The Well of Shades Page 6

  “Besides,” said Talorgen, frowning, “there’s the west to consider. Dalriada may be won, but a newly conquered territory needs careful handling. I have no doubt at all the Gaels will be back, in three years, five, ten, however long it takes them to regroup. We will have continuing dissent in the region, for there will be those who want the old rule returned. We’ve done our best to weed out the likely troublemakers, but a strong Gaelic presence remains. You don’t just ride in and occupy a place, then expect the conquered residents to get on with their lives as if nothing has happened. I hate to say it, but this may not be the best time for Bridei to take on the leadership of Circinn alongside that of Fortriu. He’d be pulled two ways. We all would.”

  “How often does an election come along?” asked Carnach. “What if a young man gets up, one even younger than Bridei? This could be the only opportunity we get in a lifetime, Talorgen. It would be madness to let it pass by!”

  “Fola,” said Bridei quietly, “what is your opinion?”

  “You consult me, and you have not yet passed the news to Broichan, your lifelong mentor?”

  Bridei had expected this from the wise woman. To shut Broichan out of such an important decision was unprecedented; even now, he wondered if he had acted correctly. “You know him. You know why. It is his passion to see Fortriu and Circinn reunited in the old faith. Do not doubt, any of you, that I share that dream. If you had asked me, in the first days of my kingship, whether I would seek to add Circinn to my realm at the first opportunity, I imagine I would have said yes with not a shred of doubt in my mind. Ask me today and I will tell you that what I want for Fortriu now is a time of peace. A time of rebuilding. A time for reflection.”

  “There is much at risk here,” Fola said. “I’m aware that you’ve sent Faolan back to the heartland of the Uí Néill leaders. I know part of his mission is to ferret out information about these Christian clerics who seek a foothold in our western isles. I must interpret that as an indication that you are not fixed on giving them an outright refusal. Not yet, anyway; not until your spy returns, and that cannot be before spring. I know your attention is still upon the west. A resounding victory on the field does not necessarily mean continuing peace. The Uí Néill will always be a threat, and you do right to remain aware of that threat. Circinn also knows where your priority must lie. My feeling is that by springtime the southern kingdom will have chosen its own king without troubling to include Fortriu in the process. We all remember Bargoit. Officially that man is only a councillor, but he’s been directing the affairs of Circinn for years. He’ll be looking for another weakling contender to manipulate. Drust had brothers, didn’t he?”

  “Two,” said Aniel with a little frown. “Garnet and Keltran. Both very much in Drust’s mold, though a few years his junior. Bargoit won’t have much difficulty twisting them to his will. I cannot tell you if either has received Christian baptism. I do know there are Christian clerics still in attendance at the court of Circinn, although Bridei tells me our old friend Brother Suibne is in the west now.”

  “Sailed home before the season turned, in company with Gabhran’s chieftains,” said Talorgen. “I saw them off personally. For such an inoffensive-looking man, that priest has a lot to say.”

  Bridei smiled, remembering with a certain fondness the Christian cleric who had taken such delight in debating matters of faith with him long ago. Suibne was a man who seemed to pop up everywhere. “It was his words that sent Faolan to search out this man Colm, the priest in need of a new lodging beyond the shores of his homeland,” he said. “I may not share Suibne’s religious convictions, but I recognize he’s astute and clever. I took his speech as a kind of warning. How I act on that depends on what Faolan brings back. Fola, you haven’t answered my question.”

  “I cannot answer it.” The wise woman looked grim. “I can only counsel you to seek the wisdom of the gods. I plan to do so myself once we are done here. If I receive any insights you’ll be the first to hear them. I’ve seen the ruinous aftermath of war, Bridei. I do understand your reluctance to put on this extra mantle with those wounds still so fresh in our country. But there will be some who cannot see your reasoning,” she glanced at Carnach, “for it does seem that on the heels of this great victory you stand your best chance of garnering a winning vote. All the same, Talorgen speaks wisely. Dalriada will need your attention. I don’t understand this mission of Faolan’s and I never have. Even to consider letting Christian clerics get a new foothold in the isles is to risk Fortriu being squeezed, in time, between two powerful bulwarks of the new faith. Broichan would be appalled.”

  “The way Suibne told it,” Bridei said, “this man Colm is a fugitive from his homeland, having fallen foul of powerful leaders over his interference in a matter of armed conflict. What he wants is a sanctuary where he and his brethren can be left in peace. I remember how Drust the Boar drove the druids and wise women out of their houses of prayer all across Circinn. If I show the same lack of respect for those who only seek to love their gods in peace—whatever gods those may be—then I am no better than he was.”

  “Hmm,” said Fola, dark eyes regarding him skeptically.

  “Besides, Suibne himself pointed out that there are Christian hermits in the Light Isles, not only tolerated but welcomed by my vassal king there, despite the adherence of the local folk to the ancient gods. Suibne noted the inconsistency. If I refuse Colm his refuge I should by rights request the removal of the Christian presence in the northern isles as well.”

  “I don’t undervalue the spiritual arguments.” Redheaded Carnach had his fists clenched on the table. It was unusual for him to show any kind of agitation, for he was a cool and seasoned leader of fighting men. “But surely, surely you cannot let such an opportunity pass you by, my lord king. The crown of Circinn… By the Flamekeeper’s manhood, I’d almost stand as a candidate myself rather than see some weakling kinsman of Drust’s assume power in the south, with Bargoit whispering in his ear. I can’t understand how you can support this, Talorgen. I can’t understand how any of you can even consider it. What sort of council is this? By all the gods, if we had Ged here, and all those fine men who fell in Fortriu’s service in the autumn, I know what they’d be saying. You are our king, Bridei, our leader and our inspiration. This is your time. It is the time to make the two kingdoms one again. You have strong chieftains, wise advisers, people who would gladly lay down their lives for you. You can hold Dalriada and rule Circinn as well as Fortriu. You can do it, Bridei. Have faith. Seize this chance! That it has come about now, so soon after our war was won, must surely mean the Flamekeeper intends you to take it.”

  Bridei regarded his kinsman, whose fair-skinned features were flushed with a mixture of ardor and frustration. Carnach had been one of his truest and most loyal chieftains, a source of immense strength in war and astute advice in peacetime. He was influential; a great deal hung on retaining his loyalty, not to speak of his friendship. Not for the first time, the king felt a pang of regret at Faolan’s absence; who else would give him truly honest advice on such a difficult issue? “Your faith in me and in the future warms me, Carnach,” he said. “Believe me, I do not underestimate the ability of Fortriu’s leaders, nor her people, to meet a challenge. I have not yet made a decision on this matter. I will take Fola’s advice and seek the wisdom of the gods. I know what my warrior chieftains would say. For the main part they would agree with you. Press the advantage, they would tell me. I know what Broichan will want.”

  “I cannot believe you chose not to give him this news,” said Fola. It was not quite a reproof; even she, who had known him since he was a child, did not forget that he was king.

  “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.”

  COLD 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 o
nly 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.