The Well of Shades (73 page)

Saraid made a little sound and he realized how tightly he was holding her. “It’s all right, Squirrel. I was angry, but not with you. What has Sorry been doing today?”

“Walking.”
The tiny voice was doleful. “Getting clothes. Waiting.”

“Faolan,” Elda said, “when I went to Eile’s chamber to fetch Saraid’s things, I noticed that Eile’s outdoor clothes were still there, her warm cloak and heavy boots. She’s only got the one set. She’d have worn them, surely, if she were taking Derelei right away from White Hill. Besides, the way I heard the story, Breda said she saw Eile
wearing her outdoor clothes when she went out the gate. It doesn’t add up.”

“Breda,” muttered Faolan, his mind putting a puzzle together in a number of different ways and liking each one less than the last. “You’re telling me it was Breda
who came up with this tale of Eile walking out of White Hill deliberately? Who else saw them?”

“I don’t know, Faolan. Maybe nobody. But Breda’s maids were
talking about this as if it were fact, and the whole household picked it up.”

His body was tense; his hands wanted to form fists, but he was holding Saraid and he forced himself calm. “Breda must be questioned again,” he said. “Now. Maybe we’ve been wrong; chasing a scent that doesn’t exist. Maybe Eile never left White Hill. Gods—”

“Faolan,” said Garth, who was putting a little shirt on a wriggling
twin while his wife dried the other, “Bridei was going straight into a meeting with Keother and the councillors, and after that it will be suppertime. You know what a burden the king’s carrying right now, with Tuala gone as well as his son. It’s been complicated still further. The Christians are here and demanding an audience, preferably with Broichan in attendance. Fola’s with Anfreda; she
can’t quit that responsibility to take the druid’s place.”

“Eile’s life could depend on this. It has to be now.”

“He’s asked this Brother Colm, the one we’ve heard so much about, to sit in on the meeting. I imagine it’s to offer an apology in person and to request that they accept a delay before their official audience. He’ll probably tell them Broichan isn’t here. You must at least wait until
after that. A council of that kind is not something you can burst in on. Especially not if you plan to level some kind of accusation at Keother’s kinswoman. This is difficult enough for Bridei.”

“Feeler?” whispered Saraid. “Sing a song?”

“Later, Squirrel. You need your supper first.” He bent to kiss her cheek. His gut was churning; wrong, they’d got it wrong, he could feel it.

“I’m not coming
to supper in the hall,” Elda said. “I’ll eat with these three, then bring them back here. If you’re quick, Faolan, Saraid may still be awake after you’ve eaten, and you can come and sing her a song. I didn’t
know you had a talent for music.” She managed a smile. “Garth, you must sleep tonight. If the king asks you to stand guard, tell him I said you’re dead on your feet.”

Garth yawned widely.
“The rate I’m going, I’ll be first to bed. Faolan, you and I need to eat, after such a day. I’ll come with you; wait for your moment, is my advice, and remember the king’s juggling more balls than a man can reasonably manage right now. He won’t want Keother offended.”

“If that girl’s lied and put Eile at risk, I’ll…”
I’ll kill her
. He remembered, just in time, that there were children in the
room. “Squirrel,” he said, “I have to go and wash; I smell of horse.” Saraid sniffed at his sleeve and wrinkled her nose. “Saraid…” He hesitated, not sure whether to attempt the question again. She seemed prepared to talk now, and calmer than last night, but the look in her eyes troubled him. “Saraid, can you remember where Eile went? Can you tell me what happened yesterday, when I found you and Sorry
in the woods?”

She gazed at him, solemn as an owl, then very deliberately shook her head.

“It would help Mama if you did tell. It might help us find her and Derelei. How did you get out there? Through the big gate or somewhere else?”

Her gaze did not waver. Her lips were pressed tightly together. At that moment, he saw Eile in her so strongly it made his heart turn over. Faolan sighed. “It’s
all right, Squirrel,” he said. “Go and have your supper with the twins. I’ll be back as soon as I can. If you get tired, don’t try to stay awake for me. I’ll come and see you in the morning, before I go out again.”

“Sorry song? House on the hill?”

She was ready enough to speak of other things today. What was it that held her silent on the very matter he most needed to know? A threat of some
kind? The child was only three. “I’ll sing the Sorry song,” Faolan told her. “House on the hill is the one Mama does.” His throat went tight. “When she comes home, she’ll tell it for you.”

“Promise?”

He could not look at her. “Promise,” he whispered, then set her down on the pallet and, like a coward, fled.

“I’
M BALANCED ON
a knife edge,” Bridei said to Fola. “Every
day I give these Christians house room, every time I listen to their arguments, every concession I grant them offends the ancient gods of Fortriu more deeply; the gods in whose hands rests the fate of my little son. Every step I take in that direction puts Tuala at further risk. You know what I did when I stopped the ritual at the Well of Shades. I set my whole family on a path of constant peril.”

“But?” Fola was standing by the hearth, serene in her gray robe. She watched Bridei, who was pacing up and down with Anfreda in his arms.

“But I know, in practical terms, that change is coming. One of the reasons Keother is here is to make an argument on behalf of the Christian elements in his own kingdom. And he wants to rebuild bridges with me after his woeful failure to support me against
the Gaels. For all his bluster, he cannot afford to do otherwise. His territory is isolated; he’d be a fool to detach himself still further. Where matters of faith are concerned, he’ll put his position still more strongly with these emissary clerics here at court. As king of Fortriu I must at least hear him. If Faolan’s wrong about Carnach, I could have a powerful new enemy on my doorstep. I need
Keother fully on my side.”

“So you cannot placate the gods by sending these Christians packing. But you do not want to listen to them now.”

“How can I turn my full attention to anything while Derelei’s gone? And Tuala; I’m frightened for her, Fola. She’s never tried this before. The gods could snatch away the two of them so easily. What have I wrought here?”

The wise woman regarded him levelly.
“Keep on in this vein,” she remarked, “and that baby will be fretful and unsettled all night. If you insist on holding her, use the skills Broichan taught you to make yourself calm. You can’t walk into this meeting looking wild-eyed and jittery. Sit down. Now let us imagine we are back in the past: living again the night of the Gateway sacrifice, the only one you ever witnessed. Think of the
moment when you decided that, should you become king, you would bring an end to that particular rite and take the burden of the Nameless God’s wrath on your own shoulders. You knew you would wed and likely father children. You knew the risk. If you could live that moment again, would your decision be different?”

There was no need to consider this. Bridei shook his head. The dark images of that
night, the bleak echoes of the Well of Shades and a girl drowning, a white-clad girl whose long hair had floated out on the black water, were never far from his thoughts. He could hear Broichan chanting, his voice full of a terrible, Otherworldly power; he could see the blanched faces of the men; he could feel his own hands helping to ensure the death of the innocent. “I wish only,” he said, “that
for their retribution the gods would choose me and me alone. Not Tuala; not Derelei. They are blameless.”

“The Shining One loves Tuala,” said Fola. “And Derelei, so small and so prodigiously gifted, is surely marked out for a special path in life. I cannot think the gods would let that go to waste. You must not give up hope, Bridei. Your wife is a strong woman. She seemed to have faith in her
ability to achieve her mission. You, too, should have faith.”

“I do,” he said, not quite sure if he believed this. “And yet I fear the dark god’s vengeance. I fear the choices that lie before me. As king, there is a path I wish to follow, a path of compromise, of conciliation. My love for the gods is sure and unwavering. That will never falter, not in all the nights and days I walk this earth.
I intend to
keep the ancient ways strong in Fortriu. But I must also rule with a view to political change, Fola. There are powers at work all around us: a new king in Circinn; a precarious peace in Dalriada; the mysterious and changeable influence of the Caitt. I do not forget the Uí Néill chieftains, full of ambition and only a day or so’s sailing from our western shores. I cannot take a strong
and wise path forward for Fortriu if I am constantly fettered by fear for my loved ones; by terror of the darkness that resides within me, and within any man who walks the lands of the Priteni. The Nameless God is part of us all. We cannot escape him. Tonight, all I want to do is stay here in this chamber, holding my daughter and hoping Tuala and Derelei will walk in the door, safe and sound. I
do not want to speak to Keother or to these missionary Christians. I don’t even want to see Tharan and Aniel, staunch supporters though they have been. Tonight, I am not much of a king.”

“And me?” she asked wryly.

Bridei smiled at her. “For being here to watch over my daughter, I can never thank you enough,” he said. “I hope you know you are always welcome with Tuala and me. I was going to say
you are like a mother to us, but I know you would dismiss that. It’s not quite right, anyway. You are both respected teacher and beloved friend. Your wisdom and honesty help keep us on a straight path.”

Fola said quietly, “I’m not sure I merit such praise, but it warms me. In my turn, I would tell you that it is at times such as this, when you feel wrenched apart and helpless, that you discover
what it means to be a king. You are a king to your very core, Bridei, strong of heart, wise and brave. And human. That’s part of what makes you so good at the job. Now it’s time for you to go. If it will reassure you, I will fetch out Tuala’s scrying bowl once the baby’s been settled for the night and see what the gods can tell me. You know, of course, that they may have ill visions for us, or
none at all.”

“I know.” He transferred the drowsy Anfreda to the
wise woman’s arms. “Thank you, I would welcome that.”

“I can do it soon enough. This one’s due to be fed shortly, then I’ll let Tresna go to her supper. I may have some wisdom for you before you sleep.” Her tone was full of compassion; she had known Bridei since he was a lad of twelve.

“I won’t sleep, not tonight. Not with the
two of them in peril. Eile, too. I intend to keep a vigil. To pray.”

“Alone?”

“My men are exhausted. You must stay here; Broichan is gone. Yes, alone.”

“Bridei, do you credit this tale of Eile, which seems more plausible as time passes? Do you believe she would do such a terrible thing out of zeal for a cause, or from desperation?”

Bridei shook his head. “I know circumstances drive folk to
extremes. But there is one aspect of that story I cannot believe: that Eile would go away and willingly leave her daughter behind. The bond between them is iron-strong. The truth does not lie in this tale of kidnap but elsewhere. Besides, I have unshakable faith in Faolan’s good judgment. I know Tuala would agree with me.”

“As do I. Once or twice in my life I’ve encountered a soul who is good
through and through; such folk shine like lamps in a morass of doubt and uncertainty. Eile is one such individual. In time, I suspect her daughter will become another. Your Faolan is a fortunate man.”

“That’s if he finds her,” said Bridei grimly.

T
HE MEETING WAS
awkward. Keother, weary after the day’s search, was quieter than usual. He greeted Colm with deference
and answered the cleric’s queries as to the state of the monastic settlements in the Light Isles, a topic Bridei had hoped would not be aired until the formal audience. Colm was an impressive man, perhaps
forty years of age, tall, ascetic in appearance, with the unmistakable stamp of his Uí Néill breeding, the eyes bold, the nose jutting, the jaw firm. The high frontal tonsure served to emphasise
the Gael’s strong, domed brow. His innate authority was clear in his every gesture. His voice was somehow both stern and beguiling, a powerful tool of influence.