Foxmask (69 page)

She felt the slight weight of the child in her arms, the tickle of his tangle of dark hair against her cheek; his thin arms were about her neck. Let them listen to her, she prayed; let them understand this truth, or her promise to Keeper would be entirely broken. “There is no need to blind the child,” she went on, forcing her voice steady. “Already in him the eye of the spirit is fully open. There is no need to cripple him. Did he not come back to you, through the sea, all the way from the Isle of Clouds? Foxmask is home; he has come home by his own choice. He will not leave you again, but will serve you long and faithfully. I beg you, think on this, and do not harm the one who loves you best of all.”

There was silence for a little, and then whispering and muttering among the folk. The man with the ropes had not moved. Perhaps he was aware of Sam's eyes fixed on him with a dangerous glint in them. The fisherman stood close at hand; there was less than a spear's thrust in it. The elder was frowning and rubbing his chin.

“Creidhe!” hissed Thorvald. “We must go, my father is hurt, I must get him to help.”

She turned a little, regarding him without expression, her arms wrapped firmly around the small form of the child. “Then go,” she said flatly.

“Don't be stupid—” Thorvald began, and fell silent as the tall man spoke. He was not looking at Creidhe, or at Small One, or at Thorvald, so clearly the leader of this band of interlopers. Instead, he met the one-eyed gaze of the man who lay bleeding in Skapti's strong arms.

“What do you say?” he asked, and there was a deep respect in his voice. “This is a girl, we cannot take her words as guidance. But the seer trusts her, he clings to her as to a friend of the heart. Our lore demands that Foxmask undergo the ritual. Yet there seems a truth in what she tells. What must we do?”

And Niall, summoning speech from the depths of his shocked and wounded body, answered him in a thready whisper. “Whose voice will you trust but the child's? Whose path will you follow but his? He speaks the word of God. Creidhe's telling the truth; she knows no other way. If her voice is not enough for you, ask the seer.”

The elder inclined his head gravely. All eyes turned to the child in Creidhe's arms. Creidhe felt his little hand against her cheek again, his fingers cold, his touch gentle. He was saying good-bye.

“I hope this is right, Small One,” she whispered. “As long as you are safe and happy . . . he would be content with that,I think . . .” For a moment she felt the child's fierce hug, and she held him in return; he was only six, for all his wisdom, and the way ahead of him was all of giving and sacrifice. The burden he would bear was not a light one. Then he pulled back, and she saw his odd little smile and the tranquil, soft gaze of his sea-green eyes. She set him on the ground; her hands touched his thin arms one last time, then let go.

He sang a new song. Its gentle sweeps of melody wove about them as they stood quiet. Its delicate grace notes wreathed the ancient stone as, at a gesture from the elder, the men of the Unspoken gathered up the instruments of the ritual, placed them in a skin bag, and bore them away. Its lilting phrases followed the small party of intruders as they made their way toward the shoreward track, and the men and women of the Unspoken fell back to let them pass. The song rose to fill the air with its brightness, with its sweet, strong message of love, loyalty, and acceptance, vibrating in the timbers of the
Sea Dove
as the men pushed her off the shore and out into the bay, sounding in her sails like a wind of truth as they set a course for Council Fjord.

Skapti and Thorvald sailed the boat; Sam was busy rummaging in his well-kept supplies, finding cloth for bandages, fresh water, and the means to make a splint, for it was apparent the loss of an eye was not the only injury Niall had sustained. His right leg was useless, the bones of the calf shattered by one well-aimed blow of that short, thick club. Sam found a strong cordial set away in a small flask of metal, stoppered with a bone plug wound with leather, and this time Niall drank without protest, swallowing the draft the fisherman offered him in two labored gulps. His breath came harder now; Creidhe wished he would allow himself to cry out, for his silence was costing him dearly. When the drink had done its work, and the lid grew heavy over the priest's single eye, they splinted the leg, Sam and Breccan between them, with Creidhe's deft fingers to knot the linen strips around the lengths of pine they used, wood set aside from the mending of the
Sea Dove
. A broken man was not so easily mended. Perhaps the limb would knit straight; with luck, he would walk again, though never as he had done. Niall remained conscious. Creidhe heard the whistle of his breathing and felt the trembling that coursed through his body. Such pain . . . Even her father, surely, would scream under such agony. And yet, looking up, she saw a peace on the priest's white features, an acceptance in the shadowed depths of his one dark eye that spoke of a joy transcending earthly pain. Whatever he had found today, it seemed a shield good and abiding, and of more than worldly strength.

When it was done, Sam turned his attention again to the boat, and Breccan settled by the injured man's side, with Creidhe opposite.

“Rest now,” the Ulsterman said quietly. “This journey is nearly over.”

Niall made a little sound, signifying thanks, or agreement.

Breccan's eyes were thoughtful, his amiable face serious. “The word of God,” he mused. “You said, he speaks the word of God. How can that be? These folk are pagan, unbelievers. Their rites are savage and cruel. The maiming of children, the gouging of eyes . . . it is surely the devil's word we heard here, and not the truth our heavenly Father gives us. And yet . . . and yet, the child himself . . . The message, so powerful, so good . . . Did he twist my perceptions, to make me see dark as light? I do not understand it . . .”

“Brother . . .” Niall's whispering voice had lost its clarity; the strong draft made him slur his words, but still they heard him. “Much to learn . . . you and I . . . lifetime . . .”

Breccan glanced at Thorvald, now manning the steering oar, his features focused, intent, as the
Sea Dove
plowed her way back to the world of men. “You'll have other things to do with your life now, my friend,” he said softly.
“A time of change for you, I think. Your son has a great task ahead of him in this place. He'll need you.” But there was a question in his tone.

“You think?” said Somerled, smiling.

It was night, but summer saw the sun hide just below the rim of the world, leaving a strange, cold light on rounded hill, on quiet lake, on the stone walls of hut and barn and sturdy longhouse. Near the western shore of Hrossey, the light filtered through the cracks in door and shutters, adding its coolness to the flickering glow of Margaret's small oil lamp.

She stood in the weaving room, the bowl of seal oil with its floating wick set by her on a stone shelf, and stared in the dim light at the piece stretched half finished on the loom. It was plain enough, no dyes, just the natural hues of the wool, white and cream and the rich, dark shade from her special flock of black-coated ewes. The design had simple stripes at the ends and an even, strong weave; Margaret was skillful, and such a piece as this would be highly valued. But she would never weave as Creidhe had done, with true magic in her fingers, with dedication in her heart as she devised the fine, bright dyes, the intricate border strips, the bold, lovely designs. It took more than skill to create as Creidhe did; it took love.

Margaret picked up the little lamp and walked barefoot into the long room, where all was neat and orderly, the table cleared, the fire banked up, the pots and crocks scoured and stored. In the tiny room that opened off this chamber her serving women slept, weary from the hard day's work in house and fields. The little maid she had brought with her on that long-ago voyage from Rogaland was a matron now, wed to a man of the islands and a mother of fine sons, with a farm of her own for them to work on.

Margaret shivered. The memories of that time hung close on nights like this, chilling her deep inside, banishing sleep. So many chances there had been, so many opportunities, and most of them wasted. All that she had carried out of that dark season was her son, and now it seemed he, too, was lost. It was high summer; the barley grew lush, the sheep were fat, even the wind had lost its sharp bite. But Thorvald had not come home; Creidhe's place before the loom remained empty. There was no joy in the house. In the brightest season of the year, her home was a place of shadows. Her bare feet whispered on the stone floor, moving to the spot where heavy shutters covered the single, narrow window of the long room. Her fingers slid the bolt aside; she pushed the shutters open with a creak and looked out.

No stars were visible; the brightness of the long summer twilight masked them from view. The landscape lay like a world of dreams, ordinary things made strange by that quirk of half-darkness, half-light. The compact forms of sheep were silvery hummocks merging with the grass; the roof weights moved in the slight wind as with their own life. A cloak, slung over a line to dry, spread wings like a creature poised to take flight to the invisible moon. The air came to her nostrils pure, cool and clear.

Margaret sighed. This was not good enough. How could she go on like this? She was like a stream dammed in its course which fills and fills, building and building, and yet what held her seemed so strong it would never give, not if the weight of all the cares in the world pressed in on it. It was not right. On such a night, with the world laid out before her in its grand, mysterious wonder, how could she stand here like a shriveled husk of a woman, shut so tight around herself that all she could feel was regret? Oh, to be seventeen again and given the chance to try once more, to make her life anew. Margaret drew the shutters closed. How foolish, to wish such a thing. There were no second chances. If there were, who was to say she would not make all her errors twice over? There was only this life, now, and what years the gods might see fit to grant her. She pictured it: ten years, twenty if she were lucky. Middle age, old age, served out in obedience to her own tenets of restraint, control, order, discipline . . . served out alone, if Thorvald were lost, alone with neither father nor mother, sister nor brother, husband nor children around her . . . What did she have? Her skills, certainly, though they were not so much, when she had seen her pupil's work flowering bright and wondrous on the loom and knew she did not have it in her to match that. Still, she had taught Creidhe the elements, had tutored other girls who now plied their craft ably all over the islands. There was a certain satisfaction in that. Her household, her farm . . . both were well run, prosperous, orderly; the credit for that was principally another's, she felt. Her mind darted away, somehow reluctant, tonight, to dwell on Ash, for suddenly those thoughts had a danger in them. She had friends, old and true ones. But Nessa was heavy with child now, and her small family had seemed to close in on itself at this time of risk and worry. Without Creidhe, Margaret felt herself outside that tight circle of love and protection, and limited herself to offers of help with their stock, or gifts of wool or cheeses. She participated in the councils, sometimes, as widow of a former chieftain of the island and as a landholder in her own right, but such pursuits meant less each time. Perhaps, at six-and-thirty, she was starting to grow old.

Control, she told herself, and moved to take the lamp again and walk to
her bedchamber. She made her breathing slower; forced back the tears that pricked her eyelids. Self-pity was not productive; it solved nothing. If logic, reasoning and force of will could not show her a pathway forward, then she must simply accept that her doom was to become a lonely dried-up spinster beset by shades of the past. It was a punishment: the gods' burden, set on her for what she had done. And yet, tonight, something stirred within her, like a tiny voice, a whispering song, terrifying yet wondrous, telling her it was not so . . . she was still alive, deep inside . . . she must simply breathe, and open her eyes, and change . . . it would be easy . . .

And so, as her feet passed by a certain doorway that was covered only by a coarse woolen hanging, Margaret paused without a sound. And within the chamber, the man who had lain awake, sharing her every step, her every moment of self-doubt, saw the light of her small lamp through the woven fabric and spoke softly from his narrow bed.

“Are you all right?” Ash asked.

Margaret swallowed, her heart suddenly racing. She did not know what words would come to her lips; perhaps a simple positive, then a flight to the sanctuary of her own quiet chamber. Yet his voice seemed to open something inside her, to touch a corner where sensation had long been absent.

“I can't get warm,” she whispered, her teeth chattering as if the words themselves had made this true. The lamp shook in her hand; oil spilled onto the flagstones. A moment later he was in the doorway beside her, one hand reaching to take the lamp, the other clutching a garment, a rumpled shirt perhaps, in front of him to hide his nakedness. He had been careful, always, to observe the rules of conduct between steward and mistress; she had never seen him thus unclothed, not in all the years the two of them had shared this house. Those same rules should have constrained her to turn her gaze away rather than look on him. But Margaret found she could not. His body was pleasing to her: lean, compact, wiry, the frame of a man who has worked hard and seen little of indulgence. His chest was thatched with iron-gray hair; his shoulders were strong, his arms corded with muscle, for all his neatness of build. In the small light of the lamp his eyes met hers, steady and true, though she did not miss the wariness there. Words fled again; she did not know what she could say to him, for if she asked, and he said no, as well he might, she did not think they could ever be friends again. And he was her one true friend, her best companion; through all these lonely years he had proved it over and over, though she had given him scant recompense for his loyalty.