The Well of Shades (83 page)

“She can’t be far off, Eile,” Wid said quietly. “Breathe slowly.”

The light was not good for searching. The sky still held the blue pallor of a late summer evening; beyond the walls, the forested slopes of the hill would be dark, save for the area before the great gates where torches burned on poles. But Saraid would not be outside the walls. Not unless someone had taken her. Why? Why?

Folk
were moving about gardens and walkways, lanterns in hand, calling. The Great Hall emptied. Now
Bridei was in the courtyard, and King Keother, and Brother Colm with his brown-robed brethren. Curse this weakness! Saraid was out there somewhere, in danger, and Eile could hardly take two steps without losing her balance. “Saraid!” she shouted, hearing how feeble her effort was against the voices of
the men, the scurrying footsteps, some new outcry from the guard post at the gate. “Saraid, where are you?”

She’d spotted Faolan vanishing in the direction of the lower court, which lay directly inside the main entry to White Hill. She followed, leaning on Wid’s arm. It was something to do. There was a general movement of folk toward the gates. Elda, a twin’s hand in each of hers, came up beside
her. “Oh, Eile, I’m so sorry, the woman says she only turned her head for a moment, just long enough to cut up some cheese, and when she turned back Saraid was gone. She must have timed it exactly between guards…”

It passed Eile by as meaningless gibberish. They reached the lower court, where the great double gates stood closed, heavy bolts locking them secure. Atop the high parapet walls torches
flared at intervals and men-at-arms paced between. Dimly, Eile registered the voices of the guards above the gate, raised in their usual challenge: “Halt! State your name and business!”

Faolan was running, Dovran a pace or two behind him. He was running up a steep set of stone steps, at some distance from the gates. The steps led to the parapet wall that circled the fortifications. It stood two
arm’s-lengths above the walkway where the guards patrolled; a man standing could look out and see the winding track that led up the slopes of White Hill to the gates. Faolan was hurling himself up the steps, heedless of his injured leg. Another man, one of the guards, had seen whatever it was Faolan had and was running along the walkway from the gates, a torch in his hand.

And there, illuminated
by its approaching glow, was Saraid, standing right up on the parapet, so high her feet
would be level with a man’s shoulders. She was wobbling a little, her feet shifting on the narrow stone edge. She could not put her arms out for balance; she held Sorry clutched to her chest. In the flickering light Eile made out another figure, this one standing safely on the walkway right beside the child.
She felt a surge of relief. Someone was already there; someone need only reach out and lift Saraid to safety. The torchlight gleamed on a swathe of golden hair, a drapery of fine silk fabric. Breda.
Breda.
Suddenly Eile was seeing it: Breda with something bunched up in her hand, Breda hitting her, then the fall, down, down into the darkness…
Breda had tried to kill her.
And now Breda was going
to kill her daughter.

Eile opened her mouth to scream, and Wid said softly, “No. Don’t startle Saraid. Look, Faolan’s almost there.”

He was at the top, not running now but moving with caution around the walkway, Dovran behind him.

“He’s trying not to scare her,” Wid said. “Faolan knows what he’s doing, Eile.”

The scream she had not released built up inside her, threatening to rip her apart.
He was close, only a few strides in it. On the other side, the guard with the torch had halted, waiting. Faolan seemed to be saying something, perhaps telling Breda to step back and let him get to Saraid, lift her down. It was almost over.

Breda reached out a hand. It looked as if she was trying to pull Saraid back, to stop her from falling. Faolan abandoned his careful approach and lunged toward
the fair-haired woman. And in that instant, Saraid flinched away from the reaching hand, lost her footing and fell. One moment she was there, the next gone.

Eile sank to her knees. It was dark. It was the darkest it had ever been: perpetual night. Nobody could fall so far and survive it. The scream broke free, ringing around the courtyard like a summons from Black Crow herself.

Someone was saying,
“Lord have mercy; Christ have mercy.” Garth was shouldering his way through the
crowd, rushing for the steps. Why? It was too late. Too late. Night had fallen. Up on the wall, Breda was shrieking, “Get him off me! I didn’t do anything! I was trying to save the stupid child! Get him off, he’s hurting me!”

The noise kept on, a harsh, primitive howl of grief. She couldn’t seem to stop, even though
there were folk around her now, Elda, Garvan, Brother Suibne, all making meaningless sounds and trying to comfort her. Her body was bursting with anguish; there was no holding it in.

“I said, state your name and business!” The guard at the gate repeated his challenge, but his tone had changed. He would have seen; in the light of those torches set beyond the gate, they must all have seen the tiny
figure descending to lie broken below the wall.

A voice spoke from outside, the kind of voice there was no ignoring. “I am Broichan, the king’s druid and foster father. If you do not know me, Kennard, your memory is short indeed. I have not been away so very long. With me are the queen of Fortriu and her son. I trust you will not ask them to turn around, kneel and throw down their weapons before
you let them in. We’ve come a long way.”

“Open the gate!” It was Bridei who spoke, and when Eile looked up, gasping for breath, she saw him striding across the courtyard with his blue eyes ablaze. “Quickly!”

Then Faolan was by her side, crouching to enfold her in his arms, his face drenched in tears, his eyes full of a grim fury. She could not see Dovran or Breda, though King Keother was crossing
the court with a face like thunder. “I was so close,” Faolan was saying. “So close…”

The small side gate swung open. Through a mist of tears, Eile saw three travelers walk in. One was a tall, austere-looking man with oddly cut gray hair and only a ragged shirt to cover his gaunt form. In his arms was Derelei, head on the man’s shoulder, thumb in mouth, just like any two-year-old who has missed
his afternoon
nap. Beside them walked Tuala, making no attempt at concealment. She was carrying something between her hands; she conveyed it with great care, as if it were precious and fragile. Eile found herself holding her breath, though why this should be, she did not know.

Bridei was weeping openly. So many tears. He threw his arms around the tall man, encompassing his son in the same embrace.
But Tuala walked over to Eile and Faolan and stood before them, grave and quiet. Eile struggled to her feet; Faolan rose with her, his arm around her shoulders.

Tuala opened her hands. Nestled on her palm was a tiny brown bird, perhaps a dunnock, fully fledged but unnaturally small. Eile felt a strange prickling at the back of her neck; Faolan’s arm tightened around her. Wid muttered something
and, on their other side, Eile saw Brother Suibne make the sign of the cross.

“It’s all right,” Tuala said. “I caught her in time.” Then, with an odd little flick of her fingers, she released the bird. It fluttered toward Eile. In the space of a single breath, as Eile reached out a hand, the creature was gone and there was Saraid, eyes wide, hair rumpled, a shaky smile on her lips. “Mama?” she
said. “I flew.”

“God be praised,” said Brother Suibne mildly. But Eile was not listening. Her arms had closed around her daughter, and Faolan’s around the two of them, and for a moment she cared nothing for the rest of the world.

It was a sudden stiffening of Saraid’s body that made Eile release her convulsive grip on her daughter. She raised her head. Saraid was staring across the courtyard,
which was now full of chattering folk, movement, and lights. Bridei stood by Broichan with Derelei clasped in his own arms now. Tuala had vanished; Eile assumed she had gone to see her baby. She realized she had not even said thank you for what the queen had done; for the wondrous, unexpected gift of her daughter’s life. Saraid was staring, staring between the people to a corner of the
yard where
Breda stood, a strangely impassive look on her lovely features, with Garth on one side and Dovran on the other, and King Keother in front of her, his face all shadow and bone.

Saraid pointed. “Lady pushed me,” she said in the penetrating voice of her three years. “Lady pushed Mama down. Way down.”

“Dear God,” muttered Brother Suibne. Behind him was the imposing figure of Brother Colm. He appeared
to be murmuring prayers of his own.

“Saraid.” Faolan was kneeling now, his arms around the child from behind as if he were both protecting and restraining her. “Tell me again, just so we can all be sure. A lady pushed you?”

Saraid nodded. “Lady hit Mama. Mama fell down.”

“Which lady? Show me again.”

The accusatory finger pointed once more. Saraid was starting to wilt now, shock beginning to
replace excitement. “Yellow hair lady,” she whispered.

They’d all heard: Gaelic priest and Priteni scholar, Gaelic guard and Priteni herbalist. Eile saw the look in Faolan’s eye; felt the tension coursing through his body, like that of a wildcat poised to spring. She saw his unspoken intention in every corner of his being:
And now I will kill her.

“No, Faolan,” she said. “You’re a father now.
You have responsibilities. Leave others to deal with this.” And when he looked at her, the wildness still in his eyes, she added, “We’ve got our daughter back. Our own miracle. You’ve got your evidence. King Bridei will see justice done. You don’t need vengeance in blood as well.”

He drew a deep breath; let it out in a shuddering sigh. Then he put his hands over his face. “Gods, so close,” he
muttered. “I feel as if my heart has been shredded.”

“Faolan, Eile.” The king was beside them, still holding his son. Behind him stood Broichan who, for all his unkempt appearance, emanated power from every part of his emaciated form. His eyes were obsidian dark, their
depths full of secrets. If he had not come in with Derelei cradled in his arms, Eile would have been afraid of him. “Is Saraid
unharmed?” Bridei asked.

“She seems all right, just a bit shaken. I don’t really know what happened,” Eile said. “My lord, I’m so glad Derelei is home. He looks exhausted.”

“He’s made a long journey.” Broichan’s voice was deep and authoritative; it seemed to swallow the listener. “He needs rest.”

“There will be questions to answer,” the king said, his eyes passing over the figures of the Christian
clerics and the openly curious faces of his own courtiers. “I will speak to the household in the morning. Tonight is for glad reunions and, as my foster father suggests, for sleep.”

A voice cut across the yard, brittle as fine glass. “Didn’t anyone see that? The little girl fell, I was trying to stop her but she lost her footing. Then, halfway down the wall, she turned into a bird. And as if
that wasn’t enough, the queen… She came up the hill as a creature, walking beside the king’s druid, and a moment later there she was with her white face and her strange big eyes, Queen Tuala in her blue gown standing there as if she’d never worked magic to change the child, and to change herself… Your queen is something uncanny. That’s wrong. It’s all wrong, like everything else here at White Hill.”
Keother could be seen trying to stop his cousin’s gush of words, but to no avail. Eile felt Faolan ready himself to intervene; his eyes met Bridei’s, and the king gave a little shake of the head.
No, let her spit it all out.

“Gaels in trusted positions, a queen who everyone can see isn’t fully of humankind, royal children who look like… like something else, something all wrong, a king who doesn’t
even care what folk think about that… It just isn’t right. But nobody bothers to try to fix it. Everyone’s afraid to speak up. Well, I’m not afraid. If I see something wrong, I do something about it. You don’t put people in high places if they don’t deserve it. Queen
Tuala’s one of the Good Folk. Everyone knows that and they just turn a blind eye—”

“Be silent!” Whether Broichan merely spoke the
words or whether he accompanied them with a druidic charm was not clear. In any event, Breda’s pretty mouth snapped shut as effectively as if the druid had delivered a swift uppercut to the jaw. “Hear this now, all of you, and heed it well. The queen of Fortriu is my daughter, born of a union sanctioned by the Shining One herself.”

There was a universal gasp of astonishment around the courtyard;
it seemed to Eile that nobody, save for the druid and the king, had known this. As Broichan moved forward, Tuala herself appeared from the direction of the royal apartments with Anfreda in her arms and Fola walking behind in her gray robes. At the sight of Broichan, the wise woman’s face was transformed by a broad smile.

“Most of you know me,” the druid went on. “You know I possess a power gifted
by the gods themselves. You know my authority, which I owe to the king. The acts of transformation you have seen tonight have saved the life of a child. I hear the poison tongue that seeks to find ill in this. Those of you with wiser judgment must see it for what it is: a thing of wonder. Ask the guards on the wall what they just witnessed; ask those on duty above the gate. Which of them will
say the queen of Fortriu should not have used the god-given power she possesses to let this innocent one fly safely down to waiting hands?

“I ask you, would you challenge my own right to perform such a deed? I think not. Then do not seek to criticize the queen’s act of mercy, for I tell you now, once and forever, that any man or woman who seeks to harm my daughter by word or deed will be answerable
to me. Let no mischievous hand, no venomous tongue reach out toward the king or his family, which through Tuala is my family, while I live and breathe upon this earth. For should a man seek to hurt them, the gods of Fortriu will surely smite him.”

Utter silence. Nobody moved a muscle. Then Suibne began to mutter a Gaelic translation, and Colm stopped him. “I need no words to get an understanding
of this,” he said. “Come, we are out of place here.” He ushered his brethren away. The place was hushed, as if folk needed time to take in the immensity of what had occurred. Then a small voice spoke out.