The Well of Shades (86 page)

For a few moments the girl simply sat there staring at him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. It was plain that, until now, she had not believed this prospect would ever actually come to pass. Then she whispered, “My aunt—you didn’t tell me that—no, not that, cousin, please, you can’t!” For the first time, there was a note of genuine
feeling in her voice; what it conveyed was pure panic.

“It sounds an entirely suitable arrangement to me,” Dorica said.

“There is no choice in the matter,” said Keother. “It’s decided. Bridei, do you wish to continue, or shall we conclude this now?”

“I—” Bridei did not get the chance to formulate a reply. There was a smashing sound, and a moment later Breda was standing over Dorica, the jagged
edge of a broken goblet held at the older woman’s throat.

“You can’t do this,” the girl said, eyes on her cousin, whose face had blanched. “Promise I don’t have to be
locked up, and I won’t cut her throat. Say it, go on, say it!”

Dorica was keeping very still; her breathing came in gasps. The glass had nicked the skin of her neck, and a trickle of blood ran down to stain the pale wool of her
tunic. Tharan was on his feet, staring horrified at his wife; Imbeg was edging around the table.

“Don’t move!” Breda snapped, and the guard stood still. “Anyone tries to take this off me and I’ll do it. You think I care about her? She’s nobody. Say it, Keother! Hurry up and say it! I’m not going anywhere near my aunt and I’m not going to be locked up, I’d go crazy! Say it!” The glass dug deeper,
and Dorica made a little whimpering sound.

“In the name of the gods, Bridei,” whispered Tharan, “do something.”

Bridei summoned one of Broichan’s techniques for calm. He carefully avoided looking at Garth, who was advancing extremely slowly from his position by the door, behind Breda. “Put the glass down, Breda,” Bridei said quietly. “Hurting Dorica cannot help your case. Come, just set it down
on the table—”

Garth lunged forward, using his full weight to knock Breda sideways and sending jug and goblets flying. Things crashed onto the flagstoned floor, and for a moment everyone seemed to be moving. Imbeg vaulted across the table toward Garth. The others leaped to their feet, dislodging pieces of glass from their clothing. Dorica got up and backed to a corner where her husband gathered
her into his arms.

“No!” Breda’s voice had become a shriek. “Don’t touch me! I’ll cut you! I mean it!” Garth had spread his hands wide, palms forward; facing him, Breda still clutched the broken goblet by the stem, moving it toward the bodyguard’s face in little jerking stabs. To grab her effectively, he must risk having that jagged edge thrust in his eyes or swept across his neck. The only person
in position behind Breda now was Wid.

Keother opened his mouth and shut it again. Breda was beyond reason.

“Garth, back off,” Bridei said quietly. Let this not end in another senseless death, a woman widowed, children fatherless. Perhaps, after all, they had needed Faolan here. “Tharan, go for help.” Imbeg was in the wrong position to aid Garth; all he could do was stand by and wait for an opportunity.

“No!” screamed Breda. “Nobody move! No help, didn’t you say this was going to be private?” The goblet stabbed out and up; Garth moved back out of range. “Say it, Keother! Why don’t you say it? What’s wrong with everyone?”

A river of ink spilled down over her brow and into her eyes, blinding her. Wid was a tall man, and had moved in silence. Breda screamed, putting both hands up and dropping the
glass. Garth took a decisive stride forward, grabbing her by the shoulders as the old scholar stepped back out of the way. “No! No! No!” Breda’s voice was high and wild. “I’m not going, I can’t—” and she twisted and turned, struggling to evade Garth’s grip.

“This is over, Breda,” said Keother shakily.

Bridei’s bodyguards were good at what they did. They seldom made mistakes, even in the most
challenging of situations. Garth’s error was to remember his captive was a young woman and to moderate the degree of force he used. Breda wrenched herself free and, in doing so, lost her footing on a floor treacherous with broken glass, mead, and spilled ink. She fell hard. There was a moment’s silence, then Bridei saw first Garth, then Wid kneel down on the far side of the table. Imbeg said, “Oh,
gods.” And there was a sound from Breda, a bubbling, terrible sound, then nothing at all.

Bridei knew, even before he moved around to look, that she was dead. He felt it in his belly, a dark inevitability. Wid had taken off the warm wrap he had around his shoulders and held it pressed tightly against Breda’s neck; the gray wool was already crimson and
oozing. There was a growing pool of blood
on the floor.

“The goblet,” Imbeg said shakily. “She fell on the glass. You’ll never stop the bleeding from such a wound, I’ve seen it before.”

Bridei knelt by the girl; it was plain she was beyond help. The blue eyes were already growing filmy in a face stained dark with ink. Imbeg was right. If that vessel in the neck was punctured, even a big man would bleed to death almost before a prayer
could be spoken over him. “May Bone Mother gather you gently,” he murmured. “May she guide you safely on your journey. May you find forgiveness in the next world.” He rose and gripped Keother by the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. For the moment it was the best he could do.

Keother crouched down and took his cousin’s limp hand, on which four silver rings glinted. A moment later, he set it down
and reached to close Breda’s sightless eyes. “I could have lied,” he said blankly. “I could have stopped her. All I had to do was tell her she could have what she wanted.”

“There have been enough lies,” Bridei said. Other folk were coming into the room now, summoned by Tharan. There was no way this could remain private. Breda had made quite sure of that. He wondered how the goddess would receive
her; what journeying the young woman’s spirit must do now, to earn a new place in the earthly realm. There would surely be a time of penitence far more exacting than anything Keother could have required. Well, there were certain things to be done here, and he must do them; he was king.

“Garth,” he said, “go and find Faolan. Tell him what has happened. I don’t need him here; I want him to listen
to your story and give you his counsel. You are off duty from now until I need you again. This was a simple accident. You acquitted your duties with your usual good judgment.”

“Yes, my lord.” Garth was ashen-faced. Bridei knew
his bodyguard would see this as a personal failure. With luck, Faolan would be able to talk him out of that and, if he could not, maybe Elda could. Now there was Keother
to deal with, and the arrangements that must change to encompass yet another funeral rite. Gods, he was weary. There must be some learning in all this, but with the girl lying on the floor in her blood and the king of the Light Isles crouched blanched and shaking by her side, Bridei was hard put to discover what it was.

“I will deal with this.” A voice spoke from the doorway, deep and authoritative.
It was Broichan, with Aniel a step behind him. “If you permit.”

“Thank you.” Bridei felt relief flood through him. “Wid will explain the sequence of events to you. Dorica needs a healer, and we’re all shocked. I will accompany King Keother to his quarters myself, with Dernat’s help, and return when we’ve broken this news to the party from the Light Isles. You should speak to Tharan, and—”

“Bridei,”
said Broichan, “I will deal with it. When Keother is attended to, I suggest you retire to your quarters awhile.”

Aniel was already advancing into the chamber, giving quiet orders to the serving people who had accompanied him. Folk moved to cover Breda with a blanket, position a board to convey her out, sweep up the broken glass. Bridei took Keother’s left arm and Dernat his right. “Come then,”
Bridei said. “We are no longer needed here. Let us see what wisdom two kings can gain from such a cruelly arbitrary event. For, as my foster father has so often said to me, there is learning in everything.”

“The gods intervene,” Keother said, “when men are too weak to act.”

T
HE AUDIENCE WITH
Colm was delayed to allow time for a funeral rite. After consultation with
Broichan and
with Fola, Breda’s remains were taken to Banmerren for burial; it was considered the goddess might view this gesture favorably, and besides, Bridei found that he could not stomach the idea of having her laid to rest at White Hill. Since there was now no need for Keother’s party to travel in two groups, they stayed at White Hill to wait for him. There was much unspoken; things that
could not be put in words, but which were strong in people’s minds.

After the burial, Fola did not return to court. She needed a time of peace and quiet, the wise woman said, to hear the voice of the Shining One with true clarity. Besides, she had missed Ferada. To Bridei, in private, Fola expressed concern about Broichan. He looked like a walking skeleton, a man who had been tested and tried
to the very limits of his strength. He would not admit to any weakness, Fola said. In that, his season away had not changed him at all.

Bridei came back to White Hill as early as he could. The place was returning to normal under the capable hands of his councillors and of his wife. With all that had happened, there had hardly been time for Bridei and Tuala to speak of her journey into the forest,
her transformation, how she had found her son, and how the two of them had discovered Broichan. Those were matters of deep mystery, matters that could not be lightly dealt with, not even between a husband and wife who shared a bond of perfect trust. He was proud of her. He feared for her. The future held so much that was unknown, and this added a new layer of uncertainty.

The day after he came
back, he emerged from a meeting with his councillors and went out to find her in the garden. The day was sunny; Anfreda’s basket lay in dappled shade under a plum tree, and the queen of Fortriu sat by it, watching as Broichan and Derelei floated leaf boats on the pond. There was no obvious exercise of magic in what they did. They could have been any grandfather and grandson spending a fine summer
afternoon at play together.

Bridei sat down beside his wife. He made himself observe his foster father with dispassionate eyes, the eyes of the king, not those of the man.

“Fola’s right,” he said. “He looks too frail even to play with Derelei, let alone stand up to a man like Brother Colm. That fellow may be a Christian priest, but he’s Uí Néill through and through, combative, powerful, ruthless.
Broichan looks as if he’s been tried to the breaking point.”

“I believe he has.” Tuala’s tone was as tranquil as her eyes, those strange, clear eyes Bridei had so loved since the moment she opened them to gaze on him, when she was an infant of Anfreda’s size and he a lonely boy of six. Broichan had been a force to reckon with in those days; no mere Christian could have stood up to his authority.

“Has he confided in you?”

“A little. I suggested he might perhaps go home to Pitnochie awhile to recover his strength. He won’t hear of it. In your absence he has dealt with your affairs as capably as he would have in the old days. He says he feels young, alive, full of energy to do the will of the goddess. His reflection shocks him; I can see that in his eyes. But I see also a core of iron.
The Shining One has tested him severely. She has forced him to confront his weaknesses and to set them aside. She has scoured his mind and cleansed it of all that was holding him back. She has a particular purpose for him, I am certain. Maybe it’s to stand up against Colmcille. Maybe it’s to continue watching over Derelei and teaching him. Perhaps both. I did not tell you…”She shivered suddenly.

“What?” Bridei was alarmed; her eyes had gone distant, their serenity vanishing.

“In the woods, when I found Derelei, there were… there were folk with him, accompanying him on his journey. They were the same that used to appear to me as a child, but in a different guise. I believe they chose
a shape that would not alarm Derelei; he seemed to accept their presence as an everyday thing. The Shining
One is moving us along, Bridei; she continues to shape our destiny. Even Derelei’s, little as he is. She uses the Good Folk as messengers, as helpers. But I think sometimes they decide to do things their own way. They like to make mischief. Broichan will guard our son against that.”

The druid was kneeling by the pond now, a sleeve rolled up, a hand in the water. Derelei, lying on his belly, was
copying him. Around their submerged fingers a school of little fish swam.

“He cannot do it if he pushes his tired body beyond the limits of human endurance,” Bridei said.

“He’s home now,” said Tuala. “Love will mend him.”

“My lord!” Aniel’s voice sounded from across the private garden. “You have an unexpected visitor. One you’ll want to see.”

Under his breath the king of Fortriu muttered an
oath. “Is it so urgent?” he asked his councillor. Even as he spoke he was rising to his feet, knowing Aniel would not disturb him unless it were so.

“It’s Carnach,” Aniel said quietly. “He rode in just now with a small escort of four men. I’ve taken him to the council chamber off the Great Hall.”