows of a woman in the village
who can take on the duties of wet nurse for Lady Anfreda. She’ll go down to fetch her first thing in the morning. Offered sufficient incentives, the woman can be persuaded to adhere to the official story, which will be that Queen Tuala is so distressed by her son’s disappearance that she can no longer feed the infant herself.”

“I intend to remain within the royal quarters and oversee this wet
nurse,” said Fola. “We’ll also explain the truth to the most trusted of Anfreda’s nursemaids. Tuala’s
illness will be given as the reason for keeping others out. One of the three of you, yourself, Garth, and Dovran, will be on guard outside at all times. All of us will keep our mouths shut until the queen returns.” She spoke with brisk confidence.

“I see.” Faolan eyed Tuala with a certain wonderment.
“Your courage impresses me, my lady,” he said. “I wish you success with your mission and a safe return. Meanwhile I will ensure the other search continues. When will you go?”

Tuala fixed her large, uncanny eyes on him. “After I feed Anfreda one last time. By sunrise I’ll be on my way. I hope I find my son, and I hope I find Eile for you, Faolan. She is a courageous girl, and deeply loyal. She
and Derelei will be together, surely.” On her son’s name, her voice faltered.

“Go and rest, friend,” Bridei said, raising his eyes. The look of pain on his face left Faolan without words. “We know you share our fear. I do not expect you to seek comfort from the gods. But know you are in my prayers, as is Eile. May the Shining One keep her safe from harm.”

F
AOLAN DID
NOT
go to his own pallet in the men’s quarters, but to the chamber with the green blanket. He shut the door behind him and stood with his back to it as his eyes accustomed themselves to the dimness. A trace of light seeped in through the little window. Torches in the garden outside? Or was it the first predawn blush? Let it be so, for he needed to be out, he needed to be on the track; how could
he waste a moment while she was still lost? And Derelei. Derelei’s safety had always been his job since the tiny child first arrived in the world. It was for Faolan to order the duties of the king’s guards; to oversee the security of the king’s person and of his family.
The fact that he had been gone from court when this happened, gone on the king’s mission, made no difference to that. If there
was a danger, he should have seen it and been ready for it. If there was a threat, he should have set safeguards. He had failed Bridei and Tuala, and he had failed Eile.

Faolan lay down on the bed, staring up at the shadows in the thatch.
Be strong
, he willed her.
Hold on to hope. Soon it will be day again, and I will find you.
And in his heart, silently, he spoke to her every endearment and
every tenderness he could find, such as
sweetheart
and
beloved
and
heart’s dearest;
words that, a season or two ago, had not been in his vocabulary. He did not allow himself to weep, for that was an admission of defeat, and if he wished her to be strong he must exhibit that same strength himself. No matter that this cut like a knife; no matter that he felt his heart fraying and coming apart with
fear for her and for the child. He would lie still. He would rest. That was the king’s order. At the first real hint of light he would get up and organize the men once more, and by sunset Derelei would be back in his father’s arms and Eile would be safe. To give her hope, he must find hope within himself.

A
S THE SKY
paled toward dawn, Tuala sat with her baby at the
breast, breathing slowly, making herself calm. She hummed a little tune, committing to her memory her daughter’s ivory skin, her long dark lashes, her startling pale blue eyes, and her sweet bud of a mouth. Anfreda was hungry; she sucked and swallowed, sucked and swallowed, one minuscule hand patting busily at the curve of her mother’s breast.

Aniel had gone away to rest before dawn; Fola was
asleep in the inner chamber. Outside, Dovran remained on guard.

Tuala glanced across at her husband, who had gone unusually quiet. She could see the distress in his fine blue eyes. He didn’t want her to go, that much was plain to her. He didn’t want her to risk the peril of changing. But he would not say so, not now. This was her choice, not his. All the same, she saw in his face that his heart
was full of fear, for her, for his children. At every turn, he anticipated the dark god’s retribution. All his life, he would bear that burden beneath the assured mask of his kingship.

“Anfreda will do very well,” Tuala made herself say, while every movement of the small body, every little snuffle, every glance of her daughter’s fey eyes was telling her,
Farewell. Perhaps forever.
“She’ll have
plenty of folk to tend to her. As long as she’s fed and warm and dry, and people don’t forget to hold her and talk to her, she’ll be perfectly happy. That’s all they need at this age.” Then, after a little, “Bridei?”

“Mm?”

“Trust me.”

He bowed his head. “Always. You must know I do.”

“Don’t forget, then. No matter what happens.”

“Can you tell me where you will go? Which direction, at least?”

She shook her head. “I won’t know until I become that other creature. I think I will find the way by scent; by instincts a man or woman possesses only weakly. But I don’t believe the tales of abduction and holding for ransom. My heart tells me our son has gone of his own free will. Gone on a mission.”

“At two years old?”

“This is not just any two-year-old, remember. This is Derelei. I’m certain
he’s gone to find Broichan.”

E
ILE WOKE TO
pain. Pain in every part of her body, her legs, her arms, her neck. Her head was on fire, her temples
throbbed. Her throat was dry; she ran her tongue over her lips and tried to swallow. Cold. So cold, like deepest winter. Where was her cloak, her shawl? Why was it so dark? Where was… where was… She sank down again, down into
oblivion.

T
UALA MADE HER
husband stay at the bottom of the steps with Dovran. Fola, whom she would almost have welcomed by her side, had remained indoors with Anfreda. It had been hard for Tuala to put her sleeping daughter back in the basket; hard to turn her thoughts away from all the things that could go wrong and to fix on the Shining One with a prayer:
Whatever
happens, keep Anfreda safe.
A finger to the pale, downy cheek; lips touching the rosebud mouth lightly, a promise:
I will be home soon, little one.

Now, in the small upper courtyard where Broichan had been wont to cast his auguries for good or for ill, Tuala stood alone under a sky touched by violet and gray and pink, closed her eyes, stretched out her arms, and called into her mind a powerful
image of what she needed to be. The charm had no words. It came from deep within her, a gift of the Good Folk from whom she was descended, her mother’s people. She had not needed to learn this; it was already part of her. She turned once, twice, three times, a slender, pale figure in her plain gray gown, her dark hair plaited down her back, her feet treading noiselessly in their kidskin slippers.

The light changed; a bird flew over, crying a tentative greeting to the dawn. The flagstoned surface of the upper courtyard was bare; the stone table was empty. No woman stood there to greet the new day. Only a small shadow moved at the foot of the wall, a pair of bright eyes, a long tail. A whisk and a leap and it was atop the parapet; in the blink of an eye the creature
vanished over the wall
and away into the darkness of the woods.

S
HIVERING, SHIVERING SO
hard she could no longer sleep, if sleep it had been, that dark, deep unconsciousness from which she’d fought her way out once again. Where was she? She stretched cautiously, one arm, the other—there was something there, stones, they bruised her hand… She tried to move and pain lanced through her shoulder.
Gods, it hurt! Her knee would not bend properly. It was dark. It was too dark. Why was it so dark still, as if night went on forever?

She got to her feet, her legs close to buckling under her weight. She reached out one way, the other way; turned, touched, reeled in disbelief. Where was she? What were these walls, so close, shutting her into a tiny space? Memory stirred.