“What is it?” The Gael had moved closer and was scrutinizing Bridei’s face. “Are you hurt? Too much ale? No, you hardly touched a drop. In pain? A headache?”
Bridei felt a deep shiver run through his body. “It is customary,” he said in a whisper. “I don’t sleep much. It will pass.”
“Drugs. Distraction. Hard labor. Or a woman,” Faolan said, counting off the options on his fingers. “How long since you had a woman? That can be arranged.”
“No.” Bridei hoped very much that he would not have to explain his reasons for this. Faolan was the last man to whom he would choose to confide such a personal matter as his vow of celibacy, the vow he had sworn to adhere to until the day he took a wife.
“Then I suppose we will stand here in awkward conversation until morning,” Faolan said. “Or sit, perhaps. The steps might be more comfortable. That’s it; sit there. How long have these headaches plagued you?”
The Gael sounded almost friendly. Of course, it was part of his job to win trust.
“Since the battle at Galany’s Reach. Maybe earlier.”
“And why is that, do you think? Is it possible this, too, is the aftermath of poison? Something subtle and slow-working?”
“I doubt it. I suppose we will find out soon enough; Breth or Garth will come down with the same affliction.”
“You dislike showing weakness.”
There was a silence.
“I’ve been trained to reveal as little as possible,” Bridei said. “You’d understand how that can be useful, I imagine.”
“I read you with no difficulty,” said Faolan quietly. “You have no one you can trust. Even your druid is not privy to your secrets. In that, you have learned already what it is to be a king.”
“Shh,” hissed Bridei.
“Would I speak thus if we could be overheard? In this, at least, you can trust me. I have no desire to hear your inmost thoughts, believe me. I am interested in banishing this malady. I bear the responsibility of keeping you alive and capable at least until Midwinter; as long as it takes.”
“Then leave me alone,” Bridei said, unable to keep the weariness from his voice.
“Alone with the stars,” mused Faolan. “Will that cure the headache? I will retreat into the shadows where I belong, Bridei. Don’t leave this part of the wall-walk; I need you to remain in sight.”
“You intend to stay awake all night?”
“The last thing that needs concern you is my sleep or lack of it. Pray, meditate, dream, do what you will. Just stay where I can protect you. As for the great wild places and the voices of the gods, perhaps those, too, will come in time. If not, I suppose it’s all been for nothing.”
THEY HAD TAKEN UP residence in her tree. As summer turned to the cool, crisp sharpness of early autumn their forms could be spotted sometimes amidst its canopy of sheltering green, elusive as squirrels, a whisk of cobweb gray, a whirl of berry red and nut brown. Nobody else could see them. They came only for Tuala.
At night when she sat there under the moon, dreaming of home, they settled one on either side, the girl spreading skirts of smoky silver, the young man merging into the shadows and textures of the tree, such was the form of his own body, the nature of his raiment, all bark and leaf and curling fern frond.
“Do you have names?” Tuala asked them one night, tired of calling them, in her mind, merely she and he, forest girl and leaf man.
“Not such names as human folk use,” the girl said with a tinkling laugh. “Tuala, they called you. What kind of choice is that? It ill befits your beauty; they should have named you for the white owl, or the little flowers that cling tenaciously in cracks on the high tors. Tuala: that is a name for a woman of status, the wife of a king.”
Tuala did not say that perhaps that was why Bridei had chosen it. In the little songs of their childhood, often he had called her princess. “I ask only to make things easier, so I can address you by name as you do me.”
“Human folk would likely choose names for us in keeping with what they see,” said the young man. “For my companion, Gossamer, Willow, Vapor. For myself, Woodbine, perhaps.”
“Gossamer. Woodbine. Those are fair names.”
“They’ll do,” the girl said. “Now tell us: what have you learned today?”
“Kethra comes to my private lessons now. I showed her and Fola how I make things move without touching them. Kethra wanted me to do more; I have only ever used that for small objects, the pieces on a game board, perhaps a knife or comb I needed to reach. She asked if I could do it with objects I couldn’t see; if I could manipulate the pace at which things move. If it mattered how big they were, or how heavy. She wanted me to try it outside, with barrels or lengths of iron.”
“And did you?”
“Fola said no.”
The young man, Woodbine, was frowning. “You didn’t learn a thing. You gave away your secrets.”
“This is no good for you,” said Gossamer. “You see why these folk are keeping you here. They are merely using you. One day you move barrels onto a cart, the next you send an iron bar through the air to crush a man’s skull, or a woman’s. One day you create pretty images of butterflies and flowers from a beam of light, the next you send that light to dazzle a man while another man drives a spear through his heart. You’re foolish if you think they brought you here to learn.”
“There is learning in everything.”
“Ah. You repeat your druid’s favorite dictum. And there is, I suppose; you should learn from today that our kind are easily exploited by the human folk, if we allow them to gain control.”
“I don’t think—”
“No,” said Woodbine. “You don’t; not as you should. This is no place for you. Your eyes have dark circles around them and you’re as skinny as a half-starved chicken.”
“You’re wasting away for Pitnochie,” Gossamer said softly. “Let us take you home.”
Tuala would not allow herself to cry. “There is no home at Pitnochie any more,” she said. “At least Fola and Kethra want me here. I can make a contribution. I can serve the Shining One. My teaching is going well; the girls are starting to trust me. I can make a life at Banmerren.”
“Rubbish,” Woodbine said. “You hate it here. Besides, we don’t mean home to the druid’s house. Nobody wants you there. Come home with us. We are not visited by sorrow or loneliness. We do not feel the touch of death.”
Tuala shivered, drawing her shawl closer around her. Not long ago, Ana had passed her a message. Bridei had given back the ribbon, the token he had worn next to his skin every moment of every day he was parted from her. The words that came with it were cool and courteous, the kind of words one would expect from a young man who might soon be monarch of Fortriu. He respected her decision. He hoped she would be happy. It was meaningless, save to convey that he was prepared to let her go without protest. That must be taken as confirmation that her choice was right. Bridei did not need her; he would find another to take her place by his side.
The last part of the message was different. I did not expect the Shining One to call you thus. Perhaps she was deluding herself, but this seemed to her to speak of unhappiness. If only she could see him, talk to him, look in his eyes and know what he really thought. Tuala longed for that as a starving woman longs for fresh bread or a thirsty one for clear water: the plain, simple truth seen in the eyes of a friend who cannot lie. One chance to know his heart, and perhaps she could walk on more easily.
“I can’t come with you,” she whispered. “That would be to leave too many things behind. I can’t believe there is nothing at all for me in this world, a human world. Even if I cannot have . . . even if the life I’m granted is not what I thought it would be, to go with you, to cross over into a realm so different, a place from which I cannot return . . . It would be too final. Like severing the last thread that ties me to the things I love.”
Gossamer laughed again, a high pealing. It was extraordinary that nobody else at Banmerren ever seemed to
hear it. “Love,” the girl echoed. “You are overfond of that word, Tuala. There is much to enjoy in our own world, fine things, beautiful things. You would be loved by all there; you’d be in every way the princess that you were named, so many years ago. The Shining One looks down on both our kingdoms with equal light, my sister. Step across, and you will continue to rejoice in her sweet benevolence eternally, living a life entirely free from cares such as those that beset you now. No more worrying about folk who want you to exhibit your tricks and give them your secrets. No more watching the one you think you love getting close to a certain other girl, one with hair like a cascade of sunlight. That won’t bother you a jot once you cross over; you’ll wonder why you ever cared. Did you know that when one of our kind weds a human she forfeits her immortality? Who would choose death over eternal life?”
“I don’t want to hear this. I’ve told you, over and over. I will stay here at Banmerren. The goddess wants me as a wise woman. This must be the right choice.” With sinking heart Tuala realized that the more often she repeated these words, the less she was inclined to believe them.
“Why don’t you put it to the test?” Woodbine’s voice was sly; he reached a knotty hand to touch Tuala’s knee and she edged along the branch away from him.
“Don’t do that! What do you mean, put it to the test?”
“He sent you a message.” Gossamer was standing now, her slender form outlined in moonlight, graceful arms stretched above her head to rest on an upper branch, gown of cobweb-fine fabric floating about her body, small, white feet confident on the high perch. “Send him one in return. If you are unhappy, tell him so. Test him. If he fails it, you will know your doubts were right. Then accept the truth, and we will take you home to the forest. Don’t you miss it, the soft green and the silence?”
“It is forbidden,” Tuala said. “He took a risk, giving Ana the ribbon to bring to me; those of us being trained as priestesses are not supposed to have any contact with the world beyond these walls, unless Fola or Kethra sanctions it. I mustn’t get him in trouble. And he can’t take me home. He has to be at Caer Pridne.”
“If he thinks you not worth the risk,” Gossamer said carelessly, “then he will not respond. Make it subtle. He knows you very well. Send something others cannot interpret. That should be safe enough.”
“Why would you suggest this?” These two were certainly not to be trusted; they followed their own impenetrable rules.
“Because we know you will not come with us until your mind is satisfied,” said Woodbine, rising to his feet on the branch beside Tuala. “You must have it in black and white, in cruel, unadorned truth: that you are not first in his life; that he will go on without you. That, indeed, burdened with you, he would be unable to fulfill his destiny. When has a king of Fortriu ever taken one of the Good Folk as a bride? And what else could you be? What wife would possibly tolerate your presence in her house, sapping her husband’s energy, distracting him at every turn? You’re surely not expecting Bridei to sacrifice his opportunity to seek the kingship just because of you? Of course, being a kindly young man, Bridei will not express it so baldly. But you know him. You will comprehend his message. Better do it and put us all out of our misery. Act boldly. King Drust has another chill; he won’t last long.”
They tended not to linger for farewells, these two. It would be one final remark, generally calculated to wound, and they would be off, dissipating among the moonlit leaves like wisps of smoke, leaving Tuala alone with her thoughts. So it was tonight; between one blink and another they were gone. And in her mind, complete in an instant as if she had already planned for it, was the message, telling Bridei when and where to find her with perfect clarity, yet, she thought, in terms quite obscure to anyone else. She hoped so. Ana, for one, must be trusted. As for those cruel words of brides and kings, she would pretend she had not heard them. Heart thumping, Tuala plucked a single withered leaf from the oak and returned to her tower.
BEFORE THE SEASON began to darken toward Gateway, Drust sickened. The nights were chill; the men on watch shivered in their sheepskin jackets, their fur-lined cloaks and felt hats, and fires were kept burning in the drafty stone chambers of Caer Pridne. The king’s cough rattled through the hallways like a hoarse cry of death, some emanation of Black Crow herself. Drust’s cheeks bore a rosy flush in a face drained of color; Queen Rhian, a permanent frown of worry on her amiable features, haunted the stillroom, setting her own hands to the making of draughts to ease her husband’s chest. It was whispered that only Broichan’s magic was keeping the king alive.
But Drust was no weakling. He had not held onto power for so long by giving up in times of challenge. He moved his center of operations to a small chamber that could be effectively warmed, and had them set pots of steaming water by the fire, water in which floated the bruised leaves of curative plants, fennel and calamint. He took a drink made from crushed hazelnuts and honey, but he could not conceal his flagging appetite. About the chamber were protective charms aplenty: white stones for the Shining One, set in threes and fives and sevens; a hanging chain of little men woven from straw, each wearing a garland of autumn leaves on his tiny head and a belt of bright thread in scarlet and gold: sons of the Flamekeeper, whose warmth generated bountiful crops. There was a wreath of greenery above the door and a plait of garlic by the hearth. It reminded Bridei sharply of a time long ago, when Broichan had catechised him on the protective devices at Pitnochie. Do not answer like a child, but like a druid.
He could answer like a druid now. The king was dying, and he knew it. Bone Mother danced toward him, arms outstretched; these charms could not hold back her advance. They might perhaps delay it for one, maybe two turnings of the moon, no more. The truth was in Drust’s eyes and he faced it unafraid. He sought only to be sure his kingdom would not descend into a chaos of rivals and challenges and power plays the instant he was gone.
Like flies hovering about a dying creature even as it still breathes and walks the earth, the nobles of the south had descended on Caer Pridne. Drust the Boar had not come, not yet. In his place were his two chief councillors and a Christian priest. It was a gesture of outrageous insolence. Caer Pridne had never yet given house room to a Christian and had no desire to do so now; who would be foolish enough to offend the gods so, with their good king on the brink of death? Unfortunately, the fact that Brother Suibne—a Gael by origin, therefore doubly unwelcome—was part of a royal delegation made it essential that he be not only housed, but housed well and with an appearance of genuine courtesy. Faces wore forced smiles; voices were edged with ill-concealed resentment. The three were given a fine chamber with a private anteroom where the fellow could practice his outlandish rituals out of sight of god-fearing folk. The one to watch, Broichan told his foster son, was the chief councillor from Circinn, a man named Bargoit. He had a smooth tongue and few scruples, and over the years had learned to bend Drust the Boar entirely to his will. The other, Fergus, was under Bargoit’s thumb. What one decreed, the other supported. They had come early. One must hope they did not whisper in too many ears and do too much damage. As for the priest, if priest he could be called, his presence was an insult. In this, Broichan suspected Drust of Circinn had done his own claim for kingship of the north a disservice. One look at Brother Suibne and every voting nobleman of Fortriu would be put in mind of what could occur if the two parts of the kingdom fell in behind Drust the Boar. Those loyal to the gods could never make such a choice.
The time passed quickly. Bridei found his days filled with cryptic conversations, whispered exchanges in hallways, delicate maneuvering with one influential man or another. At first, on Broichan’s advice, he played the young innocent, quiet and courteous in his manner, sparing and simple in his comments. They knew, of course. If they had not recognized on the night Drust gave him the eagle brooch and his royal blessing that the druid’s foster son from Pitnochie was a genuine contender for kingship, they discovered it soon enough. All assessed him. In turn, Bridei began to wor
k his way through them, dealing with each according to the degree of threat he represented and the probability that existed of changing his mind for him.
It was customary for each of the seven houses to offer one candidate only, and this time there might be less than seven in all; the southern tribes, in particular, were not likely to put up contenders of their own when Drust the Boar was in effect overlord of all those territories. The royal line was of the house of Fidach, whose heartland was in the Great Glen, but because the descent came through the female side and the princesses of Fidach wed chieftains from all across the realm of the Priteni, and indeed beyond its borders, there were generally valid claimants to be found in each of the seven houses.
It seemed the Light Isles would not be in the contest this time. The presence of Ana at Drust’s court, and the possibility that others of that family might be similarly taken at any time, was likely to stay their hand. It was whispered, also, that an assurance had been made to the chieftain of those isles, whose status was as vassal king to Drust the Bull. It had been pointed out that the royal hostage would be ideally placed to wed the new king, should he not already have a wife. That would immeasurably enhance the status of her family, elevating her cousin to something close to the level of Fortriu’s own monarch. Trading agreements and other advantages might well flow as a result. Someone had been clever.
The house of Caitt was unpredictable. Bridei had once believed an alliance might be struck with those savage northerners; Broichan had dismissed that. Generations had passed since the Caitt had last attempted to claim the kingship of Fortriu. Nobody expected any surprises from that quarter. As for the future, Bridei had his own plans. The Caitt were of Priteni blood, and they were strong. Should he become king, there was a possibility there that he must at least begin to explore.
Of Drust’s two closest kinsmen, red-headed Carnach was the stronger contender. He was well spoken and capable, and he was gathering the backing of a number of influential men, the king’s councillor Tharan among them. Aniel had said Tharan was dangerous. There was some work to be done in that camp.
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