Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  There was a brief pause. “Sam spoke the truth,” Thorvald said. “We’re here quite by chance; there was a storm, and our boat was carried to this shore despite our efforts to turn her back eastward. As for what we want, we made that plain yesterday: enough wood to mend the Sea Dove so we can leave here.”

  “We understand wood’s in short supply,” Sam put in. “That’s no surprise, it’s the same at home. We’ll work at whatever you want doing until we earn the price of what we need. I’ve got tools; I can do the fixing, it’s just the materials—”

  Asgrim raised a hand again, cutting Sam’s words short. “Yes, I heard the tale. Fishing, wasn’t it? And I was told enough to recognize that you, at least, are no more than you seem. These folk know their own kind. But you,” turning to Thorvald, “you are another matter. Tell me, why would you bring a woman on such an expedition? A woman of exceptional beauty, and very young at that? I can think of only one reason, and it does not match what I read of you, nor of your friend here. Is the girl indeed only with you to warm your beds at night, each in turn?”

  Sam flushed scarlet. “You insult her, and you offend me, my lord, with such a suggestion. Creidhe’s a good girl; there’s nothing of that sort going on, nothing at all, and I hope you make your men aware of it, because if anyone lays a finger on her—”

  “Sam,” Thorvald warned, and Sam’s torrent of words subsided to an angry muttering.

  “I have heard no answers as yet,” Asgrim observed coolly. “The girl is this man’s sweetheart, maybe, that a simple question provokes such a flood of emotion. She is comely, no doubt of it, shapely and fair. Such a woman cannot fail to draw the eye. Who is she?”

  “A childhood friend, my lord.” Thorvald found himself somewhat taken aback at the repeated emphasis on Creidhe’s looks. He had never thought of her in those terms. Exceptional beauty? Hardly. Creidhe was—well, she was just Creidhe. He decided truth was the best option here. “She is sixteen years old, of high birth, and not yet promised to any man. Untouched.”

  “And it’d better stay that way,” growled Sam.

  “But, my lord, to be quite honest with you,” Thorvald went on, “the girl did not accompany us with our consent. Creidhe stowed away on our boat; by the time we found her, the storm was already bearing us far from our home shore. We had no choice but to bring her here with us. You know women; once they take an idea into their heads, there’s no gainsaying them. Creidhe thought it would be an adventure, I suppose.”

  “Really?” Asgrim’s dark brows rose in derision. “A fishing trip? The women of your island must indeed be short of diversions.”

  Thorvald managed a nonchalant shrug. “She’s young,” he said. “She hardly knows what she’s doing sometimes.” The sight of Creidhe on that little ledge, arms outstretched, eyes blind to the world, was imprinted starkly in his mind.

  “So I’ve been told,” Asgrim observed. “An incident on the way here, and the woman nearly lost. That was very careless. I questioned those who accompanied her; there has been appropriate punishment. Such visitors are rare on our shores and must be protected.”

  “Punishment?” Sam sounded quite taken aback. “It wasn’t their fault. Creidhe did it herself. It was like something took hold of her, something none of us could see.”

  “Indeed. It does seem to me the young woman is more than a little capricious: wayward, one might say. She presents a danger to herself, or to others.”

  “Oh no!” Sam said anxiously. “Creidhe’s a good girl, a reliable girl. Great little spinner and weaver, wonderful cook, the sort any man’d want for his wife.” He caught Thorvald’s penetrating look and blushed violently. “It’s this place,” he added with a note of apology. “Getting to her, you know, the strangeness and all. I mean, how does a peaceful cove earn the name Blood Bay?”

  “A simple matter of whales,” Asgrim said mildly. “In past times, the men of that settlement prided themselves on the size of catch they could herd into the shore with their curraghs: the sand has run red in many a season. These days we are occupied with other pursuits; there has been no whale harvest for over five years. As for Creidhe, we must ensure she is kept safe. She’s a creature of rare loveliness and, if you speak truth, remarkable skills as well. A prize indeed. Fortunately this settlement is well protected, and there are women here, company for your little friend when you move on.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Move on,” Thorvald said eventually. “Move where?”

  Asgrim stretched, arms linked behind his head. “You know,” he said expansively, “I don’t think you’ve answered a single one of my questions. Fortunately, the young lady was a great deal more communicative. Shall we continue this in the morning, when you’ve had some time to think? It grows late, and you’ve had a long day. Let it not be said that the Ruler of the Isles has forgotten what it means to be a good host.”

  He gave a single sharp clap of the hands, and there was the sound of men approaching, vessels clinking, and a smell of roast meat.

  “Just a moment,” Thorvald said as a chill of misgiving went down his spine. “You’ve spoken to Creidhe already? Why didn’t you tell us that? What kind of game are you playing here?” Odin’s bones, perhaps Asgrim knew the truth about this quest already; Creidhe might have told him everything. But no, Creidhe would be true to her word. If there was one thing you could say about her, it was that she was completely trustworthy. She’d have kept quiet, true to her promise.

  “What, still more questions?” The Ruler gave a thin-lipped smile. “It’s quite a simple game, Thorvald. Not beyond you, I’m sure. Information is exchanged, question for question, answer for answer. Don’t they do that where you come from? The other part is easier still. You want something, and I can give it to you. But you must earn it. As this is my domain, you will earn it on my terms. I’m told you have some skill in the arts of warfare. We can use that; indeed, it’s precisely what we need. But you will find the kind of battle we wage here strange and frustrating, for all is at the mercy of wind and tide, and the uncanny powers of our enemies lie beyond the reach of spear and knife. We have the smallest margin of time to act; that requires the planning to be meticulous.”

  There were islanders coming in now, bringing jugs, cups and platters of mutton and boiled fish.

  “Tell us,” said Thorvald urgently, “tell us more. Who are these enemies, and where do they live? Why do you war with them? What is the nature of their attacks?”

  “Perhaps,” observed Asgrim, “you will learn patience during your stay with us, Thorvald. I hope you do. This constant questioning could soon grow wearying. Come, have a bite to eat, a little to drink, and let us speak no more of this until morning.”

  “Still,” Thorvald was taken aback to hear Sam speak up, for their host’s tone had grown dauntingly chilly, “I’d feel better if I knew Creidhe was well. I take it the women won’t come here for their supper; that doesn’t seem to be your way. But, you understand, she’s a girl, and we’re responsible.”

  Asgrim had walked over to the stone table where the dishes were set; he was using a small, sharp knife to slice off strips of meat and lay them neatly on a platter to the side. Most of the men who had walked with them from the bay were in the hall now. Suppertime it might be, but there was no sense of conviviality; all were silent and grim-faced. Thorvald could not see the man who had walked in front of Creidhe that morning, nor the one who had followed her.

  “Rest assured, lad,” Asgrim addressed Sam with a quirk of the lip that might have been a smile, “there can be no safer place for your friend in these isles but here at Brightwater. Don’t distress yourself. She has a warm hearth, good food and female companionship in abundance. I imagine it’s a great deal more comfortable than your boat. Trust me. The girl’s a treasure, and I know how to look after precious things. Now eat, drink; we’ve work ahead of us, and you need your strength.”

  Much later, as the two of them settled in the narrow chamber they had been allotted for sl
eeping, Sam hissed to Thorvald, “Did you hear what he said? Arts of war? Why did you tell them that anyway, about every lad in the Light Isles being a fighter before he’s twelve years old? You know what’ll happen now. We’ll end up in their front line, and be stone dead before it’s summer.”

  “Shh,” whispered Thorvald. “Keep your voice down, there’s men sleeping on the other side of that partition, and I’ll bet he’s ordered them to report every single thing they hear. Maybe I did exaggerate just a bit.”

  “A bit? I may be handy with my fists when pushed, but I’d be precious little use with a sword in my hands. Arts of war? Only art I know’s throwing out a net and hauling it in again.”

  “It’s all right, Sam. I know what I’m doing.”

  There was a pause.

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Sam muttered.

  Thorvald made no response.

  “You think it’s him?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t know.” That was a lie, of course; he was almost sure, as sure as one could be after so short a time. Not that the man resembled himself in any way that was obvious, save perhaps the eyes. It was more a feeling, not the calling of the blood he had imagined, but a recognition at once more alarming and more heady. This man had hidden depths; he harbored secrets, plots and plans. Thorvald would uncover them; he would find out what lay behind that mask of austerity and control. Asgrim intrigued him. The whole place intrigued him: an island of sorcerers and freaks, a war waged against an enemy with powers beyond the merely physical, a hunt that must be carried out at precisely the right time—there was indeed a quest for him here, a challenge far beyond what he had envisaged. And he would do it; he could show this fellow Asgrim, who might or might not be his father, what stuff he was made of. They would achieve victory together perhaps: like and like.

  “It’s an opportunity,” he said softly, not sure if Sam was still awake. “A chance to find out what kind of man this is. Maybe he’s my father, maybe not. Maybe I’ll tell him and maybe I won’t. We’ve got to earn our wood anyway. Going farther afield is good. I can talk to people, find out who came to these parts back then. Anyway, it sounds as if they really need us, half-baked warriors or not. It sounds as if we can help them. It’s a strange place, an interesting place. I want to find out more.” He rolled over, knowing sleep would be a long time coming.

  “Thorvald?” came Sam’s whisper in the darkness.

  “What?”

  “What if the two of us get killed and Creidhe’s left here on her own?”

  “Trust me,” said Thorvald. “It’ll be fine. Now go to sleep; you heard what the man said—we’re going to need our strength.”

  The light was fading. Margaret sat before the loom, shuttle idle in her hands, the fine-woven strands in their subtle shades of gray and dun blurring before her weary eyes. It was too late for work; she should give up the pretense and go to bed. Yet she sat on, staring blindly at the woolen web and picturing another, a bold swathe of blue and red, and her niece’s small, deft hands moving like graceful birds across its flawless surface. Why couldn’t she weep, as a normal woman would? Why did it all just build up and build up inside her, when already her heart bore a lifetime of burdens? By all the gods, it was a long punishment she had been set for her one error. On days like today, it seemed to her a doom that was forever.

  “Come, you must eat a little. Leave that for now.”

  Ash’s voice was quiet and even, as always. She did not turn her head, but knew just how he stood in the doorway behind her, knew every crease and line of his grave features, the concern in his eyes, the plain, serviceable clothes he wore, garb that reflected his role as something between guard and companion, household steward and familiar friend. Over the years she had watched as his hair turned from russet brown to gray. It was no life for a man, a half life at best.

  “Come now,” he said again, gently insistent. “You can’t see in this light; you’ll strain your eyes.”

  She got up reluctantly, turned to face him knowing he would read the pallor of her cheeks, the unshed tears.

  “He will come back, you know,” Ash said. “Sons have a habit of sailing away; they learn about the world, and about themselves into the bargain. Thorvald loves you. He will remember that in time.”

  Margaret shivered, walking past him into the long room. Bread and ale were set on the table, with a round of sheep’s cheese and a platter of little onions. Ash was so good to her; she did not deserve such kindness. “He hates me,” she said flatly. “He told me so. I looked into my son’s eyes as he said those words, and I saw Somerled staring back at me. I can’t escape what I did; it is a curse that lies not just over me but over Thorvald as well.”

  “Come, sit down,” Ash said. “This bread is good, let me cut you a piece.” His hands were long-fingered and capable, wielding the knife, slicing cheese, setting a platter before her.

  “I can’t eat,” Margaret said, feeling the churning tension in her stomach. Since Thorvald had gone away, a cloud of uncertainty had shadowed her thoughts by day and haunted her dreams at night; there was no escaping it. “It’s my fault this has happened, Ash. If I had chosen to tell him earlier, when he was little, he might have come to terms with it. Then he would not have done this.” She put her head in her hands, hating her own frailty.

  “You are concerned for him; I, too,” Ash said. “But Thorvald is no weakling. You have taught him to be resourceful, to accept challenges.”

  She managed a wan smile. “And, thanks to you, my son is able with sword and bow, though he was ever less than gracious to you for the years of tutelage you gave him.”

  “Thorvald resents my presence here,” Ash remarked calmly, taking a mouthful of bread and cheese. “I have long known that. He does not understand how it is with you and me. He wishes to be the center and sole focus of your world; he is unaware that he is indeed precisely that.”

  Margaret sipped her ale; why was it everything tasted like ashes? It was as if a pall had descended since the day she told Thorvald the truth. She had not known then what she would bring down on herself, on her old friends, on everyone. On that day she had brought Somerled back to life.

  “It seems different here without Creidhe’s visits,” Ash observed quietly, crumbling his bread with his fingers.

  Suddenly Margaret was unable to stop a tear from spilling down her cheek. She wiped it away with furious fingers; even here, even with nobody but Ash to see her, she would not be weak. She must not be weak. Her strength was all she had left.

  “You miss her,” he said, eyes intent on her face. “You miss her most of all: your bright light, your almost-daughter.”

  “You’ve been here too long, Ash,” Margaret said bitterly. “Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself.”

  He said nothing. Now neither of them were pretending to eat, and the silence drew out.

  “You should leave,” Margaret said eventually. “You know that. There is nothing for you here, no life, no future. You should move away, get yourself a farm, take a young wife, have a family of your own. You are not yet so old that you cannot find that kind of contentment.”

  Ash smiled; there was such sadness in it, such resignation that guilt and sorrow settled on Margaret once more like a heavy cloak.

  “You know I will not,” he said simply. “You know how it is with me. Besides, why should I heed your good advice if you yourself will not? We spoke of Creidhe, who is like a daughter to you. All the same, she is not yours, although you love her. Why do you not move on, make a new life free from the shackles of the past? It was a long time ago. And you are still young enough to bear another child, if you choose: your own daughter.”

  She laughed, a harsh, bitter sound quickly suppressed. “Bring another child into the world to share the curse I carry with me? I think not.”

  He regarded her gravely. “What will it take,” he asked her, “to lift this burden from your shoulders? A lifetime of loneliness? When is it enough?”

  “I don
’t know,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. “I fear to see my son grow into his father. That I fear above anything. I fear for Creidhe now; she has been drawn into something that can swallow and destroy her. Her love for Thorvald lays her open to great harm. If only she had not gone with him—”

  “A traveler needs a light to show him the way,” Ash said, wrapping the bread in its cloth and covering the cheese. “While she is with him, our home hearth is a little darker. Perhaps she has a part to play. You look weary; you should rest.”

  “I have dreams. I am not overeager for sleep when such shadows attend it.”

  “Margaret?”

  She looked at him, seeing the steadfast goodness in the gray eyes, noting new lines on his weathered features, knowing what he was about to say.

  “Each of us sleeps in a cold bed.” Ash’s voice was very soft. “There is no need to be alone with your dreams.”

  She shook her head helplessly. “I can’t. You know that. I have nothing for you; nothing to give. I cannot shake off the darkness of the past; Somerled would always lie between us.”

  “All the same,” Ash said, rising to his feet, “I will be close by, should you need me. You know that.”

  “You are too good, Ash. I am not worth such care.”

  He said nothing. There was a code between them, a pattern of restraint that did not allow the touching of lips to palm, a kiss to the cheek, nor even the clasping of hands in the manner of serving man and lady of the house. She got up: another day over, another night to be endured. Where were they, her son with his intense, pale face and his driven eyes; her dear Creidhe of the golden hair and clever hands? Had the ocean even now devoured them, or did they stand on some far shore, confronting the pitiless gaze of the man she had once believed she loved? Gods treat them kindly; gods be more merciful than they had been to her, trapped as she was in a web of her own making.