Dreamer's Pool

by Juliet Marillier

  I wait a bit, then say, ‘You didn’t want to go on without them. Better to die than live with the pain.’ Makes perfect sense to me.

  ‘After a while the screaming stopped, and all I could hear was the fire. And Mathuin’s guards laughing together, watching it burn.’

  ‘Why? Why would he do that?’

  She grimaces. ‘Cass was a scribe. A scholar, but not the quiet kind. Outspoken. Someone wrote a letter listing a few of the injustices of Mathuin’s rule. Suggesting it was time for a challenge. It went out to judges, lawmen, village elders, influential neighbours. Even to the High King. Word came to Mathuin that Cass had made the copies. This was his punishment.’

  Black Crow save us. ‘How old was your little boy?’

  ‘Brennan was nearly two. He wanted to come with me that day, and I said no, stay home with your father, because the old woman had a wound full of ill humours and I didn’t want my baby near it. If I’d taken him with me he’d still be alive. He’d be fourteen by now. Almost a man.’ Her voice is shaky. As for me, I’ve got tears in my eyes, big fellow that I am.

  ‘He’s with his dad,’ I say. ‘Waiting for you. Watching you, seeing how brave you are, what a fighter. Feeling proud.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you believe that, Grim. That the dead live on, somehow.’

  I can’t lie to her; I know she can see right through me. ‘I do sometimes. It helps. Hope, you know? Something to hold on to. What did you do, after?’

  ‘There wasn’t much left to bury,’ she says. ‘When it was done I picked up my healer’s bag and walked away. Out of the village, out of Laois, as far as I could get. I was small fry to Mathuin. I doubt he even knew the troublesome scholar had a family. I went south. Had some dark years. Dreamed of them every night, my gentle Cass, my sweet Brennan, screaming in the flames. My baby calling out for his mama and wondering why she didn’t come.’

  No point in saying it wasn’t her doing. No point in telling her she couldn’t have helped them any more than she could have put out today’s fire all on her own. This is a burden she’s carried a long time, and she won’t ever be putting it down. ‘But you went back,’ I say. ‘Back to Laois and back to Mathuin.’

  ‘Fool that I am, yes, I went back. Heard from some travellers that he was still chieftain, the challenge hadn’t happened, or hadn’t succeeded. Heard he was still hurting folk, women in particular, and nobody was brave enough to stand up to him. You know what happened after that. I ended up in that place, with you to stare at through the bars. Hungry for justice. Eaten up with wanting that man to pay for what he did.’ There’s quiet for a bit, and then she says, ‘He didn’t know. That I was Cass’s wife. I came back to Laois with a different name, a different look, older, worn down. And I never went back to my home village. Never will. I can be brave sometimes, but I’m not brave enough for that.’ Another silence. ‘Makes me wonder if Mathuin had found out who I was. That day, I mean, when Slammer came to tell me I wasn’t going to the council after all.’

  ‘Mm. Be risky to go back, then.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me Conmael’s in the right?’

  ‘Nah. Don’t care for the fellow. But he’s not wrong either. If you went, you’d be a marked woman. Not much point in rushing back just to get yourself killed.’

  ‘I can’t do it!’ This bursts out of her; she’s got her fists clenched and it sounds as if she’s got her teeth clenched too. ‘Seven poxy years! I can’t wait that long, I can’t!’ She bends forward and beats at her head with her fists, rocking back and forward.

  ‘Blackthorn.’ I keep it quiet, low, like I’m talking to a creature that’s had a fright. ‘You can. You can wait. You can be brave. I know you can.’ I can hear her breathing, quick and raspy, like she might cry again. ‘If he says seven years, maybe that’s how long it needs to take. To put things right. To get things straight. What do you think?’

  ‘I think I tell a rotten bedtime story,’ she says. ‘Your turn tomorrow night, and I’ll be expecting a good one.’

  ‘Do my best.’ It’s over, I hear it in her voice; she won’t be talking about it anymore.

  ‘Grim.’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Never told anyone. Only you. Keep it to yourself, right?’

  I’m stunned. Me. She told me. ‘Wouldn’t tell a soul.’

  24

  ~BLACKTHORN~

  Living in the smith’s house drove me to distraction. If it hadn’t been well into autumn I would have packed up and gone back out to the wood. The outhouse was still standing; Grim had slept in there when we first came, and I could have done the same. On the other hand, Grim found it hard to sleep if I wasn’t close by, and the outhouse didn’t have room for two.

  I could have gone south, of course. Abandoned my promise to Conmael and headed off in pursuit of Mathuin. If I’d thought for a moment that the rage inside me was lessening with time, the fire at the cottage had proved me wrong. Telling my story had sharpened the pain and whipped up my urge for vengeance. But I wasn’t entirely devoid of common sense. Soon it would be winter. It was a long way to Laois. Try it now and if I didn’t end up dead, I’d probably find myself locked up in that cesspit again, and this time Conmael wouldn’t come tapping on the door offering me a reprieve.

  Besides, I wanted to be here when Branoc faced justice. And, like it or not, I was wise woman and healer to both Winterfalls and Silverlake. Ness would need me at least until she recovered from her physical injuries, and perhaps far longer, for the time of darkness and terror had marked her deep. Emer could help with that part of it. There was no doubting the healing power of a loyal friend. Whether that would be enough, only time would tell.

  So I put up with living cheek by jowl with Fraoch’s family. It was easier for Grim. If he wasn’t over at the cottage rebuilding, which he was whenever the weather was dry enough, he was helping folk with other jobs, paying them back for the supplies they’d given us or the work they were doing at our place. Because this time he wasn’t doing the fixing up all by himself. Folk wouldn’t let him. Seemed we’d won respect for ourselves, goodwill, which was funny seeing as we were only at Winterfalls because of Conmael and his poxy agreement. We only saw Grim at the smith’s to eat and sleep. As for the sleeping arrangements themselves, I cared little for what folk might think he and I were to each other. I told Fraoch’s mother, Ornait, that one chamber was fine for the two of us, provided we had a bed each.

  Instead of waiting for folk to come to me, I went out to tend to them. All the remedies I’d prepared since we came to the cottage, all the herbs I’d dried and ground and stored, all my equipment and materials had been destroyed in the fire. I walked out to the wood to gather what was in season. Ornait gave me a corner to work in and I made a small store of salves, lotions and tinctures. I tried to keep busy all day so I wouldn’t have to talk to folk. Grim was a lot better at mingling with people than I was.

  One person I could not avoid talking to was the king’s man, Donagan. He rode down to Fraoch’s one morning and asked for me. Ornait brought him into the kitchen, where I was wrist deep in the preparation of a poultice, and I had no choice but to be civil, especially as Ornait seemed to think his visit was an honour – she fetched a jug of her best mead, two cups, and a platter of barley bread, then took herself off and left me to it.

  ‘I can’t leave this in the middle,’ I said, glancing at Donagan, who had seated himself at the table as if quite at home. ‘If I stop mixing, I’ll have to start again with fresh herbs, and supplies are limited right now.’

  ‘Go on, please.’ Donagan poured mead into the cups and pushed one in my general direction. ‘You seem to be managing well despite the setback, Mistress Blackthorn. In fact, that is why I’ve come to talk to you. There must have been a great deal of equipment lost in the fire, as well as all your personal things. If you can give me a list, Prince Oran will arrange to have the tools of your trade replaced at his
expense. He considers your presence at Winterfalls an asset to the community. He believes the fire occurred because of a failing by that community. Therefore he will take responsibility for making good your losses.’

  I stared at him, fighting the urge to tell him no thanks, I didn’t want help from princes and their like, and as for my losses, there would be no making those good, ever. I held back the words. ‘Sharp knives in different sizes. A bone saw. Some strong fine cord. A set of surgical instruments.’ I wondered where on earth they’d get those, then remembered there would be court physicians at Cahercorcan. ‘Everything else can be improvised without too much difficulty, though if there’s a stillroom at court with a good store of dried herbs and spices, a few bags of the most essential items wouldn’t go amiss. The healers there will know what they are. Some things, I won’t be able to gather until spring or summer.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ Donagan said. He drank his mead and watched me. ‘What about your personal belongings? Clothing, household goods and the like?’

  ‘We didn’t have much. Later on, when the cottage is fixed, we might need some bits and pieces.’ It was hard to think which would be more uncomfortable, being obliged to Prince Oran or to Conmael. Fey folk being what they were, quite likely a snap of the fingers would bring Conmael here; a second snap might furnish our little house with every comfort. A third might restore the garden Grim had made with such painstaking care. ‘We’ll work to earn those things,’ I said.

  A few days later a box came containing every item on my list. Nothing left out. And a few extra things put in: bags of herbs and powders, bottled oils and neatly labelled spice vials. I was forced to concede that Prince Oran might be a better man than others of his kind. Of course, this might be largely Donagan’s doing.

  The open council drew closer. We were expecting Emer back from Silverlake in time for it. She needed to stand up and tell her story, and so did I. When the prospect of being in the prince’s hall among a big crowd of folk set my belly churning with unease, I reminded myself that Emer was fifteen years old, and that the very least I could do was stand by her and show her an example. We would see how just and fair Prince Oran was when really put to the test. I knew one thing: if he failed to dispense true justice where Branoc was concerned, Grim and I would be doing it for him.

  The day of the council came. We joined a long line of people waiting to go into the prince’s house. The main dwelling was a sprawling stone structure with a strange little tower. A spread of wattle-and-mud buildings surrounded it, and around all of this the wall was high; too high to admit casual entry. There were guards on the gate. We gave our names, then walked through with Emer between us. She was pale, I felt sick, and as for Grim, he was exchanging smiles and nods with one villager after another, almost as if he was enjoying himself. How could he be so calm? Didn’t every single thing about this remind him of Laois, of Mathuin, of that place? I could smell the stink of it now, feel the cruel hands on my body, hear the screams of pain and the silence of utter humiliation.

  ‘All right?’ murmured Grim.

  ‘No. But I’ll cope.’ I had to, for Emer. And for Ness, whose voice we were today.

  We were ushered into a grand hall, where benches were set ready for the hearing. The place filled up fast. Some folk I knew quite well – those who had made use of my services for themselves or their close kin – and some I knew a little. But many were complete strangers, for the council drew in people not only from Winterfalls and Silverlake, but from a much wider area that apparently lay under the prince’s jurisdiction.

  The place was so crowded, it looked as if some folk would need to stand at the back. I was about to suggest to Grim that we do so when Donagan called out from the dais at the front.

  ‘Anyone who’s going to get up and speak, down here in the front row! Let them through, please.’

  We moved forward – Grim was big enough to make a path through any crowd – and sat on the front bench. The place was full of chattering people. I tried to unclench my jaw, to relax my tight body, to turn my angry fists into polite, folded hands. Emer had her arms hugged around her, under her shawl.

  Close by us sat a group of well-dressed women, and among them I recognised some faces from that day at Dreamer’s Wood, when the maid had drowned. Two of these had been among Lady Flidais’s attendants who had come with her to my cottage: the kindly spoken one with dark hair, who nodded and smiled at me now, and beside her the grey-haired one. And there was the little dog that had bitten its mistress’s hand. Not with Lady Flidais now, but curled up on the knee of a formidable-looking older woman in a fur-trimmed cape. This personage subjected me to a thorough scrutiny; I met her gaze with as much calm as I could summon. I wanted to go home. Not to Fraoch’s, but to the cottage as it had been before the fire. Or, failing that, out into the woods to wander again. In this grand establishment I was like a crow among songbirds, shut in, out of place, dangerous.

  There was a long table set crosswise on the dais, with a bench behind it. Donagan motioned to a serving man, who opened a door to one side. No trumpet fanfare, no bowing and scraping. Only a fellow with a loud voice, walking in and calling out, ‘Prince Oran of Dalriada, and Lady Flidais!’

  Everyone stood up, so we did too, and Prince Oran and his modest entourage came in to take their places at the table. The official party consisted of the prince, the lady, who was clad in a flowing garment of soft blue with her hair covered by a veil, two men in long robes, and a stocky fellow of middle years, wearing a tunic that matched those of the prince’s guards, deep green with an oak tree embroidered on the breast. Donagan placed himself at the far end of the table. An attendant trailed Lady Flidais: the tall waiting woman from that day at Dreamer’s Wood. She stood behind her mistress. More guards had entered with them, but not as many as I would have expected. If I had things right, Oran was primary heir to the Dalriadan throne. It surprised me that he was prepared to let a crowd of folk like us come so close. I could have picked him off with a well-thrown knife before any of those guards could stop me.

  ‘Welcome, all.’ Prince Oran spoke with firm authority, but there was a warmth in his tone as he looked out over the packed hall. Either he was well practised at putting folk at ease, or he actually enjoyed mingling with his subjects. Of course, folk would know that the case against Branoc was to be heard at today’s council; no wonder they’d come here in droves. ‘I am pleased to see so many of you here today. We have one particularly serious matter to deal with at this council, as I’m sure most of you know. And there are various other disputes to settle. I’m sure you will join me in welcoming Lady Flidais to her first open council.’ He glanced at his betrothed; she kept her eyes down. The lady didn’t look comfortable. Perhaps they had argued. Perhaps she was missing home; regretting that she had agreed to wed sight unseen. Though she might have done worse. At least the prince was young and healthy. And some women liked that fine-boned, soft-mouthed type.

  ‘Today we have with us two distinguished visitors,’ the prince went on, ‘men of the law who will provide expert advice. They will ensure that all parties are given adequate opportunity to present their arguments. Master Cael, Master Tassach, we welcome you.’ He nodded toward the robed men, who inclined their heads gravely. Sharp-featured Master Cael had something of the same look as that woman with the dog on her knee; both he and she, I suspected, were folk of acute intelligence. The other lawman, Master Tassach, was more portly in build, with a jovial manner. I wondered if he was one of those people who put folk off their guard by looking harmless, then pounced when they least expected. Lawmen could be like that.

  ‘Aedan, we’re ready to begin,’ the prince said, and seated himself. The chamber rustled as the rest of us did the same.

  ‘Might be a long day,’ murmured Grim. ‘Sure you’re all right?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Stupid answer; there were a hundred reasons. ‘Emer, are you all right?’

&nbs
p; ‘Mm.’

  The green-clad man – Aedan – called the crowd to order, and the noise died down. He called forward a pair of farmers; the prince spoke about a dispute over the placement of a dry-stone wall. It surprised me that he was able to outline the issue in such detail; I would have expected one of his underlings, Donagan or perhaps the steward, to perform that task. And the prince wasn’t reading; he was speaking without reference to any documentation, though a scribe sat at a smaller table, making a record of the proceedings. The lawmen listened without comment.

  There was some discussion. The two fellows set out their arguments, which had to do with rights of way and wandering cattle. My mind was wandering too, away from a matter that was of little interest to me and back to the past, where I didn’t want it to go. A hearing in front of Mathuin, chieftain of Laois. My hands bound behind my back, as if they believed I might leap forward and strangle the man even with guards on either side of me. My gut churning with hate as I looked my enemy in the face and thought, How can he not see the truth in my eyes? How can he not know that the day he killed my dear ones, he ripped out my heart?

  The prince was saying something about putting in another gate. Grim leaned forward, looking at me across Emer. His brows went up as if to ask again if I was all right. I managed a stiff nod. He may once have been known as Bonehead, but Grim was remarkably quick to notice things. It was a wisdom that had nothing to do with book learning, but came from much deeper down. It made me uncomfortable. It made me wish I hadn’t told him my story.

  The two farmers had agreed to what the prince proposed. They clasped hands, clapped each other on the shoulder, then returned to their seats. Aedan called up the next pair to be heard.

  Another farmer – Brocc – gave an account of how three of his best breeding ewes had been attacked and mauled at dusk, only two days ago. He accused a neighbour – Cliona – of letting her dogs stray onto his fields. Cliona swore that her dogs were always kennelled before dusk, and that they could not have been responsible for the losses. It seemed nobody had actually seen the attack take place. Brocc had stumbled upon the dead and injured animals later.