At a sign from Tharan, who was standing on the dais at the end of the hall, the crowd fell silent. “Let the voting chieftains stand forward,” the councillor said.
From the ranks of those present a number of men stepped out. There were not many whom Tuala recognized; Talorgen was one, and Ged of Abertornie in his rainbow garb, and Morleo of Longwater. Bridei had introduced her to these two; Ged had made much of her beauty and her diminutive size, and expressed an intention to slip her in his pocket and take her home with him on the sly. She had liked him. Morleo had been courteous and formal, as if she were already a queen.
“Very well,” Tharan said. “Is this all? Can we proceed?”
“It is not quite all,” Aniel said levelly. “As we all know, parties from the west are on their way here, and expected this very night. Were it not for the formal decree of a seven-day span from presentations to assembly, we would request a further delay so they can be present. In addition, it is still possible a representative from the Light Isles may come. The weather—”
“Get on with it.” Bargoit seemed to have dispensed with diplomacy “How are we doing this? Do the priest and the wise woman get a vote?”
“They will be allowed to participate,” Tharan said. “It can make no difference to the final result.” Fola stood up and moved forward to the group of chieftains. She was dwarfed by them, their bright raiment, their silver clasps and gold torcs making her as small and unobtrusive as a rock dove; nonetheless, there was a power in her upright stance, her beak of a nose and her penetrating eyes that ensured a circle of untenanted space was left around her.
“We have heard the claims of the two candidates when they were presented at Midwinter,” Tharan went on gravely, “those of Drust son of Girom in person, and those of Bridei son of Maelchon by a proxy, Carnach of the house of Fortrenn. We give each now an opportunity to speak again. Briefly. If these latecomers arrive before the final vote is taken, they may participate. If not, I’m afraid they have missed their opportunity. Let us hear first from the more senior candidate, Drust.”
The Boar of Circinn spoke well; he had been king of that southern realm for many years and was accustomed to addressing his people. He spoke of his maturity and experience; of how, if the last election had been conducted fairly, he would already be king in both Circinn and Fortriu, since the accession of Drust the Bull had been based on a faulty voting system. Tuala felt Rhian tense alongside her and saw the tight set of the older woman’s lips. She touched Rhian on the arm. “A lie,” she said under her breath. “It will set folk against him. A cheap trick. Ignore it, my lady.”
Rhian glanced at her, lips curving in a rueful smile. “So young, and already so wise,” she said.
Tuala watched Bridei as he waited his turn. He was very pale, and his jaw was clenched tight. His hands were relaxed by his sides. That was something he had trained himself to do, that and the breathing. Beside him, Broichan looked every bit as nervous. Others seemed more confident. Bridei was surrounded by his supporters now: red-haired Carnach, somber Aniel, Talorgen, Ged, and Morleo. Faolan, too, was close by, adopting the not-quite-present look of the experienced bodyguard, his eyes not on Bridei himself but on corners, shadows, subtle glances and sudden movements. The others, Breth and Garth, were stationed strategically behind and to either side of Tuala and her companions. Bridei was leaving nothing to chance.
Drust’s speech came to an end, Tharan making it clear by gestures that brief must be taken to mean precisely that. There had been something in it about the Christian faith and how embracing it would unite all Fortriu and change it for the better. An alarming number of the voting chieftains had applauded this with enthusiasm. Tuala bit her lip. Was it possible that Bridei had got it wrong, after so much care in the planning? By her own count, if the representatives from the west did not arrive soon, he would not have his twelve. It had been expected that Ana’s cousin in the Light Isles would send a kinsman to vote on behalf of his people. He had failed to do so. Tuala wondered what would happen to Ana if this lost Bridei the crown.
“Bridei, speak now,” said Tharan.
Bridei glanced across; his eyes met Tuala’s, blue as a summer sky, bright with courage, and he smiled. She gave a little nod; she knew the message of her heart was written on her face. I love you. You can do this.
“I am Bridei, son of Maelchon.” The young voice was clear and strong. “My father is king of Gwynedd. My mother is Lady Anfreda, kinswoman to our late great king, Drust son of Wdrost, known as the Bull. I am young. I offer a full life of service to our beloved land of Fortriu. I am a man grown; I fought by the side of our chieftains in the battle of Galany’s Reach, and proved myself on that field, and in the restoration of Fortriu’s wounded pride by the claiming of the Mage Stone. I was raised by the king’s druid, Broichan, and I am scholar as well as warrior. I love the ancient gods of Fortriu, whose bones are the land we walk on; whose sweet breath is the air that gives us life. I will lead my people in their paths for all the years of my kingship. I will serve you with the best I can give, and with the inspiration of the Flamekeeper, the wisdom of the Shining One, and the deep certainty of Bone Mother to guide me. I offer you my youth, my blood, my courage, and my energy. I will lead you forward into a new future, one in which Fortriu’s borders will be made safe once more and its people united. This I swear to you by all that is good.”
It seemed to Tuala a light shone from his face as he spoke; she did not know if others could see it, but the utter silence that followed his speech suggested it was so. She reached up to wipe her eyes.
“Very well,” Tharan said after a little. “Let the voting commence. Drust son of Girom, take your place to the left. Bridei son of Maelchon, to the right. All men save the voting chieftains, leave the area before the dais.”
The right to vote was restricted to a certain number of chieftains from the seven houses of the Priteni, which were named for the seven sons of the original ancestor, Pridne. The voters represented the oldest families and the greatest landholdings within each house or tribe. Some houses had one vote, some two or three. On Bridei’s side of the hall stood Talorgen, Ged, and Morleo; Carnach and Wredech also, for each was eligible to cast a vote provided he did not stand for election himself. Fola stood by Talorgen’s side. Other men had stepped up. Uist and Wid had retreated. It was generally considered that druids had enough influence already, without needing a vote as well.
There were twelve men on Drust’s side, as all had predicted; twelve chieftains and Brother Suibne, who stood quietly, his cross in his hands. In fact, now that Tuala looked properly, she could see the priest had not moved to the left, but had his sandaled feet one on either side of what might be considered the midline of the hall. More men had moved to the right; on Bridei’s side the count now numbered eleven.
“Ahem.” Above the suppressed buzz of excited voices, Tharan cleared his throat loudly. “Do you understand the conduct of this proceeding, Brother Suibne? You must move to right or left to indicate your intention.” The councillor’s voice had acquired an edge; he might once have opposed Bridei, but there was not a single man of northern Fortriu who would have wished the Christian Drust on the throne, with the poisonous Bargoit whispering in his ear.
“I need time for reflection.” Suibne’s voice was quiet; nonetheless, Tuala noted the firm tone, the direct look. ‘A man must consider these speeches at least briefly before being expected to make up his mind. A moment or two, I pray you.”
Tuala saw Fola’s lips quirk with amusement and a kind of recognition. Others were less patient; an angry muttering arose from the Circinn camp. Their minds had been made up long ago. To leave a decision until the final speeches were delivered was ridiculous. They had known before they traveled to Caer Pridne which way their votes would go; they had expected the priest to be of the same mind.
At the back of the hall, the doors swung open; newcomers had arrived. There was a hubbub of voices.
“We will allow you a little time,” T
haran said. He did a commendable job of keeping his tone calm and his expression impartial as he glanced across the crowd to the doorway ‘A few moments for reflection. As a Gael you are, I suppose, unfamiliar with such formalities.”
“As a thinking man,” Suibne said, “I prefer to make my decisions only after weighing up all the arguments. I thank you for your consideration.”
Bargoit moved forward, seized the priest by the arm, and began to hiss furiously in his ear.
“Step back, Bargoit.” Tharan’s voice was coldly authoritative now. “Only voting men and women are to be in this area. I imagine the fellow can think for himself. One would hope so.”
“Voting men, is it?” A powerful voice came from the back of the hall; the crowd parted as a figure came striding through, clad in the dark riding clothes, the boots and fur cloak of a winter journey. His face and body wore a network of tattoos, the complex record of many battles; his eyes were dark and fierce, his jaw grim. Tuala saw Bridei’s expression change, lighten. “That includes myself: Fokel son of Duchil, chieftain of Galany’s Reach.”
“Galany’s Reach is lost!” Bargoit spat out, eyes furious. “How can you be chieftain of a territory that lies once more in the hands of the Gaels?” He whirled to face Tharan, pointing an accusatory finger. “He should not be allowed to vote! It’s a gross breach of the rules! This election is a sham!”
“Incorrect,” It was Broichan’s voice, deep and steady. “The law allows his vote; Fokel is chieftain in exile. It was proven last summer that those lands are within our grasp. This young man you see before you, our new king in the making, has seen to it that the symbol of Galany’s freedom was restored to Fortriu intact. That was an act great in spirit and vision; an act surely blessed by the Flamekeeper himself. Fokel will be chieftain there once more ere long. To deny him a vote is tantamount to saying our people have no future in the west. It is the statement of a traitor.”
“Enough,” Tharan said firmly. “Fokel, you may vote, of course. I have to say that your timing leaves something to be desired.”
Fokel was already standing beside Talorgen on the right side of the hall. Tuala counted again. Without the Christian priest, who remained alone in the center, there were now twelve on Drust’s side and twelve on Bridei’s, including Fola. The hall had become very crowded; it seemed Fokel’s entire band of fighters had accompanied him on this trip to Caer Pridne, and now every corner was occupied by some wild-looking fellow all spiraled and cross-hatched skin, twists of long hair and ferocious eyes. They were well armed; iron hung all about them. The eyes of the court ladies reflected a mixture of admiration and apprehension.
“Well, Brother Suibne?”
“I need a little longer.”
“We can’t wait all night. It’s a simple enough decision but, most unfortunately, it seems to rest with yourself. Make your choice, please.”
“There might be a wee something I forgot to mention,” Fokel said casually “Do I have it right that at least one chieftain from each of the seven houses ought to vote? Yes?”
“That is correct,” Tharan said. “Since no representative from the Light Isles has made the effort to be present, they forfeit their right this time.”
“But there’s another house not represented here,” said Fokel, scratching his chin.
“Another—oh, you mean the north?” Tharan’s brows rose. “The Caitt haven’t voted for years. They’ve never held to our law. There’s no requirement . . . Besides, if they don’t come, they can’t vote.”
“They’ve come this time,” Fokel said.
Another man stepped forward from the shadows, an immensely tall man with black hair to his waist and a face like a granite slab, entirely covered with intricate markings that made the warrior tattoos of Fortriu look like the scribbling of children. The fellow wore a long, hooded cloak made of many small skins sewn together. Tuala shivered, thinking of Mist, who now drowsed before the fire in Rhian’s quarters. The man’s garment was fringed with what appeared to be cats’ tails. Around his neck was an ornament of small bones threaded on knotted leather. His eyes were dangerous; his fists were huge. The axe on his back, figured all across the blade with signs of moon and stars, gleamed like polished silver in the lamplight.
“I am Umbrig of the Caitt.” The voice rang out like a war trumpet, the language an accented, guttural variant of the Priteni tongue. Umbrig folded his arms, and broad silver rings wrought in twists and plaits revealed themselves beneath the cloak, encircling heavily muscled limbs. “I cast my vote for the man who honors the old powers. Had I known this court would give credence to a claimant whose beliefs mock the wisdom of the ancient gods, I would have come by less peaceable paths to lend my support to this young warrior. I see in his eyes that he is stalwart in his faith and strong in his intentions. The vote of the Caitt goes to Bridei son of Maelchon.”
“Set up by druids,” muttered Bargoit. “Planned, plotted, and unfair in every respect—”
On the dais, Drust the Boar was beginning to look very uncomfortable. His broad face was almost as red as his tunic. Were the voting to be tied, a certain matter of a botched assassination attempt would likely be aired in public for the first time. He knew they knew. He would be well aware of how things might unfold here, and the probable consequences for his own reputation. Tuala glanced at Bridei. He appeared calm, although he had grown still paler.
“By my count, the present state of affairs gives thirteen votes to Bridei son of Maelchon and twelve to Drust,” Tharan announced in a commendably steady voice. ‘And there is but one vote yet to be cast; yours, Brother Suibne. Unless there are to be any more surprises?” He glanced about the hall. “No? Come then, Brother, let us end this.”
“By all means.” The Christian folded his hands before him; his face was serene. “I have considered the speeches, and what I know of this divided realm. I have thought about the nature of the two candidates, so different in faith and belief, in age and demeanor, in convictions and priorities—
“Brother,” said Aniel testily, “there is no requirement for voters to make a speech. Please give us your decision.”
“I cannot do so,” Suibne said quietly. “As a man of God, I think it inappropriate that mine should be the decisive vote in this secular contest. As a Gael, I think it still less fitting. I have no option but to abstain.” The little man stepped back into the crowd, which had erupted in a chorus of raucous protests and jubilant cheering.
“Enough! Enough!” Tharan’s voice could scarcely be heard. It was Broichan who stepped to the dais, raising both hands and holding them high until the hubbub died down. His eyes were blazing.
“I declare Bridei son of Maelchon the victor, by thirteen votes to twelve,” said Tharan solemnly. “And I decree that our new king will be crowned here at Caer Pridne within one turning of the moon. Under the gaze of the gods, I salute Fortriu’s new ruler. Bridei, do you wish to speak?”
Tuala pressed her lips together; this was no time to shed tears. She wished that Bridei would look at his foster father. One glance at Broichan’s face, and he would never again say the druid did not know what love was. But Bridei was looking out over the crowd, giving a nod, a smile to each of those who had supported him, pacing his breathing so he could speak calmly and strongly over the thundering beat of his heart, the swarming distraction of a mind too full of thoughts. She knew him all too well.
“I will speak only briefly; this is a time for celebration, for feasting and music, for hope and good fellowship. Our great work together, yours and mine, begins in the morning. You know what is in my heart; I thank you, and pledge to serve you. I have only two things to say now. Firstly, I wish to express my respect to a worthy opponent, Drust son of Girom, and to wish him well. I hope for a future of cooperation and understanding, so we can work together despite our differences. Only thus can we free our land from the scourge of invaders. Drust has been king a long time in the south. I can only learn from his experience.”
This was greet
ed by a deathly silence. Bridei seemed unperturbed; his plans were long, and Tuala knew he did not expect instant acceptance of change. This had needed to be said, for Drust’s expression was thunderous and Bargoit looked like a snake about to strike. It was a difficult situation. Circinn’s own had turned against them. By doing so, Brother Suibne had saved them the embarrassment of having their attempt on Bridei’s life exposed. Tuala wondered if the priest had known about that. Either way, she would not want to be in his shoes tonight.
“I wish also to present to you my future wife, the dear companion of my childhood: Tuala of Pitnochie.” Bridei looked across at her, eyes shining, cheeks a little flushed. Tuala held her back straight; put her chin up as Rhian had shown her how to do. Bridei reached out a hand.
“Go, child,” Rhian whispered. “Go with the goddess’s blessing.”
“You look lovely Tuala,” said Ana. “Walk slowly, and smile.”
But she did not smile. It seemed too solemn a moment. She simply fixed her eyes on his and crossed the hall as if floating on air. He took her hand; she stood beside him, feeling the tremor in his body, knowing his immense courage and his deep vulnerability. She stood straight and strong, gazing out at the lords and ladies, the warriors and chieftains, the druids and wise women of the king’s court. She inclined her head briefly. Then she caught Wid’s eye and the smile came despite her.
A ripple of sound ran around the hall, whispering, murmuring, with an unmistakable tone of shock. This was it, Tuala thought; this was the start of it. The gossip, the distrust, the rejection; she would have to be strong. Certain voices could be heard now, and she thought she could detect the words wild creature and Wife? Surely not! and one of them. Bridei did not seem to hear them.
“I wish to extend a welcome to Tuala on behalf of all at Caer Pridne.” This was a deep voice, commanding in its resonance. Broichan had stepped forward, features under iron control, and raised a hand for quiet. ‘As some of you may know, Tuala grew up in my own household. She is a young woman of exceptional qualities, and in every way fitted to be your future queen. I trust you will make her welcome here at court, where she will stay under the guidance of Queen Rhian until the time of the handfasting. This is a season of great change for all of us, a time of challenge and of opportunity. We must be open to that; we must learn from it.” If the king’s druid spoke these words with gritted teeth, he concealed his reluctance expertly. The unspoken message was clear. Speak out against the king’s betrothed because of her difference, and you risked a druid’s wrath.
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