The Well of Shades (70 page)

T
HERE WAS A
slight paling of the gloom in the small, deep place where Eile was trapped. Not day; not unless the sun was a long, long way away. She had slipped in and out of consciousness more times than she could count. At each waking her prison
seemed smaller, the air colder. At each opening of her eyes, at each new return to the nightmare of
now, here
, her body ached more fiercely and her will grew weaker.

She fought for recollection of what had happened, of
where she was and how she had come to be here. She remembered getting up and dressed, Saraid in her pink gown and Sorry in the celebration blue. Faolan… Faolan had slept in her
chamber, and had been gone when she woke. They were going to… They would have… How long had she been here? Why hadn’t he come to find her? Why had nobody come, nobody at all?

Calm; she must stay calm. Breathe. Think it through. Eile rubbed her arms and legs, moved and bent them, trying to get warm. Derelei. She had been with the two children, Saraid and Derelei. Exploring; finding little treasures.
Up in the garden first, greeting Dovran, feeling odd about that after last night and Faolan’s words of sweetness and promise. Saraid happy, running ahead. Derelei withdrawn and quiet. Then… then what? Then darkness, and waking in this shadowy hole.

It had been a long time, she judged. Her bladder was full, and she had to squat and relieve herself by the wall. She was thirsty. How long? Where
were the children? Saraid would be frantic without her… And Derelei, what about Derelei? She was supposed to be looking after him; the queen had trusted her…

She made herself examine her surroundings. Above her, a circle of dim light revealed that she was at the bottom of a shaft, a well shaft, probably. Mercifully, it held no water now, though the walls had a crumbling dampness that was not
reassuring. It looked a long way up, perhaps three times a tall man’s height, maybe more. Could it actually be daytime, and the shadowy darkness caused by some barrier at the top? Could she really have been down here from one day’s midpoint to the next morning? How could they have left her here so long? How could they not have found her? And if they had not thought to look here by now, did that mean…
No, she would turn her thoughts from the possibility that she was in some place quite unknown, a place nobody could find. Of course someone would be searching. Faolan at least would be searching… He would keep on looking until
he found her. Trust. Hope. Without those she would never have come to White Hill; she would never have begun to break free of the shadows that clung to her: her father,
her mother, Dalach… They hovered close now, in this little dark place. Perhaps she would always carry them, like a burden never to be put down. Perhaps she had been foolish to presume it could ever be different; that Faolan could help her escape the shades of the past.

She huddled against the wall, willing her tears back. Weeping was a waste of energy; she must save what little she had. She must
survive. No matter what else happened, there was still Saraid. But it was cold, so cold her bones ached with it. She did not think she had broken anything in her fall, though there was crusted blood on her face, by the temple, and something in her shoulder was not quite right. There should not be such pain when she moved it. She wondered, vaguely, how long a person could stay alive without water.

Fight.
It was her father’s voice; she could see him, dimly, seated against the opposite wall, not the young Deord with his red hair and calm smile, but the older one, after that place, the man who had been almost, but not quite, broken.
You must fight. Take control. Save yourself.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “How can I?” The shaft was too wide to allow a climb with legs braced against one side,
back against the other, even assuming she had the strength for that. The stone surface looked slippery and treacherous. “My shoulder’s hurt and my legs feel weak. I’m thirsty and I’m tired. I can’t even shout for help.”

You’re strong, daughter. Get up. Climb.

Eile struggled against the urge to lie down, to weep, to give up. She made herself think about her father’s words. Perhaps his ghostly
voice spoke simple truth. Always, in the past, she had indeed been strong. She had endured Dalach, protected Saraid, taken action, in the end, to get herself and her daughter out of that place. It was only when Faolan had come that she had learned what it was
like not to have to carry the whole burden herself. And even Faolan had been saved by her strength. Without her he would be dead by his
own hand.

Her father’s image had faded, but she had no doubt he could hear her; that he watched her, willing her to succeed. He loved her; he wanted her to live. “I have to,” she muttered. “If I don’t do it now, soon I won’t be able to do it at all. I must do it. For Saraid. And for myself. And for Mother and Father, to show them the story need not end like this.” She rose to her feet, ignoring
the pain. She tucked up her skirt, gritted her teeth and began to climb.

(from Brother Suibne’s Account)

We arrived at King Bridei’s new fortress in the afternoon. We were tired; it is quite a walk from the lake shore to the tree-blanketed hill that now houses the court of Fortriu. The dramatic events attending Colm’s progress up the Great Glen had renewed our faith in God’s grace and our hope for the mission, but our
bodies were weary. Here, I thought, at least we had a good chance of sleeping in a bed and not a pigpen
.

At the gates of White Hill came a shout of challenge: “State your name and business!”

I translated. Colm announced us as men of God; he gave his own name quietly, but such is the natural power of our leader’s voice that the word rang forth as if it were the peal of a great bell:
Colmcille.

“Drop your weapons! Turn around, kneel down, both hands in the air, and don’t move until I say so!”

These warriors were not accustomed to dealing with
clerics, that much was evident. Maybe we should have dressed as druids. I could not imagine that powerful mage Broichan submitting gladly to such abrupt treatment
.

I explained the commands to my brethren and we knelt, all but Colm
.

“Didn’t you
hear me, fellow? On your knees or you’ll get an arrow through the chest!”

“These are warlike folk,” Lomán whispered when I murmured the translation
.

Colm walked calmly across to the gates. An arrow was trained on him from above; I was obliged to disobey the command to turn my back, so I could watch. It was safe enough. Nobody was looking at me
.

“Open in the name of God!” Colm cried out in our
own tongue. “We come in peace, with the light of faith to lead us! Open, I say!”

There was no miraculous swinging apart of the great gates that spanned this stronghold’s main entry. That is the kind of detail that attaches itself, later, to tales of such momentous events as the visit of a great Christian leader to a powerful pagan king. It was the little side gate that opened, the one designed
to let folk come in or out without the need to expose the place by spreading wide the main portal. A man came out, leading a donkey. Colm beckoned and, to a chorus of outraged shouts from the guardpost above, we arose and went in. I did not look up. God was merciful; it was not my day for an arrow in the heart
.

After a certain initial confusion, we were greeted cordially enough by one of Bridei’s
senior councillors, a tall man named Tharan, whom I remembered from my visit to the court of Drust the Bull. He had, I recalled, been hostile to Bridei in the early days; he’d have preferred to see Carnach of Thorn Bend take the throne of Fortriu when the old king died. Perhaps he’d had a strategic change of heart; he was, after all, still here
.

Tharan found us quarters. There were beds with
blankets and pillows. He apologized on behalf of the king
White Hill was in disarray. Bridei’s son, a mere infant, had been missing since the previous day, along with his Gaelic nursemaid. Most of the men were out searching. The queen was indisposed, overwhelmed by fear for her child
.

Colm told Bridei’s councillor that we would pray for the boy. Tharan appeared less than impressed by the offer.
Although the hospitality had improved since my last visit to the court of Fortriu, I suspected the attitudes of the king’s retainers would be no warmer than before
.

I thanked Tharan on Colm’s behalf. I am the only one of our group fluent in the Priteni tongue, and it falls to me to translate and to act as go-between. I reminded him that I was personally known to King Bridei. I asked him to arrange
an audience for Colm at the king’s convenience, and I told him it was our preference that Broichan be present. Colm had requested this. He has never been one to seek the easy path, preferring to confront difficulties as if breasting a fearsome wave, full on. His flight from our homeland has been the only exception to this rule. And that, in its way, was far from an easy choice
.

Tharan said he
would convey our requests to the king. He advised us which parts of the court we were welcome to visit. The place sprawls across the entire hilltop, an imposing construction surrounded by high walls, impressively fortified. The view, out over the pine-clad slopes to the sea, and the other way to the hills of the Great Glen, is most wondrous. Within the formidable barrier of stone are many chambers
and all amenities as well as extensive gardens, both large and small. We were allocated not only our sleeping chamber but an adjoining room suitable for prayer, though, of course, nobody specified this. I well remember Broichan’s frozen horror at the sight of me conducting a Christian rite at Caer Pridne at the time of the last election. Tharan showed us a small patch of garden adjoining our quarters,
where we might sit and enjoy the sun. Refreshments would be brought to us, he said, and
water for washing. There was a privy close by, which we might use. Supper would be announced in due course. It would be served in the great hall
.

“We live a frugal existence,” Colm said after I translated this. “Our day is woven around prayer.” He glanced at me, indicating I should render his comment for Tharan
.

“Thank you,” I told the king’s councillor. “This is most generous. Apart from the official meetings with King Bridei and his spiritual adviser, it is likely we will keep ourselves to ourselves.”

Tharan’s haughty features were fleetingly softened by a smile. “You forget, Brother Suibne,” he said. “You, at least, are already known to us. I do not think you are capable of visiting any court without
wishing to put a finger in whatever pie is to hand.”

“What is he saying?” asked Colm
.

“That he hopes we will avail ourselves of supper, at least,” I told him. “That way, King Bridei will be reminded of our presence, and of the need to offer us an audience. He suggests that this evening’s fare may include a pie.” Occasionally my tongue does run away with me a little. It is an inevitable consequence
of working as a translator. Juggle languages enough, and one can become drunk with words
.

S
UIBNE, MONK OF
D
ERRY