“I see.” Bridei found that less than reassuring. It was tantamount to saying one was prepared to change sides for a heavier bag of silver.
“Now,” said Faolan, “will you take me to have a word with these two guards of yours? I’ll need to start by checking your quarters and making some general arrangements.”
“Follow me,” Bridei said, struggling for courtesy. It was evident there was going to be no choice in this.
“Bridei.” Broichan spoke behind him. “This is what it means, the path we have taken. This is what it is for Drust, and what it will be for you. Walk the path and you accept what comes with it: protectors, advisers, men who greet you with slavish adulation, others who will not hesitate to plunge a knife in your back. Believe me, a man such as Faolan is a good companion on such a journey. He has proven himself a hundred times over.”
Tuala, Bridei thought. Tuala gone forever; Tuala shut away behind high walls. Tuala in a place where men were forbidden to tread. Tuala choosing to leave him behind. If not for that news, he might have dealt with things in a controlled manner and not given this Gael the impression that he was a petulant child. As Faolan strode into the sleeping quarters, and as it became evident that Breth and Garth accepted without any qualms that he would be in charge from now on, Bridei stood silent in the doorway, his fingers on the narrow band of ribbon he wore around his wrist. As he touched its familiar softness, the fraying ends finally gave way and the short length of braid fell into his hand. Perhaps it was a sign. Even if she had not chosen to leave him, even if she had stayed by his side, what sort of life would this be for her, for a child whose whole being was attuned to oak and birch and rowan, to owl and otter and deer, to the glimmering waters of Serpent Lake and the high, lonely peak of Eagle Scar? What joys could life at court hold for a girl who loved tales and dreams and silences? Surrounded by guards and courtiers, by assassins and plotters, how long would his forest flower survive? To expect her to stand by him, knowing, as he suspected she had long done, where his future would lead him, was to ask her to wither and die in the name of a promise made between children. He must let her go. He must walk on alone. That was what the gods demanded.
WEAR THE GREEN,” DRESEIDA said. “And dress your hair more softly; you can’t afford to look too regal, none of the men will dare come near you.”
“Why would that bother me?” snapped her daughter, who was rummaging through a little chest, discarding one item of jewelry after another.
“Don’t be foolish, Ferada. You know why you’re at Caer Pridne. You understand the importance of tonight’s gathering, and indeed of every such occasion at court. You’re sixteen now; leave it much longer and the likely prospects will start overlooking you in favor of something younger and fresher. I want you to talk to Bridei tonight.”
“I expect I will, given that he’s Gartnait’s friend.”
“Don’t be obtuse. You know what I mean. Talk to him; charm him; encourage him to confide in you. Broichan’s up to something, and I want to know what it is.”
“Bridei’s not stupid, Mother. He’ll see through that the moment I start. When I talked to him at Raven’s Well, it was always about history or politics or other scholarly matters. That, I’ll gladly do. It will make a welcome change from the others’ roaming eyes and stumbling efforts to make intelligent conversation.”
“Ferada.”
Ferada became still, a pair of silver earrings shaped like dolphins held halfway to her ears. There was a certain tone her mother used on occasion, a tone that required instant obedience. “Yes, Mother?” Her heart was thumping.
“You will do as I instruct you. I need this information. Do you comprehend what I am saying to you?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Talk to him. Sweetly. Exert a little charm. Mention Broichan. I want to know what the two of them will be doing between now and the winter: where they’ll be traveling, who they’ll be seeing. Watch Bridei’s eyes when you ask him.”
“Mother, I—”
“It’s not like you to be inattentive, Ferada. You must know that failure to comply with my wishes is a failure to obey the will of the gods. That can only limit your own choices sorely in the future. There’s an election for kingship coming. It’s a chance to exert some influence; to play a part in the way the future unfolds. As women, we are rarely presented with such opportunities. I seek to exploit this to the full, and for that I need knowledge. I can hardly accost either Broichan or his foster son myself. I require you to act for me. I’ll be watching you closely, and I’ll expect to see progress.”
“This is like—it is like being a commodity for hire,” Ferada said bitterly, unable to contain her words. “As if I have no value of my own. I am your daughter, not a tool.”
“You’re a woman,” Dreseida said drily. “Play the game well from the beginning, and your time will come to wield some power. This is only the first step.”
“It’s not my game.” Ferada’s voice was shaking. “It is all your own, and hardly to my taste. I wish I had stayed at Banmerren.”
“But you’ll do as I say. To attempt defiance would not be at all wise. Don’t forget that the choice of a husband for you lies entirely in my hands. Your father will comply with my wishes. Be an obedient daughter and I may allow you some freedom in that.”
“I assume it is not Bridei you have in mind. You’ve never liked him much.”
Dreseida gave a mirthless laugh. “Didn’t you once say you found him humorless? Let us bide our time awhile. Caer Pridne will be full of chieftains by Midwinter. You’ll be spoiled for choice, if you’re good.”
TUALA COULD SEE the torches from all the way around the bay, a double line of them flaring in the half-dark of the summer night, marking the road along the promontory to the gates of the king’s fortress. More were set on the triple rampart of Caer Pridne itself. Drust’s stronghold danced with light like a palace in an ancient tale. A celebration; the old druid, Uist, had spoken of it, and Fola had confirmed it. This would be a victory feast, a recognition of bravery and triumph. Bridei would be there. Tuala knew he had returned and was safe, for Uist had volunteered this information without being asked. She had thanked him for the news with what she hoped was perfect calm. It was becoming ever clearer that she was to play no part in Bridei’s future; that her friendship would only hold him back. Better, then, to make pretense that this did not matter to her. Perhaps, if she kept reminding herself how lucky she was to be at Banmerren, how suited she was to a life of scholarship and dedication to the gods, she would end up actually believing it.
Uist had brought both good news and bad news. Wid was well and had retreated to the nemetons to spend time in prayer and contemplation. Tuala hoped he was not missing Ferat’s cooking too much. When Uist delivered the bad news her control almost snapped. Donal was dead; Bridei’s stalwart companion, a friend to all at Pitnochie, herself included, poisoned at what should have been a time of joyful celebration. Her belly knotted with the thought of it. This was her own vision made reality, yet turned upside down: the awful thing that had made her run through the forest like a frightened deer and beg Broichan to help her. So slight a change in the fabric of events, the casual passing of a cup of ale from one man to another, and Bridei’s life had been spared, but his closest friend had paid the price of it with his own. She knew how Bridei would be feeling: guilty, sad, weighed down by the burden of it all. If only she could be with him . . . He was at Caer Pridne now, just along the bay, so close, and yet it might be another land. It was forbidden for Bridei, or any other man save a druid, to visit her here. She’d thanked Uist politely for the news, and kept her expression calm.
That was last night. Tonight was different. She had made herself as busy as she could all day. With the noble daughters gone to court, Derila had divided her class in two and Tuala herself now acted as tutor to the younger ones, girls close to her own age. It was a trial; they resented her elevation to teacher, her youth, her pale skin and strange eyes. Her difference. A
t the same time that difference fascinated them. They liked the things she could do. With some reluctance she had shown them the tricks of movement, the plays with light, the small transformations she had been performing, almost without thinking, out in the forest since she was a little child. They liked being told how to listen to the thoughts of a squirrel or an owl or a wren; they liked the tales that could be heard in the heart of an ancient oak. Tuala showed them just enough to keep them interested. The history part of the lesson was done eagerly as they awaited the reward of those secrets she chose to share. They did not sit by her at supper; that had not changed. But they no longer laughed at her.
The long day over, now she sat in the tree and gazed along the shore to Caer Pridne. Some of the torches were moving; perhaps a procession wound its way up that long road to progress in stately formation into the grand hall of Drust the Bull. They said the entry was imposing in design. There were carven stones there, sixteen of them in pairs; it was some of the finest work in Fortriu, Erip had told her. Any man or woman approaching Drust’s court would be greeted by this monumental statement of control. Tuala could not hear anything; the fortress was too far away for that. Perhaps there would be horns sounding, maybe drums and singing. For certain there would be tales. The lifting of the Mage Stone was a story to rival any for heroism and ingenuity. That, too, had truly come to pass; Fola had told them so. At last Bridei had begun to come into his own.
Tuala shivered. Even summer nights could be cold at Banmerren when the wind blew from the sea. She must go in; it was foolish to be up here on her own after dark. The moon was waning, and it would be easy to slip and fall from her high perch. But maybe she wouldn’t fall. Maybe she would fly. As a child, she had always dreamed that she could fly.
She took a long last look toward the fortress; observed the flat expanse of wet sand, its surface shining with reflected torchlight at the other end. It was not so very far. For a child who had grown up running wild in the hills above Pitnochie, it would be an easy walk. On a good day, a person could be there and back almost before anyone noticed. The only thing was, there was no going out, not for her or for any of those who wore the blue. The noble daughters had freedom to move between school and court at certain times and to go out for their rides; the others ventured forth only when they must. There was an occasional walk to gather herbs under the strict supervision of Luthana, who oversaw the work of garden and stillroom. At Gateway the wise women would travel to Caer Pridne for a solemn ceremony; asked just what this entailed, Kethra had been less than forthcoming. One ritual for the men, conducted by the king’s druid; another for the women, held at the same time and led by Fola. The seniors would attend along with those who wore the gray robe. The rest of them must wait until they had earned the green.
Tuala would have liked to test her theory tonight; to launch herself from atop the outer wall and see if she fell to the earth below, broken, shattered, or soared through the darkness like an owl until she alighted on the ramparts at Caer Pridne, ready to look in on a king’s feast. Instead, she climbed back across the wall and returned to her tower room. She must be strong. She must think of Bridei and not of herself. It was perfectly true: she was lucky. She could be what Fola wanted her to be, it would simply take time. Others would be there to listen to Bridei’s fears, share his dreams, stand by his side in a way she never could, because of what she was. In time he would learn to trust those others. Ana, for instance. He would see Ana at the feast tonight, and Ferada. He would talk to them, his blue eyes bright and intense as he gave an explanation, his hands moving in illustration; Ana would answer in her sweet, grave way and Bridei would bend his head courteously to hear her . . . Tuala buried her face in the pillow, squeezed her eyes tight shut and pulled the blanket up over her head. She had abandoned the scrying bowl lest it torment her with such images. But they had a life of their own. They made their cruel way even into her dreams.
“SHE HAS BEGUN to doubt what was once crystal clear in her mind,” observed the silver-haired presence that remained in the tree, perched on a high branch, invisible to humankind. “There is a lost look in her eyes.”
“She does not doubt the love of the Shining One,” said her companion. “That, surely, must sustain her in this time of loneliness.”
“It may be all too strong. Stronger than her attachment to Bridei; stronger than the voice of her heart and the call toward the long task she must undertake.”
“It is the Shining One who calls her to that task; it was the goddess herself who brought this child into being,” said the vine-clad young man, “and who sent us to lay her on Broichan’s doorstep. If Tuala chooses to stay at Banmerren, she defies the intentions of our Great Mother.”
“To become a priestess is an act of obedience to the goddess’s will. Thus it must seem to all who know Tuala in the human realm, Bridei included. How is the girl to know the Shining One has decreed another path for her?”
“She has little choice, indeed. She can hardly climb over the wall and make her way to Caer Pridne. She will always act in the way she believes is best for Bridei. Even if that means cutting herself off from him.”
“Ah, well,” said the girl, running a careless hand through her glittering locks, “she is still a child in many ways, a child who has been banished from home. I think we must make the test more difficult.”
“Difficult for whom?” the boy asked.
“For Bridei. Tuala is despondent; downcast. She is surely more ready now to consider that other choice, the choice that lies not merely outside the house of wise women, but entirely beyond the world of humankind. We’ll tempt her away. We’ll coax her to the very brink. We’ll call her in a way she cannot but answer: through the blood we share.”
“What if she follows all the way? What if she crosses the margin and finds there is no returning?”
“She will not.”
The vine-clad boy shivered. “You are all confidence,” he said. “There is much to be lost here.”
The girl nodded, luminous eyes suddenly grave. “Fortriu must have its true leader,” she said, “the only one who can unite the realms of the Priteni in loyalty to the ancient gods and in due acknowledgment of the elder races of the land, our own especially. The new order in the south runs rampant, walking with heavy feet on the sacred places, dislodging druid and wise woman, burning and breaking the homes of the wild folk of the forest. The goddess needs Bridei.”
And Bridei needs Tuala.”
“What I plan will ensure both are ready for what awaits them.”
“You sound very certain. There are the vagaries of the human kind yet to consider; their ill-considered scheming and petty power games have the capacity to play havoc with the best laid plans.”
“True, Bridei has more trials to endure, both those of the human world and those the gods prepare for him to ensure he is worthy of their trust. I have confidence in him. The true light of the Flamekeeper burns in his spirit. But he has a long path to walk still before anything is sure. There are shadows on his way, and not all of them are of our making.”
CAER PRIDNE WAS ablaze with light. Torches flared along the wall-walks, illuminating the fine work on the bull stones, the creature on each incised with delicacy yet captured in all its muscular strength and virility. Drust’s great hall stood high on the promontory, encircled by Caer Pridne’s upper rampart. The fortress had three levels, each with its own protective wall of stone laced with timber. Triple mounds and ditches provided additional barriers to attack. Within the walls worked and lived a whole community dedicated to the upkeep of the king’s court and the support of his household. On the westward side, between stone breakwaters, there was sheltered mooring for boats. Steps led up to an iron gate. To landward was the road, a broad way of hard-packed earth, tonight edged in flame from brands set on tall poles to either side. Men marched or rode in to be greeted by a formidable presence of guards before the double gates that barred entry to the walled fortress itself. Drust was both powerful and care
ful. He had been elected king at a time when feeling ran high among the chieftains of the Priteni, and the assembly of nobles had been divided over the succession. The south, increasingly influenced by Christian teaching, had wanted Drust son of Girom, known as the Boar, a man who himself followed this new faith and could be relied upon to encourage the missionaries desirous of spreading it. The north had fallen in behind the much older Drust son of Wdrost, steeped in the ancient ways and dedicated to the protection of Fortriu’s borders. Broichan had supported Drust the Bull; how could he not? Drust the Boar, in his turn, had had strong and outspoken adherents. So the assembly had been split. A casting vote, that of the wise woman Fola, had been disallowed by the chieftains of Circinn as invalid, since such a participant might seek the use of pagan magic to bend men’s minds to her will. After a time of uproar and chaos, a bitter compromise had been reached. Always, before, a single king had ruled the lands of the Priteni from the Great Glen south to the Roman wall. A lesser king in the Light Isles had been subject to this monarch’s rule. The Caitt, of course, were a law unto themselves. Nonetheless, the territories had belonged together; when it counted, they had worked in unity. After that divisive assembly, the land of the Priteni had been split into two kingdoms, Fortriu to be ruled by Drust the Bull and the southern realm of Circinn by Drust the Boar. It was an open secret that each of them had agreed to this with the full intention of claiming the whole territory the moment the other died. No wonder there were so many guards at Caer Pridne now.
Bridei walked into the hall, Breth and Garth a discreet step behind him. He had begun to notice, now that he was obliged to be shadowed thus whenever he ventured forth, that there were more than a few other men who carried a similar protective presence. Not Broichan; he had always walked alone. But Aniel, the king’s councillor, had acquired a new bodyguard who could be seen standing close by the elegant, gray-haired nobleman now and trying to look as if he were not there. Others about the hall bore that same expression, the look of men constantly on high alert, yet working at being unobtrusive. They were generally big men who wore rather plain garments and hovered on the margins of rooms. There were other kinds of protection, of course; King Drust had Broichan. The very presence of the king’s druid should, one might suppose, be sufficient to deter most attackers. It was common knowledge that such men possessed immense power; that they could summon what forces they required to aid them. A druid might call on the Flamekeeper to make a man sweat and burn until he was consumed by fever; he might invoke the Shining One with a request for floods or freakish waves. None but another mage might dare to challenge such a man.
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