The Well of Shades (9 page)

“Think harder,” Bridei told her, “and you will understand why I did not. If I choose to stand back from this election he must see it as a betrayal, both strategic and personal. I called this council to ascertain if I would have your support, should I decide
not to pursue the kingship of Circinn this time around. I want to be sure of that support before I pass the news of Drust’s death to anyone, Broichan included.”

There was a silence. The significance of Broichan’s
absence was profound. As foster father to Bridei and as druid to the old king and the new, he had been instrumental in molding his foster son into the perfect king for Fortriu: a king
who possessed a deep and lifelong allegiance to the ancient gods of the north, a king dedicated to the reunification of Priteni lands under the traditions of those deities, the Flamekeeper, the Shining One, Bone Mother, and the fair All-Flowers. And another god, whom Bridei would honor tonight in his vigil. Broichan loomed large in their minds, a figure of power, who had over the years convened
his own secret council to which three of those present had belonged in the days of Bridei’s youth. In all their memories, the king’s druid had only once shown faulty judgment.

“You have my support whichever way you go, Bridei,” said Talorgen. “I don’t relish the thought of finding myself in conflict with Broichan, but I trust you to make the right decision. Both choices have their advantages
and disadvantages. Carnach’s arguments are compelling, and we’ll doubtless hear them stated and restated once the news of Drust’s death gets around. Your warrior chieftains are likely to support Carnach.”

“My support, I have already pledged,” Aniel said. “If it sets me at odds with my fellow councillors and the king’s druid, so be it. It won’t be the first time. In the aftermath of war, perhaps
the blood runs more hotly in some men, urging them to impulsive choices and ill-considered action. For me, a matter of such vital import must be carefully weighed. I have done so. This is Bridei’s choice.”

Bridei glanced at Fola.

“Don’t look at me,” the wise woman said. “You must know I don’t make hasty decisions. I will consult the gods; you will do likewise. Let us meet again in the morning
and see if there is a clear way forward. We must not become enemies, any of us. Carnach, I understand what drives you. I feel it myself, in the bones. I know that
Broichan will be the same. I hope we do not break his heart.”

“Broichan has a heart?” Aniel lifted his brows. “Intellect, ambition, faith, all those he possesses in generous measure. But I remind you of the one time he nearly failed
us. Was not the matter of Tuala one in which heartlessness was nearly his downfall, and that of our long-nurtured plans?”

“Let us not discuss that now,” Bridei said. “Carnach, will you think on this tonight and be ready to speak further tomorrow?”

“I’m not going to change my mind. Forgive me, but to follow the course you’re considering would be a monumental error of judgment. I’m waiting to
wake up and find this was all a bad dream, Bridei. I can’t believe it’s happening.”

“You are my kinsman and my chief war leader,” Bridei told him quietly. “I may not follow your advice in all things but, believe me, I will always consider it. I don’t want this matter to come between us, Carnach. I’m well aware that, in large part, I owe the kingship of Fortriu to you. Our country cannot afford
divisions between its own leaders.”

Carnach did not reply but stood up, making ready to leave. His expression was forbidding.

“Very well,” Bridei said. “I will go now to commence my vigil. I’ll see you all in the morning. A decision must be made swiftly. Circinn will act over the winter, one way or another. To contest the election I’d need to dispatch a messenger to the southern court almost
immediately. Let us trust the gods will furnish us with answers.”

When the others had gone, the king lingered in the council chamber with Fola, while Garth maintained his stance by the door.

“I’ve a question,” the wise woman said. Her gaze was shrewdly assessing. “How much of your reluctance to involve Broichan has to do with the precarious state of his
health? Are you trying to avoid upsetting
him and sending him into a terminal decline?”

Bridei sighed. “That is in my mind, of course. He returned from his stay with you much improved, but he’s still frail and subject to bouts of pain. Of course, being the man he is, he won’t admit to any weakness.”

“The news of this death must be made public soon. Then Broichan will ask what you intend to do, and you must tell him.”

“We’ll announce
Drust the Boar’s death as soon as we return to White Hill. I’ll speak to Broichan, Fola. If we disagree, we disagree. Of course he’ll be angry if I decide to let the southern kingship go.”

“Angry
is an understatement, I think.”

“Believe me, even the king of Fortriu fears such a confrontation. I intend to appeal to his sense of logic. He was always better at accepting unwelcome news if it was
presented coherently and backed up by sound arguments. I will outlast whoever Circinn elects. I know it in my heart.”

“That is an argument of faith, not of logic.”

“I intend to employ both.”

“You’ve another tool you can use, if she agrees,” Fola said. “You know your wife’s facility with scrying. Ask Tuala to look into your future. Ask her to investigate the future of your kingdom. Find out
if what she sees in ten, twenty, fifty years is a Christian Fortriu. That is the vision Broichan most dreads. By leaving Circinn to its own devices and at the same time giving these Gaelic clerics an invitation to settle on our western islands, you may be opening the door to our worst fears, Bridei. Are you prepared to take responsibility for that?”

“I am the king. Whatever unfolds, the responsibility
is mine. My heart tells me we need peace above all things.”

Fola nodded and got up. She was a tiny woman, her head level with Bridei’s chest. Her long hair gleamed silver in the candlelight. “Very well, Bridei. I will go to my prayers and you to yours. I see a dark time coming; a difficult
time. It’s regrettable Faolan cannot be back with news for us before spring.”

“He may be far later than
that. He has business of his own to attend to as well as my mission.”

“Oh?”

“Family business. He won’t talk about it.”

“That man has a family? You amaze me, Bridei. I’d always thought he came to life in a dark corner somewhere, fully grown and fully armed.”

Bridei smiled. “He works hard to give that impression. Underneath, he’s human. I’m becoming more and more aware of that. Good night, Fola.
I thank you for your balanced judgment.”

“Thank me tomorrow, when we’ve worked out where we stand. Good night, Bridei.”

C
OLD BREATHS OF
air whispered around the Well of Shades. A torch burned higher up the path, at the head of the precipitous steps down to this underground place, beneath the hill of Caer Pridne. Garth kept his own vigil above, his job to ensure Bridei
was undisturbed. Halfway down the steps crouched the white dog, Ban, the king’s loyal companion since a long-ago winter at Pitnochie, when the small creature had emerged from a vision and become reality. Ban did not come right down to the Well. This was a dark place, inhabited by unquiet memories and wounded spirits. It was a shrine of the Nameless God, a deity particular to men, and had been
over the years the scene of a cruel test of their loyalty. The old ritual, in which once a year a young priestess had died, had not been observed in the six years since Bridei took the throne of Fortriu. He had forbidden its practice and, because they knew him to be deeply steadfast in his devotion to the ancient gods, his court and his people had supported the decision, though not without some expressions
of disquiet. In place of the sacrifice, the king and
his druid performed a long vigil of obedience on Gateway night.

This season, Bridei had missed that ritual, and tonight’s observance was in its place. He knelt alone by the square of inky water, his arms outstretched in a pose of meditation. He was well practiced in druidic observance; he had been sent to Broichan for his education at the age
of four, and was as fully trained in lore and ritual as any man might be who was not a druid. He calmed his breathing, slowed his heartbeat, made his body ignore the piercing cold of the subterranean chamber. Clearing the memories from his mind was more difficult. He could not visit this place without the awareness of his first Gateway sacrifice. Bridei had been the only kinsman of the old king
to step up and help when illness had rendered Drust the Bull too weak to perform his part in the ritual. That night, Bridei had helped drown a girl.

He had used every argument he could to try to justify it to himself, every scrap of lore and history. He knew the dark god had required it; he understood that, by acting thus, he had won the respect of every man there present and, as a result, their
support when he stood for kingship later. But no argument had ever convinced him that what he’d done was right. It was a dilemma; those thoughts made him disloyal to the gods, and he had been trained since childhood to believe such loyalty the foundation of a man’s existence. He feared the Nameless God above all. He feared retribution would strike out of the blue and he recognized how it might
be. To punish him, the god would strike not at Bridei himself, but at Tuala, at Derelei, at the infant yet unborn, perhaps robbing it of life before it saw its first sunrise. Every day that he managed to keep them safe, Bridei sent a prayer of gratitude to those gods he knew were more favorably disposed toward him: the Flamekeeper, guardian of the brave and honorable, and the Shining One, who had
long given her blessing to him and to Tuala.

He hoped they were all listening tonight. He hoped
they would guide his decision. He knew what was right. He knew also that to a great many of his people his choice would seem weak, out of keeping with his reputation as the fearless leader who had so miraculously won back the lost lands of Dalriada not quite six years into his reign. Without his druid’s
support, without the backing of influential chieftains such as Carnach, it would be difficult to convince his people that he must let this opportunity pass him by. He would, perhaps, seem recklessly disobedient to the will of the gods.

Tonight he would not consider that. The Well of Shades was a place of abject obedience; a place where powerful men bowed low before the god who represented the
darkest part in each of them, a locked and bolted corner of the spirit that housed a base will for destructive power. The noblest and fairest of men felt that darkness stir within them when they knelt by the Well. It was a test to crush the most dauntless of hearts.

Bridei closed his eyes and began the ritual words.

I breathe into the dark…

I
N THE FOREST
above the
druid’s house at Pitnochie, Ana, princess of the Light Isles, was sitting quietly on a fallen tree, waiting for her betrothed to come back. She was not alone; on a branch nearby a hooded crow perched, watchful, and a scarlet crossbill was investigating the leaf litter at her feet. A very large gray dog stood alert on the other side of the clearing, its formidable size and piercing gaze sufficient
to deter the boldest of attackers. Concerned for Ana’s safety, Drustan had acquired Cloud from a farmer farther down the Glen, and the dog had soon fallen victim to her new owner’s seductive charm; she was as much his willing slave now as the birds were. No, thought Ana, slave was the wrong word. Drustan’s creatures were so close to him they seemed to be extensions of his own self; they knew instinctively
what he wanted from them and what he could give them. It was a little the same for her. There was an inevitability about her love for him; her whole being had been tied up with his from the moment they first set eyes on each other.

Drustan was still reluctant to display his unusual abilities before others, even now he and Ana had been staying at Broichan’s house for some time and knew the druid’s
loyal retainers were entirely trustworthy. Hence the dog rather than a man-at-arms. Drustan was new to freedom. His last seven years had been spent under lock and key, the occasional times of release a gift from his selfless keeper, Deord. Now he could go out at will and exercise his special skills without fear of punishment, but he was still reluctant to share what he could do with anyone but
Ana. In the autumn he had borne a message south to King Bridei in the heat of battle. That meant the household at Pitnochie already knew the truth about him, for two men who served as guards here had been present on the battlefield when Drustan had intervened to save the king’s life. Fortunately, Broichan’s folk understood discretion and simply got on with their business. Long years in a druid’s
household had made them adaptable.