A Dance with Fate

by Juliet Marillier

  “I’m Fionn. Head farrier. Mongan’s away today. He’s our stable master, a good man, very fair in his dealings.”

  “I’m Padraig. Like the saint. And he’s Caol. And the fellow with the dark hair is Torcan.”

  “A fine warrior name,” I said, grinning at Torcan, who was tall and straight as a young oak. “Means wild boar, doesn’t it?”

  The young man smiled. “They’re saying you’re a fighter. Is that true?”

  “Not right now. If you’ve heard what I was, then you’ll have heard what I am now and why I’m here digging drains instead of cleaving enemy skulls. But yes, I am a fighter. Don’t say it’s an unusual profession for a girl or I might feel tempted to give you a demonstration.”

  They laughed, which was good. I wasn’t even supposed to be talking to them, let alone showing off my combat moves.

  “I’d better get back to work now.” I’d demolished the food with extreme speed. “I’m not meant to be up here.”

  “You wouldn’t have lasted long on an empty stomach and no fresh water,” observed Fionn. “That was a hard morning’s work. You dig as strongly as any man.”

  “My father taught me. Thank you for the food and for your kindness. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  “You’ve got to eat,” Fionn said. “I’ll see if Mongan will have a word with Berrach, make some kind of arrangement for you. Breakfast with us up here, a bite to eat in the middle of the day. We take supper in the hall with the household.”

  “Mm.” I got to my feet. “I shouldn’t think bond servants take supper in the hall. Can you tell me what Berrach’s position is in the household? Who else answers to him?”

  The farrier looked surprised. “He’s one of Master Seanan’s men. Does whatever Master Seanan needs him to do. Didn’t he explain?”

  “No.” Maybe Lord Scannal didn’t know I was down here living with the stink and the insects. Could that be? “Fionn, please don’t take any risks on my behalf. None of you should do that. Easier for all if I just do as I’m told.” It was hard to say that, true as it was. A kind word, a simple meal, a bit of friendly company can make a person long for more.

  “Leave it to me,” Fionn said. “Now, sure you’re all right? Looked like you were going to pass out for a while there.”

  “I’m fine now, thank you. I must get back to work.” I picked up the pail of water they’d brought me, bestowed a general smile, and headed off back to the hut. Behind me they were quiet. But I felt their gaze. I felt their thoughts, full of things that could not be said, full of opinions too dangerous to speak aloud. What a place to work. What a place to live. No wonder it drove Dau half-crazy.

  Somehow, Fionn and the stable master, Mongan, worked magic for me. I’m allowed to walk up to the stables in the mornings and share the food that’s provided for the workers there. That feels a little weird, because on our last mission Dau played the part of a farrier’s assistant. And he had to pretend he was mute. I keep thinking of that and thinking of him. I haven’t seen him at all. I don’t know where he is and I can’t ask. I suppose he eats supper in the great hall with Lord Scannal and his circle, enduring the company of his awful brothers. I don’t know if he has a healer to look after him. I don’t know if that person has any idea of what preparations Fergus and Jabir were using. I don’t know if Dau’s all right. The fellows from the stables bring me food every evening after supper, leftover bits and pieces from their own platters, and I could ask them if they’ve seen him. But I don’t. I want to know and I don’t want to.

  For now, the best thing I can do for Dau is keep my head down and work hard. I’ve seen almost nothing of his father and brothers, though they must visit the stables from time to time. That suits me just fine. If they think working hard and getting filthy will dent my spirits, they think wrong. I want to be busy. I want to stretch my body and stay strong. Right now, what I’d like to do is climb a particular tree that stands close to the stone wall encircling Lord Scannal’s stronghold. From up there I can get a better look at the woodland in the middle distance. I wish I’d studied a map before we left the Barn. Archu said this place was almost as far south as Breifne, only further east. I don’t know how big Eirne’s forest is—the forest that conceals a certain portal to the Otherworld—but I wonder if what I see is the far eastern edge of that same forest. Is that possible? It would have to be huge. But then, uncanny folk and places are changeable. Even time is unreliable in that realm. I know many tales in which someone wanders into the Otherworld and has a fine old time for a few days, then goes home to find a hundred years have passed and everyone they know is dead. Or the other way around, which would be even stranger. So maybe, in a place full of magic, a forest can shrink or grow in size to fit the circumstances.

  I won’t get the view I want unless I climb almost to the top. I have a strong urge to climb. There are no trees on Swan Island. If they dare to shoot up, the wind soon beats them down and the salt spray finishes them off. Our climbing practice takes place on cliffs high above the crashing waves, at first with ropes and later without. I miss the thrill of it. But climbing this particular tree could get me into big trouble. I’ve been lucky so far, despite getting smacked in the face by Dau’s brother and ending up living in a swamp. People have been kind to me. I don’t want to risk that. On the other hand, if I do climb up, not only might I catch a good view of the forest, I might also get a glimpse of Dau with whoever is looking after him. The weather’s good, and they must take him outdoors sometimes. He’d insist on it, wouldn’t he?

  Ah. There’s a party of folk on horseback, heading for the gates. I see Seanan, with a substantial escort of guards. That settles it. There’s nobody much about at the swampy end of the holding, and the work I was allocated for the day is done. I don’t let myself think too hard. Instead I practice something they taught us on Swan Island, which is how to cross open ground with stealth. You use everything you can: shadows, small bushes, crumbling drystone walls. You watch everywhere and choose your moment for each dash from one place of half concealment to the next. You keep your footfalls quiet, because if you happen to startle a wandering sheep or duck, the noise they make will draw attention.

  The tree is a magnificent ash. The late spring foliage should provide good cover as I go up. I’m surprised the tree has survived so well in this damp spot. Maybe the drainage problem is of recent times only. I can’t imagine there’s a lack of funds to do these things properly. Is Lord Scannal neglecting his responsibilities? Or does he simply not care? Judging from what Dau told me, his father either chose to ignore the older brothers’ persecution of the youngest, or truly believed the whole thing was Dau’s fault. Either way, Lord Scannal apparently took no steps to find out the truth. Perhaps he’s lazy. Perhaps he doesn’t like conflict. Perhaps, when the letter came from Swan Island telling him his son was blind, all he thought was, Oh, God, another problem to deal with. I may never get the opportunity to find out. I haven’t been called to speak to Lord Scannal or to any figure of authority other than Berrach.

  I climb as high as I can in the ash tree. I find a secure perch that allows good views. The stone wall lies below me, but there will be no leaping over this one; it’s about three times my height and there’s no corresponding tree on the far side, so unless I could do something with a rope—which would be too visible anyway—an attempt would end in broken bones or worse. Sorry, Dau, I think, remembering how he took a risk to help me escape another fortress in pursuit of justice. That won’t be happening here.

  I turn to look toward Lord Scannal’s establishment with its tower—there’s a blue banner flying there, with the sword emblem I saw on Seanan’s tunic—and the substantial buildings around it. There are gardens at the far end, sheltered by low drystone walls. I see a couple of folk working there, a man digging, a woman with a basket over her arm, harvesting something. I wonder if there’s a stillroom. If so, it would probably be nearby, since that shelt
ered garden is the obvious place to grow herbs. And might not an invalid be housed conveniently close?

  I’m tempted to go over there and see for myself. I bet I could do it without being spotted. No, Liobhan. Keep your head down. I look back the other way, toward the tract of forest just visible where the farmlands end and the terrain rises more steeply. Even supposing I could get out of here, even supposing I was foolish enough to try, that would be a longish walk. Not something I could do without being missed.

  I’m about to start my descent when a tiny bird flies in to alight on the branch next to my hand. The forest may not look familiar, but this little creature does. It’s finch-sized, but not a finch or a wren or any sort of bird I can name. It’s just like the ones I saw at Mistress Juniper’s cottage, and again in Eirne’s realm. An Otherworld bird. A messenger.

  I clear my throat, wondering if I can use the creature the way Eirne’s folk do, the way the remarkable wisewoman, Mistress Juniper, does. Can this creature read my thoughts? Does it report back on what it sees? Or can I speak to it as I might to a human messenger?

  The bird chirrups, a delicate upward statement. So? Its feathers are of many shades of blue, with here and there a touch of gold. I imagine its picture in an illuminated manuscript, something old and rare.

  “Please tell my brother I love him and I miss him, and I hope all’s well with him and with Eirne’s folk,” I say quietly, wondering if I’ve chosen some perfectly ordinary bird to talk to. I think not; this one is perched barely a handspan from me but stays perfectly calm. It puts its head on one side, as if in question.

  “Please tell him I hope he is still singing and playing.”

  The tiny one seems to be waiting for more. It burbles a miniature cascade of notes. Looks at me, bright-eyed. Can it be requesting a song? Nothing springs to mind. I’ll have to do what Brocc does and make it up as I go along, the way I did the night Dau woke me with his screams.

  With your voice so pure and high

  You sing the moon across the sky

  You sing of joy, you sing of pain

  Of loved ones we won’t see again

  Of courage, faith, new lives begun

  You sing the rising of the sun

  Sky’s messenger, with your sweet call

  You bring down blessings on us all.

  It’s the best I can do on short notice. The bird seems happy enough. It warbles a response, then lifts its wings and flies off. I watch until it is too far away to see. It’s heading toward those woods. So that might be Eirne’s forest. Whether the creature can pass the message on to my brother, who knows, but at least I’ve tried. And I’ve sung a song, which feels remarkably good, even if my creation was no masterpiece. I can improve both verse and melody. It’ll give me something to do during the long evenings when I’m sitting alone in the hut. Who knows, when I go back to Swan Island I might have tripled my repertory. It will be good to sing for the community there again; to play the whistle while Archu drums, to hear the voices of my comrades.

  I hear a voice now and I’m suddenly reminded that I’ve broken the rules. Berrach’s down there shouting my name, and I have no choice but to climb down—the last bit is more of a scramble—and front up to him. An explanation is on my lips, but he doesn’t wait for it. I get a slap on the left cheek, and I have to clench my fists tight to stop myself from hitting back. I know I could knock him down. He’s on his own. But it’s not worth getting in trouble for this.

  “Explain yourself!” Berrach demands.

  “I’ve finished chopping and stacking the wood, which was my task for the day.” I stand very still, resisting the urge to put a hand up to my face, which is stinging. “I wanted some fresh air. Up there, the stink from the cesspool is not so bad.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  “No, Master Berrach. Just stating facts.”

  “Your orders are simple enough. You stay where you’re working or at the hut. You want to be locked up again? No? I thought not. Master Seanan doesn’t want you nosing about. He’ll be notified of this episode.”

  “Yes, Master Berrach. By all means inform Master Seanan that I was sitting quietly in a tree minding my own business, with all my work completed.”

  “Don’t speak to me in that tone, girl! You may have won yourself some privileges, thanks to whatever unsavory sort of trade you’ve set up with the fellows in the stables, but when you’re at work you follow my orders, understand?”

  “Yes, Master Berrach.” I wonder if he’s afraid of Seanan? Perhaps he’s experienced the man’s dark side, as Dau did. If I step out of line, maybe I’m not the only one who’ll be punished. I’d hate to bring down Seanan’s wrath on Fionn and the stable crew.

  “Lord Scannal’s got enough to worry about without you causing strife,” Berrach says now. “Keep to yourself, do as you’re ordered, and get your nose out of other folk’s business.”

  There it is again, the suggestion that I’m spying. I don’t know what he means about Lord Scannal, and I can’t ask. “Yes, Master Berrach.” This time I can’t keep the exasperated sigh out of my voice.

  “I don’t like your manner,” Berrach snaps. “I don’t care what you were before. Here you’re a servant, and if you forget that, you risk a beating or worse. It seems you find yourself short of work today. There are some fellows mending a wall down by the horse field. You can go and carry stones for them. Other side of the barn, down the track between the apple trees. Tell the man in charge that I sent you. You’re to work until that crew stops for the day. Don’t try to weasel your way out of it. I’ll know.”

  I’d heave stones anytime rather than listen to this bollocks. If I stay here much longer I won’t be able to resist the urge to hit him. As for a beating, just let him try. “Yes, Master Berrach.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I got used to spying when we were on our mission. I wasn’t great at it, but I did learn to get information out of people without seeming too curious. There are two things I want to know. One, where is Dau and is he all right? Two, what’s worrying Lord Scannal, beyond his least favorite son coming home blind? Seems to me he’ll be viewing that as no more than a minor nuisance, especially with that hefty payment in silver. Do they see anything of the Crow Folk this far east? Stock losses, random attacks, folk too frightened to go out of doors? If that’s the same forest, I’d think the pestilent creatures would be found on all sides. But nobody’s mentioned them to me.

  The wall crew consists of three men, and at first they’re not delighted to see me. But it doesn’t take long before the one in charge, Niall, realizes that I can work as hard as his two assistants, so he tells me what to do and we all get on with it. It’s heavy work, and I’ve already spent the morning cutting and hauling firewood, but I’m strong and I’m used to keeping going even when I’m tired. Swan Island training does that.

  It helps that I’ve done this job before. My father was sometimes called to help with drystone walls, both building and repairing, and he taught me how to lay the stones to keep the thing strong and even. The four of us work well as a team. For a while I set aside my worries and enjoy the rhythm of the job.

  Niall is a better taskmaster than Berrach. When we’ve done a bit more than half of the repair job, he tells us to stop and rest for a while. We sit around and Niall unwraps a parcel of bread and mutton, which it seems we’re all going to share. I don’t have my own knife, so he cuts a portion off for me and hands it over. Someone lends me a cup; Niall has also brought ale in a stoppered jug.

  “You’re a good worker,” one of the lads observes. He doesn’t add, for a woman.

  “My father taught me to mend walls.” Gods, this food is wonderful. I try not to wolf it down. “And dig drains. Never thought I’d be doing both.”

  “Must be hard for you,” says Niall. “Being here like this. They say you were a fighter, before.”

/>   “Mm-hm.” I won’t talk about Swan Island. “Harder for Dau. Master Dau, that is.”

  There’s a brief silence. Then, “Couldn’t say,” mumbles one of the lads.

  “I just thought . . . because he’s a fighter, too, and he’s come home hurt . . .” I can’t push this any further.

  “Must be bad,” says the other lad. “Corb said—”

  “Hush,” says Niall, frowning, and there’s silence from the helpers.

  “Who is Corb?” I ask.

  “Never mind that.” Niall speaks without quite meeting my eye. “We do our work, we mind our own business.”

  The rest of us mutter agreement. I should have known better than to mention Dau. That’s perilous ground. I’ve got to let it go and hope I happen to find him, or happen to hear something useful without needing to ask. Gods, this year is going to be long. At least there’s work to do. At least my fellow workers treat me like an equal and not the scum of the earth.

  It feels wrong to turn my back on a comrade. It feels so wrong.

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