Bledig glared at Sobol, considering his own revenge. But, this was not his fight. He turned his eyes to look long into Odwain’s, peering hard at what lay inside this subtle man. Odwain met his gaze with a dark, quiet stare. Within the young warrior, Bledig saw a sleepy beast — slow to rage but ruthless when roused, and coldheartedly brutal when it came down to the kill. Despite the gesture of respect in leaving judgment to Bledig, Sobol’s fate was fixed. One way or another, Odwain would have his blood. And Bledig approved.
He gave Odwain a slight nod and turned his back on Sobol. None among his men objected. When it came to Bledig’s family, especially his daughter, there would be no leniency, and they all knew it. Sobol’s bold affront infuriated him, as much for the lack of respect it revealed as for the assault on Eirlys.
Bledig paused long enough to hear Sobol’s muffled groan as Odwain’s boot crushed his windpipe. Retribution then staked its claim with a startling snap and crack as Sobol’s ribcage splintered and caved beneath the force of Odwain’s blade. Bledig strode away, satisfied that honor and authority had been served.
“Sobol was a fool,” Rhys said quietly. “Had it not been Odwain’s vengeance, it would have been yours, or mine.”
“Yes. Sure and quick.” Bledig stopped short and turned to Rhys. “Give him time to settle down and then bring him to me.”
“Odwain puts himself to the test,” Rhys grinned. “I like him better and better.”
Bledig began to feel well and truly satisfied with his daughter’s man. Hard to see, though, how Odwain and Fergus could be cut from the same cloth.
Just beyond the ring, Fergus glowered in his path. “Barbarian justice?”
Bledig grunted. “Odwain might have spared him, MacDonagh, but only to suffer him sniffing after his woman again some other day. It would come to this eventually.” He shoved past Fergus. “Perhaps I should have saved myself the same trouble when I had the chance.”
“I could say the same of you, Wolf King.”
Bledig stopped short and turned to face Fergus with cold regard. His affection for Alwen was such a poorly kept secret that Bledig never could escape the nagging suspicion that Fergus was ever waiting for his chance. “Tell me, then, old man, what keeps you from gutting me?”
Fergus glared at him. “I wish I knew.”
“So instead you dog my heels and sleep in my shadow. To keep me honest and true, for her sake?” Bledig laughed dryly. “Or is it to be sure she never hears how savage a civilized man can be?”
Fergus stepped up to him. “To hell with you.”
Bledig nodded and edged closer. Close enough to see the hatred on Fergus’s face. “Yes, MacDonagh. To hell with us both.”
Fergus had no quick quip in reply to that. To be fair, the whole business shamed Bledig as well, though he had garnered the better part of the deal. Duty had its price, and Fergus was forced to barter Alwen’s chastity away in return for Bledig’s silence and protection. When Bledig and his cohorts had come upon the strangers camped in the Frisian wilds, his first thoughts had been mercenary. His second thought had been carnal, and Fergus had quickly realized which option was the lesser evil. MacDonagh had spilled all his secrets, and Bledig had been intrigued. In the end, he’d agreed to provide escort to Norvik and to keep quiet about what he knew in exchange for the woman, or at least one night with her. As things had turned out, she had wanted him. But had she not, he’d have taken her anyway, and this was Bledig’s disgrace.
It was a desperate gamble that, in the end, had favored them all. And by the grace of all the gods everywhere, Alwen had never asked what bargain Fergus and Bledig had struck. While on every other matter they stood at loggerheads, on this they had pledged a truce. Her dignity need never be tarnished by the knowledge of the baseness between men.
Bledig knew, though, that the lasting trouble between the two of them was the unspoken truth Fergus held in his heart. He’d wanted Alwen for himself.
“Rhys has gone to fetch Odwain back to my camp. You can join us, if you like,” Bledig offered. It was time to talk of weddings. “Bring your brother along.”
Fergus seemed befuddled at first, not sure what to make of the invitation. It occurred to Bledig then that Fergus had no knowledge of Odwain’s intentions. “Come now, MacDonagh. I’ll furnish the wine. It’s high time we made peace.”
“Well,” Fergus hedged, “I suppose there’s no sense in letting good wine go to waste.”
While Fergus went off in search of his brother, Bledig returned to camp. He found it just where he’d left it, though it was quieter now without Rhys. Bledig lowered himself to sit beside the neglected coals and poked at the smoldering embers with a birch twig to stir the life back into the fire.
Bledig searched the ground for the abandoned wineskin, more than relieved to find it still bloated. He popped the cork and squeezed the spirits into his mouth. It was the burn of good, strong drink that stung his eyes, of course. Not the loneliness he felt.
It wasn’t as though he hadn’t expected this. Still, he’d held on to the illusion that Alwen had been content with him all these years. A wild daydream that was, he chuckled to himself. More so today than ever before, he’d say, what with the fire of a cause alive in her eyes. As much as it pleased him to see her so full of purpose and intent, it also nearly broke his heart. Eirlys was every bit as grown as Rhys and just as ready to make her own way, and Alwen had finally been called to face her fate. In the end, Bledig knew they would all leave him. It was all in the whim of the winds and the tug of the tides. Nature had its own plan. But had Bledig any command at all over the circle of life, he’d keep them all close, forever.
“Here’s your ‘volchok’,” Rhys announced. He flopped to the ground while a stern and far too gloomy Odwain stood stiffly in the shadows.
Bledig waved him forward. “Sit and drink with me. With us.”
He waited awhile for the boy to wrestle his emotions, knowing well the bittersweet struggle between revenge and remorse in the aftermath. The slaughter of a foresworn enemy in the rage of battle or killing in the heat of a desperate fight in defense of life and liberty had some nobility in it, a justification in honor and duty. Taking life in a conscious, calculated, and cold-blooded moment, however prudent or practical, tested a man’s conscience in uncomfortable ways.
“Odwain,” Bledig said kindly, “you’re a smart man. Smart enough to know that if it hadn’t been Sobol, it would have been some other rogue among my tribesmen who would have challenged you for Eirlys. She is the chieftain’s daughter. This was to be expected, and now it’s done with. So, drink to his memory if it eases your mind, and then let’s talk about your wedding.”
With the weariness that could only come of a heavy heart, Odwain consented to sit. A full wineskin had the power to heal most ills, and they would see him well cured before the night was out. Bledig offered the first draught to Odwain.
Odwain raised the skin in silent salute and then guzzled. When at last he’d swallowed enough to hold him and had passed the wine to Rhys, he spoke. “I should speak with my father and Fergus first.”
“You’ve told them nothing of your wedding plans?” Bledig smiled. “Now, that’s a conversation I won’t want to miss.”
“What wedding?” Fergus stepped out of the shadows and between Odwain and Rhys, with Odwain’s father and brother close behind.
Odwain’s pained expression returned. “Mine.”
“Sit.” Bledig waved the MacDonagh men into the circle. “Wherever you like.”
Finn nodded in acceptance and settled to Odwain’s left, while Pedr perched on a nearby stump. The elder MacDonagh was a sober man, much like his younger son. Quiet, too.
“Odwain’s wedding?” Fergus turned his demands on Finn. “Why have I heard nothing of this?”
“You’re hearing it now,” Finn said calmly. “As am I.”
Rhys flung the wine bag at Fergus. “Sit down, Fergus.”
Fergus caught the bag but rather than sit he began to pace
, grumbling obscenities in Odwain’s direction. “You make questionable alliances, nephew. It’s one thing to woo the barbarian’s daughter, and quite another to wed her.”
“I don’t understand you, Fergus. You would lay down your life for Alwen and her children, yet you damn Bledig as though he was the very source of evil.” Odwain frowned hard at his uncle. “I admire him. I admire his character.”
“Ha!” Fergus spat and sputtered in his fury. “Character? Is that what you call Bledig’s arrogance? It’s nothing more than the conceit of his rank. A king, he calls himself. King of rogues and thieves, I say, savages who would strike at each other as quickly as they would any enemy. You admire his judgment because it fell in your favor, this time. Barbarian justice,” he snarled. “Next time it might just be your innards on the stick.”
“I see no real distinction between this barbarian justice and any noble code I know.” Finn’s quiet tone held an air of authority. “If, in the end, honor is served.”
“Bledig’s law is severe, but it is just,” Odwain attested. “Though I take no pride in Sobol’s death.”
Bledig was thoroughly enjoying the exchange, barbs and jabs at his expense notwithstanding. He was used to such slights from Fergus. It was Odwain’s show of bravado that was truly remarkable.
“You can’t have thought this through.” Fergus looked toward Finn, expecting his brother’s support. It was not forthcoming.
“So that’s it, is it? Odwain was enraged. “You think me so reckless as to risk everything on an impulse?”
“Don’t you put words in my mouth.” Fergus cast his gaze downward. “That’s not what I meant. Eirlys is a fine girl and will make you a fine wife, one day. But there’ll be time enough for her when Hywel rests comfortably on his throne. It’s your priorities I question most, Odwain. You’ve forgotten who you are and what that means.”
“I have forgotten nothing,” Odwain said. “But my word to her means at least as much as my oath to the Stewardry, maybe more. I will honor them both.”
Fergus sighed and flopped to the ground alongside Finn. “You are your own man, Odwain, and clearly you know your own mind. Addled as it is.” He snorted. “Even as a small boy you were always too quick to question your elders. Too damned smart for your own good then, and now.”
“Come now, MacDonagh,” Bledig goaded. “Don’t be so hard on the boy. Surely you can appreciate what agonies a man will suffer for the love of a woman. Or are you too old now to remember?”
“I remember a thing or two,” Fergus mumbled. “If your own father does not object, Odwain, neither can I.”
“No,” Finn said simply, taking the wineskin from Fergus. “You cannot.”
“Is it agreed, then?” Rhys asked. “There will be a wedding?” “It is agreed.” Finn raised the bag in salute.
It seemed the fight had left Fergus. “At least one of the MacDonagh men should find some luck in love.”
For a moment, Bledig almost felt sorry for Fergus. Though the old goat was a burr to his very soul, Bledig hadn’t the coldness of heart that could give rise to a callus. He couldn’t actually muster compassion for the man, but Bledig did understand that his devotion had cost him.
“So be it.” Bledig rose to fetch a fresh wine bag. “Tomorrow we make plans. But tonight, we drink.”
“First, we drink to Sobol,” said Odwain.
“And then I think we’ll drink to you, Volchok,” Bledig said, feeling great warmth and admiration for this quiet young man. “You are one of us now. You belong to the tribe of the Wolf King.”
Seventeen
Odwain rolled back on his heels to contemplate his life as well as his scraggly, stubble-bearded countenance. He grimaced at the bedraggled reflection that greeted him in the swollen stream behind the barracks houses and raked his hands through wet hair in an attempt to groom his wayward chestnut locks. Vague hauntings of the events following the feast and an overabundance of wine had made it impossible to sleep, and the hard night showed. A haggard figure of a man he would make were he to present himself to Eirlys now, not that she would mind. She loved him in spite of himself.
He scarcely dared to believe his good fortune. Part of him had shared his uncle’s concern, that he would never be able to serve both his duty to the Stewardry and his duty to his own heart. Some part of him still worried. There was no knowing what Hywel’s reign would demand of him, nor was there any knowing what marriage would require. He’d have to hope he could rise to any challenge. Surely a man could love his king as well as his wife and somehow manage not to fail either of them.
“Here you are.” Eirlys knelt in the reeds behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Odwain braced to support her weight as she leaned against his back, guiltily enjoying the warmth of her pressed against him.
“I wondered if I might catch you trying to drown yourself, once you realized what you’d got yourself into,” she whispered near his ear. Her breath smelled of mint leaves and honey cakes. “But you’ll not escape me now, love.”
Odwain gazed into her reflection as it shimmered just behind his on the surface water, bewitched as he always was by the thick, coal-black curls coiling about her cheeks and the supple, pink lips that turned up at the corners in a coy, come-hither smile that seemed to say she knew what he was thinking.
Sometimes he wondered if she knew how much she tempted him, but Eirlys was so artless and unabashed in her affection it had to be in innocence. She trusted him so completely that he lived in constant fear of failing her, especially in moments like these. The sooner they wed, the better. He couldn’t hold off forever.
“Why ever would I want escape?” he said.
Eirlys rested her chin on his shoulder, quiet and content and absently stroking the hair on his chest. The caresses sent tiny convulsions shivering down his spine that ended in a merciless, fiery eruption of sensation in his groin. Odwain grabbed her hands to spare himself the torture, blissful agony that it was, and her fingers interlaced with his to fashion a sort of lover’s knot. He could stand to let her stay there this way, as long as she wanted, even with her hair tickling his neck. “What will you do today, pet?”
“Make ready to marry you, I think, lest you’ve some other idea in mind of how I’d better be spending my time,” she murmured.
“Ah, lass,” he sighed, “what I have in mind will have to wait a bit.”
He felt the gentle brush of her lips on his ear and nearly groaned aloud. “Can you abide the wait?” she teased.
Odwain turned to hold her close. Suddenly he couldn’t bear for even the air to stand between them. “I don’t know,” he whispered recklessly. “Can you?”
He felt her breath catch in her breast and the quickening of her heartbeat — or was it his? All he knew was that he was completely lost in the kaleidoscope of violet light and faerie magic that were her eyes. Her lips parted slightly as if she were to speak, and then Eirlys answered him with a kiss.
One of longing, he knew, longing every bit as deep and undeniable as his. Odwain silently cursed himself even as he greedily accepted her passion. Eirlys was willing. She had made that known long ago. All he’d ever needed to do was to ask, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Oh, bloody hell. He just had.
It took Herculean strength to force his lips from hers. “No, Eirlys. Not yet. Not here.”
Her eyes pooled with frustrated tears, and Odwain thought his heart was going to crush itself to dust. He couldn’t breathe. Merciful heavens, he begged in desperate thought, don’t let her cry. If there was anything that he was certain he could not survive, it was her weeping.
She gave a tiny sigh and nodded. Odwain was so relieved he almost offered her his thanks. But when she blinked, her lashes swept a single teardrop from her eye and sent it sliding down her cheek. He was horrified. This had to be more than any man alive could bear. All he could think to do was kiss her, but that would only befuddle things. He was doomed. He just knew it.
Eirlys laid her head against h
is chest, and Odwain decided he was safe for the moment. He gathered her into his arms and held her while they both reclaimed their senses. The last thing he wanted was to give her cause for regret. While she might have readily made love to him in the reeds along the riverbank, seduced just as he was by the quiet intimacy of the early morning, he wanted it to be something more than just an impetuous act of passion. At least, the first time.
“You are going to have to save me from myself,” he said softly. “You had better go now.”
Eirlys gifted him with her smile and let him pull her to her feet. “I suppose the sooner I leave, the sooner you’ll recover.”
He grinned at her. “I’ll find you later.”
Odwain took her hand and pressed his lips against her palm, suckling the sweet smell of her skin, like rosewater and buttermilk and honeysuckle nectar on a warm spring breeze. Get the girl gone, he chided himself, before things get out of hand again.
She untied a small bundle hanging from her waist chain and shoved it into his hands. Honey cakes. The smell made his mouth water. He watched her leave, thinking that she reminded him of a butterfly dancing on sunlight, gracing everything that she touched. Him, most of all.
* * *
If one could actually hear joy, Eirlys was sure that she did. To her ears, the universe seemed made up of melodies that hummed in a natural harmony, a glorious chorus that tuned itself to the everchanging rhythms of life. Ever and always amidst the constant thrumming sang the many small and sonant voices of the fey.
“Fare ye well.”
Eirlys smiled at the familiar whispers from the meadow beyond the garden gate. “And the same to you, wee friend.”
They all had names, or so she expected, though she hadn’t asked. She thought becoming too friendly might make them more difficult to resist. Not that the faerie folk were baddies, really, but they could be troublesome. No matter what task Eirlys had set for herself, they did their best to keep her from it. It was sure and certain, though, that wherever she went, she never went alone. In the Frisian isles where she was born, the gnomes had been her childhood companions. Here, in her mother’s homeland, she had encountered several new faerie tribes. The pixies, who were mischievous and fun-loving, were her favorites.
The Well of Tears Page 13
