The Well of Shades Page 30

  “Later.”

  Drustan had watched this interchange with the same expression of wonder that Eile had seen on his face before, in the woods. No doubt he would translate it all for his wife later. No, not his wife; it seemed these highborn folk had not been wed when they lay together and made a child destined to perish before it could ever be born. Not only that, but the irregularity of their situation didn’t seem to trouble them; they had been quite open about it. She must ask Faolan why that was so, and why his friends kept looking at him as if his words and actions were utterly astonishing. She must ask… No, she would not ask. In the morning Faolan would be gone. Chances were he’d be off on some mission or other before she ever reached White Hill. Handy for him that Drustan and Ana were in a position to escort her the rest of the way. It relieved the king’s assassin and spy of an awkward responsibility. As for Eile, she’d need to get used to being on her own again.

  “YOU’VE CHANGED,” ANA said softly, looking into the dark eyes of her friend as he sat by her bed later in the day. Drustan had persuaded Eile and the child to venture out walking with the guard dog, Cloud, looking for cats. “Something’s happened on that journey, and I think it’s for the better.” She made no comment about the fact that he had not come back alone; she did not ask him if he had seen his family, or indeed anything at all. If he wanted to tell her, he would. As for what lay between them, she’d best not speak of that unless Faolan broached the topic himself. There had been more than enough hurt inflicted already.

  “Mm,” Faolan murmured. “I did what you bid me do; went home and faced it all. I will not tell you the whole story. I have my father’s forgiveness. I underestimated my family’s strength, Ana. There have been grievous losses, and the trouble is not entirely past. But they are doing well enough; far better than I imagined would be possible.”

  “Were you tempted to stay? Not to return to Fortriu at all?”

  Faolan shook his head. “I had a mission. Besides, Eile and I were in trouble; we had to move on.”

  His tone forbade further questions on that topic.

  “She seems so much Deord’s daughter,” Ana said, smiling. “Underneath that fragile exterior, I can see something… dauntless. I wish I could speak Gaelic properly; I’d so much like to have a proper conversation with her. If she stays awhile, Drustan can help her with the Priteni tongue. She’ll need that, whatever happens. And he could do with a diversion; this inclement weather restricts his flights.”

  Faolan regarded her for a while, expression quizzical. “You’ve simply accepted it, haven’t you?” he said. “His difference, his strangeness; I doubt you even think about how much that marks him out. He is a lucky man.”

  Ana felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “I know it makes him vulnerable in the company of powerful men, or prejudiced ones,” she said. “That’s why we had hoped to avoid court. But we must go now; I want to see my sister, and the handfasting may as well be done while we are at White Hill. In the long term, I think we will stay mostly at Dreaming Glen. It sounds safe there. A good place for children.” She could not keep her voice from cracking. It had seemed so real, the images of Drustan walking in the forest with a flame-haired infant in his arms, of herself singing the old songs of her home islands to rock a tiny babe to sleep. As soon as she had known she was with child she had begun sewing baby clothes, little soft garments with birds embroidered on them. Only yesterday she had put them away, deep down in a corner of an oak chest.

  “I’m so sorry.” Faolan’s voice was tight. “Truly sorry, Ana. I do want you and Drustan to be happy, believe me. I hope Eile is right; that you will have another child.”

  “I believe you, dear friend. Faolan?” She hesitated, thinking she might risk putting the most delicate subject into words.

  “What is it?”

  “This feels different. You and me, talking. Not as difficult as it was at White Hill, before you went away.”

  His voice went very quiet. “If you are asking me whether my feelings for you have changed, I cannot tell you I no longer love you. But the nature of that love is different now. I cannot explain exactly why. A great deal happened over the winter, things that could have broken my heart. I came a hair’s-breadth from ending it all, Ana. I tell you that in the knowledge that you will not speak of it to anyone, not even Drustan. When a man allows himself to sink so far into despair, yet survives it, the only way out is upward. Last autumn, I told you I was happy for you, that you had found love with Drustan. When I said that, I suppose I was just speaking the words. Now, when I say it, I feel it in my heart. I speak in the sure knowledge that I can move on; find my own path. That does not make my bond with you, and with Drustan, any the less. We went through the fire together. That will never change.”

  “Does Eile know?” Ana asked. “That you nearly killed yourself?”

  Faolan’s lips curved in a sweet smile, an expression of which she would not previously have believed him capable. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Most surely, she knows.”

  MUCH LATER, AFTER a hearty supper of which neither Eile nor Saraid ate much, and after Saraid had cried herself to sleep, inconsolable and incapable of explaining precisely why, Faolan sought Eile out, tapping on her door.

  Don’t wake up, Eile willed the child; it had been a distressing time and all she wanted was to climb under the covers herself and release the tears that had been building behind her eyes as she failed to comfort the child’s woe.

  “It’s me,” came Faolan’s voice. “Is Saraid asleep? I need to talk to you.”

  Eile opened the door a crack. “She’s only just gone to sleep. She was upset. She cried and cried. I need to stay here in case she wakes again.”

  “All right, we’ll talk here. If you’ll let me in.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He gave her a direct sort of look. “I thought I heard you say not so long ago that you half trusted me,” he said. “It’s this or have our conversation out here in the hallway where it’s cold and anyone passing by can hear us.”

  “There’s no need for a conversation. You’re going and we’re staying. That’s it. Good night.”

  She made to close the door. Faolan’s foot was suddenly in the gap.

  “You know that’s not it. Please, Eile. Let me in just for a moment. Surely you can’t think I…?”

  “In fact, no. I saw the look on your face when I made my ill-considered suggestion.”

  “Please. This won’t take long.”

  “If you wake her up I think I might hit you. She was so upset I nearly cried myself.” Eile opened the door and retreated to sit on the bed, her hand on the huddled form of the child. Faolan came in to stand with his back against the stone wall. Eile noticed that he had left the door slightly open. “That’s to protect your reputation, is it?” she queried with a grimace.

  “No,” said Faolan. “It’s to stop you feeling trapped.”

  She did not reply. Then, abruptly, words welled up that she could not stop. “This would be a whole lot easier to cope with if you weren’t so nice to us,” she said.

  “Nice? Me? You’ve got the wrong man.”

  “You understand things without being told. I was starting to get used to that.” And I can’t afford to do that, because sooner or later you’ll be gone forever.

  “It’s only for seven days.” Faolan’s voice sounded a little odd. “And I do have to go, Eile. I thought you understood that.”

  “I do,” she said as a new misery settled over her. “This is what you are; what you do with your life. All the time. One mission and then another. Always going somewhere, doing something important.”

  After a moment he said, “What are you saying? That you think I’m running away?”

  It jolted Eile’s heart. She had been thinking only of herself and of Saraid. She looked him in the eye, seeing the pain there. She reminded herself that Ana was in the house: Ana who was dear to him, Ana who was lost to him. “No,” she said. “Maybe you’ve done that in the past. But y
ou went back to Fiddler’s Crossing, didn’t you?”

  “If it had been up to me, I’d have skipped that and headed for the north. The only reason I stopped running, the only reason I saw my family, was you. You and Saraid.”

  “A lot of help we were. Got you locked up, then cost you all your money. Now we’ve delayed you on your important business. You’d better be on your way out of here in the morning or I’ll really start feeling bad.”

  His eyes warmed a little, but he said nothing.

  “You look tired.” Eile scrutinized him closely.

  “I don’t need much sleep.” The eyes went bleak again.

  “Rubbish. You look washed out. Go on, go and get some rest.” He was upset; brooding over something. “I’m really sorry about Ana,” Eile added, making a guess. “She seems so nice. You must be worried about her.”

  “Mm,” he said absently. “I planned to go early tomorrow. At first light. Will you tell Saraid I said good-bye, and that I’ll be at White Hill when you get there? Or should I delay setting off until she’s awake?”

  Eile turned her head away so that he could not see the tears welling in her eyes. “I’ll tell her,” she said. “I’m hoping she’ll sleep late to make up for tonight. Will you go now, please?”

  There was a silence. Then he said, “Don’t forget to talk to Drustan about your father. He’ll have much to tell. Better to ask him here than at White Hill. He’s ill at ease there; like you, he doesn’t care for crowds.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t worry about the language, Eile. Deord spoke both Gaelic and the Priteni tongue ably. So will you in time. This will get easier. I’m sorry you are unhappy. On the voyage over, in that wretched boat with its motley crew of clerics, I thought you were enjoying yourself. I saw a look on your face then that I’ve never seen again: confident and happy. I wish I could—”

  “Please go, Faolan. I want to sleep.”

  A pause. “Good night, Eile. I’ll see you in seven days.” His voice was very quiet.

  “My father was a sailor.” She felt obliged to say this. “Maybe I’m like him. The only thing is, I think voyages should end at home. That’s hard when you don’t know where home is.”

  “You’re not the only one. Sleep well. Don’t forget to tell Saraid—”

  “I’ll tell her. Good night, Faolan. Ride safely.”

  Eile heard the door close softly. He was taking care not to wake the child. She found that, after all, she wasn’t going to cry. She wrapped her arms around her daughter, shut her eyes, and made an image of the house on the hill. There was the striped cat, there the rows of herbs and flowers fresh and bright in the sunlight. Someone was singing and there was a sound of Saraid’s laughter. In that place, it was always summer.

  THE MEN AT White Hill were all too old or too young, too plain or too stuffy. The tediousness of it was driving Breda crazy. Keother hadn’t brought any of her favorite attendants here from the islands. It was as if her cousin had deliberately chosen to leave behind Breda’s comeliest groom, her most muscular bodyguard, her wittiest musician. What did he expect her to do, spend her time putting tiny stitches into useless bits of linen and practicing pretty table manners? Did he imagine there was any real satisfaction to be had in that?

  Perhaps, thought the princess of the Light Isles, resting her chin on her hands as she stood by the parapet wall atop White Hill and gazed northward, this visit so long promised as a treat by her cousin was in fact a punishment. Perhaps, that time when Keother’s busybody of a councillor had caught her in the stables with Evard, doing a little more than feeding the horses treats, someone had gone running to the king with tales. Keother hadn’t said a word and neither had the councillor. All the same, Evard hadn’t come to White Hill, even though he was head groom. Her cousin’s choice of companions seemed weighted toward old men or ugly ones.

  Gods, if this went on things were going to become quickly intolerable. There was absolutely nothing to do here. Her maids were out of sorts and squabbling and she had nobody at all to talk to. If this was the thrilling life that Keother had promised her at the court of Fortriu, she didn’t think very much of it at all. These folk had no idea how to have fun.

  Breda paced the walkway, lifting her skirts out of the way of debris blown up there by Fortriu’s fierce winds, and making sure her ankles showed. The guards stationed nearby kept their eyes grimly trained on the hillside below the walls. Someone had had a word to them. She blamed the queen, that odd woman with the pale skin and weird eyes. Not a woman, really; something else. As for the children, they were downright unsettling. There was an uncanny strangeness about the little boy that made Breda feel unsafe. The baby looked like something that should have been drowned at birth. Something that had come out wrong didn’t deserve to live. Breda couldn’t understand how folk could tolerate such oddity. On a farm, if a lamb or a kid or a calf was born deformed you put it down. It was the only practical thing to do. Merciful, really. It eliminated later complications. The royal baby might be pretty in a bizarre kind of way, like its mother, but it looked just… wrong.

  Breda sighed. If nothing interesting happened here soon, she’d have to make it happen herself. There was Ana’s wedding, of course, but it was hard to get at all excited about that. She did remember her sister vaguely. They used to do things together: walking on the beach, singing songs, working on embroidery. The aunt who had raised them had never punished Ana; Ana had been the good sister. Breda’s palms had been criss-crossed with welts; Ana’s had stayed soft and white. Aunt’s approach to punishment had been imaginative. The burning of favorite toys; periods shut up in the woodshed, where large beetles lurked in every corner. Beatings and scaldings. The withholding of nice things, the pretty ribbons and shoes that Breda so coveted. The banishment of certain playmates. Ana was well behaved and quiet; she’d always been able to avoid Aunt’s cruelty. Then, at ten years old, Ana had gone to Fortriu and never come back. It sounded as if Ana had never grown out of sewing and music. This fellow she was marrying was sure to be another boring middle-aged chieftain like so many of the men here at court. Where were the warriors? Where were the risk-takers? Where was even one fellow who could prove himself a real man?

  The king’s guard, the younger one, Dovran, was a good specimen; broad shoulders, long legs, abundant brown hair. Thus far Breda had barely got him to look at her, but she was working on it. The other one, Garth, was married with children. That in itself was no obstacle, but Garth was too old; pushing forty, Breda estimated. And those two lads, with their pathetic eagerness to please, were much too young. They’d be good for novelty, a quick—probably all too quick—encounter. Bedo was the elder; that she’d seriously considered him even for a moment showed how desperate things were getting. But Bedo had disappointed her. Since the little episode with the baby, he seemed to have ceased pursuing her. In fact, she had found him several times in smiling conversation with her attendant, Cella. Cella! Who’d look at her when Breda herself was in view? Cella was a nobody, plain, boring, utterly ordinary. Cella shouldn’t be flirting with a chieftain’s son, a boy whose mother had been a princess. It was completely inappropriate. The girl must be punished. Not in the usual way; something more entertaining was called for. It would be fun deciding exactly what.

  Breda smiled. Court need not be so tedious. All that was needed was enterprise and a touch of imagination. And the raw materials. Those were all around her. She’d see what she could do with them.

  SEVEN DAYS HAD sounded long when Eile had learned Faolan was going on without them. It passed all too quickly. Drustan and Ana were keen to give Eile her father’s story, and there was a lot of it, far more than she’d expected. They spent long hours talking, first in Ana’s bedroom, later before the fire in the hall, where they were left in privacy by Broichan’s servants, folk who had evidently been well trained in courtesy and discretion.

  Eile had a strong urge to make herself useful. It felt inappropriate to be sitting with this chieftain and his l
ady, whom Faolan had told her was a real princess, rather than helping Mara wash sheets or scrubbing pots in the kitchen. There was no need for a common tongue when performing tasks such as those, and once or twice she caught Mara glancing at her as if about to suggest she stop sitting about and do some real work. But Drustan and Ana made it clear, without quite saying so, that she was their guest, a friend, and that she was to spend her time accordingly. It felt odd; not quite right.

  As the days passed the three of them, with Saraid, took gentle walks around farm and woodland, Ana working on regaining her strength, Drustan supporting her and telling Eile his tale all the while.

  The farmer’s children were all much older than Saraid, and though the farmer’s wife, Brenna, was a kind soul, everyone was busy and Saraid was overwhelmed by the constant activity. When the weather was inclement, she played with the game pieces Drustan had brought out for her, her small fingers careful. Once or twice the cook, Ferat, coaxed her into the kitchen to make rabbits or cats or little men out of dough; he seemed well-practiced at this. She made friends with the big dog, which seemed to like children.

  Outside, Ana and Drustan accommodated the child’s slow pace and spoke quietly to her. She walked at Eile’s side, making small forays away to investigate toadstools or hedgehogs or interesting rocks with patterns on them. While the dog, Cloud, always stayed close to Ana, Drustan’s two birds followed Saraid. It seemed to Eile, oddly, that they were watching over the child.

  As the days passed, Eile learned of Deord’s strength and endurance. She learned of his heroism. She discovered that her father, half destroyed by his own time in prison, had made the most humane and compassionate of jailers. She began to wonder about him, for what Drustan told her did not suggest someone who had chosen to forget his family. This was not a man whose dark experiences had erased from his heart the capacity to love.

  “I wonder why he didn’t talk about us,” she mused to Drustan, toward the end. “He did love us. I remember that. Surely it doesn’t just go away. Even when he’d been in Breakstone, when he came home so sad, he called me his little flame, his bright light. Because of my red hair. At least, that was what I thought. Maybe it meant more than that. He loved Mother. He was sweet to her, even then. He used to wake up crying. He had terrible nightmares. I can remember hiding under the covers, but I could still hear him. I heard her singing him back to sleep as if he was a baby.” She wiped away tears. “I so wish he’d stayed. But then you’d have had some other guard, and you wouldn’t have been saved.”