Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  “Don’t be sorry,” Breccan said. “Our home is open to you; you are safe here.”

  Niall made no comment.

  “It’s only until the others get back,” Creidhe put in quickly. “Not long; Asgrim said—” She fell silent.

  “Asgrim said two days, I seem to remember.” Niall’s tone was thoughtful. “That was some time ago. I’m afraid, my dear, that the Ruler may have plans for your friends, plans that will keep them by his side until midsummer at least.”

  Creidhe was horrified. “What plans? He said they’d already earned what they need. He said they were coming back.”

  “Yes,” agreed Niall. “The Ruler says many things, and every one of them with a purpose.”

  “A pox on him!” Creidhe rose to her feet, fists clenched. “I’ll just walk on over there and find them, that’s what I’ll do. I’m sick of these rules: cover your hair, stay in the settlement, don’t ask awkward questions. Thorvald and Sam should come back; folk need us at home.”

  “Did you ask anyone why?” Niall’s voice was soft. “Why cover your hair? Why not walk about freely?”

  Creidhe gave him a cross glance. “Of course I asked. But nobody would tell me anything. I suppose it’s to do with the—the spirits, the voices, whatever it is the other tribe sends that does such evil work. I’m not afraid of them.” Now she was the one who was lying; she was deeply afraid, but for the moment her anger was stronger. “I’m going to go and find Thorvald and Sam, and nobody’s going to stop me.”

  “Mmm.” Niall regarded her levelly, his dark eyes assessing. “Not today, though. You wouldn’t get there before dark, and if you want to avoid Bright-water, you need to take the steep track. That can be treacherous, even when your shoes fit properly.” He glanced at Brother Breccan, and Breccan moved to busy himself over at the hearth. “I can provide answers to some of your questions, Creidhe. Guesswork, maybe, but informed by my years of living on the islands, close to both Asgrim’s tribe and the other. I think, really, it would be wise to learn what you can, before—”

  Creidhe grimaced. “Before I go rushing off trying to change the world?” She sat down, folding her hands on the table before her. Its stone surface was scrubbed shining clean; the pens and inks, the sheets of parchment lay in orderly fashion at its far end, ready for a scholar’s touch. “You’re right, of course; I’m behaving like Thorvald, dashing into the fray without studying the lay of the land.” That was exactly what Thorvald had done, she thought, when he had followed Asgrim away from Brightwater. Though he had said nothing to her, he had already decided the Ruler was his father; she had seen it in his eyes. Perhaps he was right. By now he would know one way or the other. There was a simple means of ruling people out, one that required no questions at all. “My father would be ashamed of me,” she added.

  “Would he? Well, then, let us do this as he would wish it done, calmly and carefully. Myself, I have learned the great value of foreknowledge; one cannot defeat an enemy one does not understand. Unfortunately, Asgrim has never grasped that. So the situation grows ever more tenuous for the Long Knife people, season by season. These folk deserve better.”

  Breccan had taken a bucket and gone out, closing the door firmly behind him. Of the boy, Colm, there had been no sign save a head ducked in the window earlier, and a bit of bread and cheese passed out with a few explanatory words. Breccan had gone to warn him, perhaps, in case anyone else came searching.

  “We have a few days at least,” Niall said, perhaps seeing something of her anxiety in her face. “He will know where you are; he and I have a long history. He will anticipate my keeping you here, out of his way; he won’t rush back. Asgrim’s busy. He’s getting his forces ready for the hunt. At this precise moment, I’m informed he’s preparing to sail your boat around from Blood Bay to his encampment for a bit of refurbishment. I would suspect he has a particular job in mind for this vessel. Asgrim has plenty to occupy him for now. Nonetheless, we must be ready for him. That means, I’m afraid, that you are still within prison walls of a kind. You’ll have to stay indoors until we decide what to do.”

  “Oh.” Perhaps, after all, she had made a terrible mistake. Perhaps they were not Christian monks in the mold of peace-loving Brother Tadhg at all. This one still wore a dagger; she had seen his hand move to its hilt when Gudrun hammered on the door. She had seen him adjust his robe later, to conceal the bright metal.

  “Not good, I know. You are an active girl, I suspect. You made the walk here in remarkably good time.”

  “At home I’m used to walking to my Aunt Margaret’s house every day so we can work together. Sometimes I ride; it’s a fair way. I hate being cooped up.” She flushed. “I’m sorry, that sounds terribly ungrateful. Please, do tell me what you can about all this. I’m so worried about Thorvald, he gets caught up in an idea sometimes and forgets everything else. He can’t really look after himself very well. And Sam’s just a fisherman, and expects everyone else to be as honest as he is. That’s why—”

  Niall gave a half-smile. “That’s why you came with them?”

  “Well, yes. I suppose it sounds rather silly, but it seemed to me they needed someone—” She faltered again.

  “Someone who could see the situation from outside and come up with answers? Not this time, I fear. The three of you have walked into a web that is dark, complex and very old, a struggle that has come close to annihilating all who live here, both Long Knife people and Unspoken. And, sad to say, because of what you are, it will be no simple matter to extricate you.”

  “What we are?” Creidhe echoed, not understanding.

  Niall reached across and took a strand of her hair between his fingers, twisting the bright gold gently. “Not the others, just you. They bade you cover your hair with good reason. Asgrim’s daughter had such a head of hair, fair and shining as ripe wheat. Asgrim’s daughter was stolen for her golden hair, stolen and borne away by the tribesmen of the Unspoken. She was used by each of them in turn, over the nights from one full moon to the next. Thus does the tribe make a child, a very special child, whose conception and birth are integral to their lore. They call this one Foxmask, a powerful visionary, their priest and wise man. Such a child can be born only of a maiden who is sun and moon in one being: hair like rays of morning light, skin white as moonbeams on snow.”

  Creidhe stared at him aghast. “His daughter? How terrible! What happened to her?” But she seemed to know the answer already; it was in the gravity of his austere features, the careful neutrality of the eyes.

  “She died; she was a young thing, perhaps thirteen when they took her. Younger than you, Creidhe. The Unspoken had been without a seer for some years, since the old one died. They were in turmoil; they require this kind of guidance to maintain their order, their whole pattern of being. Without it, they are like a sharp axe in the hands of a crazy man, striking at random, as ready to destroy a friend as an enemy. You’ve heard their wild music; you’ve seen what damage it can inflict. They did not use their powers thus when Foxmask dwelt among them. The girl served her purpose: her death would have meant little. She was merely a vessel for them.”

  Beneath her outrage, Creidhe was thinking hard. “Golden hair, all right, I suppose I have to cover up because they might see me, because I might be at risk of—abduction.” She shivered, recoiling from the image of it: that little girl all alone among those monsters, her whole world destroyed. Herself, perhaps taken and used the same way . . . It was disgusting, impossible. Such things just didn’t happen. “Why only me?” she challenged, hearing the shrill note of fear in her own voice. “Why don’t all the women have to cover up? And how do you know all this anyway? I thought the three of you were banned from the settlement.”

  “As to that,” Niall said, “we are unwelcome in Asgrim’s domain, that much is true. But I’ve been here many years, Creidhe, since well before these troubles began. There was a time in these isles when men plied their trades without fear; when folk traveled freely from settlement to settlement and s
poke openly of their business. In those days, Long Knife people and Unspoken met yearly for a council. Hard to believe now, but true. Latterly, the information has come through Asgrim himself, for only he can speak with the enemy now, and that with some difficulty, I gather. My young messengers, bringers of fish and news, keep me up to date, and they don’t tell tales at the other end. You ask, Why only me? Fair-haired women are rare in these isles. In all the time I have been here, Sula and yourself have been the only two young girls with such a head of hair. Your mother, I expect, had her origins in some land far to the east: Norway, perhaps.”

  Creidhe managed a smile. “My mother is one of the old race in the Light Isles: a dark-haired woman, and slightly built. You know that already. It is my father who has the butter-yellow locks and the eyes like pieces of sky.”

  He did not reply. There was a quill in the jar by his side, and he took it out and rolled it between his fingers absently.

  “You are a scribe? A draftsman?” Creidhe asked, trying to fix her mind on something normal, to reassure herself this was not some living nightmare. She had wondered at the tools of scholarship set out here; they seemed incongruous in the brutal, ungiving landscape of these far isles.

  For a moment she thought he was not going to answer. Then he put the pen down and said, “All three of us practice this craft, in one way or another. It passes the time. You read?”

  “Oh no. I would like to, of course; Thorvald can read, his mother taught him, and I wanted to learn, but I don’t seem to have the knack for it. Aunt Margaret said it didn’t matter, that I put my talent into the other things I do. But it would be very fine to be able to make my name; to cipher, and to scribe.”

  “Other things? What are these other things Aunt Margaret values, Creidhe?”

  She was blushing again: stupid. “Girls’ pursuits. Spinning, weaving, embroidery. Cooking and midwifery. Looking after children, and teaching them. Thorvald thinks those things aren’t important, but they are. They have to be. They are the heart of a community, they hold it all together . . .” She was babbling; what interest could he possibly have in this?

  “You have some handiwork with you?”

  “Yes. But I don’t show it. Not usually.”

  His smile was guarded; something had set a constraint between them. “Nor I mine, Creidhe. We are both slow to trust, and rightly so. Perhaps, when we know each other better, we may work side by side. Now it grows late and I think the others are returning; perhaps there will be eggs.”

  “Oh—but you didn’t finish! What about Asgrim, and the boys—why is he keeping them there, and how—?”

  The door rattled and opened, admitting Breccan and Colm. The latter shot a glance at Creidhe, then retreated to the fireside, milk pail in one hand and egg basket in the other. Creidhe supposed he was still young enough to find the presence of a woman at close quarters disturbing; the others, by dint of age or discipline, seemed to have no trouble with it. The cowshed would probably be a blessing for Colm, judging by the way he was looking at her under his lashes like a bashful suitor.

  “As I said,” Niall folded his arms casually, “we do have a few days, and with the restriction on outdoor activities, plenty of time to talk. And you need more food and more sleep. Let us come at this slowly. There is layer upon layer here, and not all are so easily unfolded. Ah, four eggs today. The hens must have seen you coming.”

  “I’m going back,” declared Sam, testing his weight on the heavily bandaged ankle and wincing in pain. The injury was taking a long time to heal; maybe something was broken after all. “I’m going if I have to crawl there. This is just ridiculous. I want my boat, I want to see Creidhe, and I want to get home. Since the Ruler’s not here, I needn’t ask permission, need I? Or is it you I’m supposed to ask, since you seem to have set yourself up as leader in his absence?” He glowered at Thorvald and hobbled another step along the shore. The two of them were alone; on the higher ground by the shelter, the men were engaged in mock battle under Hogni’s supervision. Thorvald had moved them on from one-to-one bouts, and now they rehearsed the possible flows of a real skirmish, eight men attacking, eight defending, the rest observing. By midsummer they would be ready; he would make sure of it.

  “Leader?” Thorvald lifted his brows. “Hardly, I’m what they call an incomer, after all. I merely share what little knowledge I have. You’ve seen what they’re like, Sam. They’d have been sitting targets in this battle. The least I can do is give them a bit of help.”

  “Mmm. You lap it up, though, don’t you? Being treated like you’re someone special, the hero that’ll see them through and solve all their problems? I don’t know about you, Thorvald, I really don’t.”

  “Anyway,” Thorvald said, finding himself more than a little rattled, though Sam’s comments were nonsense, of course, “you know you can’t walk more than six or seven steps on that foot without falling in a heap. You know you’d never make it over to Blood Bay, especially not with a load of wood on your back. I presume that was the plan, since there’s a certain question of boat-mending to be addressed. You know I can’t go back yet. These men depend on me. Without my help they stand to be beaten yet again: beaten, maimed, killed and sent back into despair until this enemy wipes out every last one of them. You expect me to let that happen when I can do something to prevent it? Try to look past your own concerns, Sam. This is far bigger than you and me and the Sea Dove.” It was so big, in fact, that it had begun to consume his thoughts, night and day. In the Light Isles, the closest he had come to influencing men, to making decisions of any importance, was in joining the debate when invited to councils with his mother. His contributions, while always received with respect, had been at best peripheral. It had never been possible to believe himself essential to any discussion, to any endeavor. He had never been part of a venture in which life and death hung in the balance; he had never had men depending on him. This was vital. He could almost believe he had been sent to do this.

  Sam set his jaw obstinately. He had given up the attempt to walk and stood leaning on the length of driftwood he used for support. “What about Creidhe?” he challenged. “Forgotten her, have you, in your quest to impress this father of yours?”

  Sudden anger seized Thorvald. He lifted his hand as if to deliver a blow, and lowered it at the look in Sam’s eyes. “Hold your tongue!” he snapped. Then he made himself draw a deep breath. A leader does not lose control so easily, and he was a leader here, for all his denials. In that, Sam had been quite correct. The men turned to Thorvald increasingly for guidance and encouragement, and he saw a flowering in them, both of skills and of hope. “Creidhe came here by her own choice,” he said, forcing his voice calm. “You know that. There is no reason why she should not wait for us a little longer. Provided we sail before the autumn storms, we can reach home safely. A passage across to the Northern Isles, I think, then a cautious trip down to Hrossey. There’ll be plenty of time.” Creidhe could wait. His mother could wait. This was a quest, a challenge bold and real.

  “You’ll do what you want, of course,” Sam muttered. “Don’t you always? But you won’t make me do it, not this time. I have a bad feeling, and it’s got to do with Asgrim, and this whole hunt business, and Creidhe as well. Soon as this leg’s fit for it, I’m off back over there, and if you’re not ready by the time the Sea Dove is, we’re going home without you.”

  Thorvald smiled thinly. “That’ll be cozy, just the two of you.” It hurt somewhat that Sam did not support him, that Sam could not comprehend the magnitude of what he was doing here, the huge significance of it. Win this summer’s battle, retrieve Foxmask at last, and he would deliver the long-sought peace and freedom that Asgrim craved for his tribe. Surely no boat, no girl was more important than that?

  “Blind, are you?” growled Sam, turning away. Thorvald had no idea what he meant, and no inclination to ask. The injury, the forced inaction, had turned Sam rather odd; his sunny, equable disposition had been replaced by ill temper and restless brooding.
Well, that was Sam’s problem, not his. Asgrim would be back again soon, his latest trip merely to check outposts and call in a few more men to swell the number Thorvald was training at the camp. He must ensure that when the Ruler returned, they had something to show him.

  As their trust in Thorvald had grown, the men had begun to talk more openly, and he had learned enough about the nature of the coming battle, and the terrain on which it must be fought, to narrow his strategies to those appropriate to such challenging conditions. What was the size of the enemy forces? Big: they came from everywhere, appearing and vanishing at will. Last summer they had accounted for many of Asgrim’s men before the broken remnant of the islanders’ army had raced the Fool’s Tide back to Council Fjord. So, this tribe had numbers, and they were well armed, resourceful and clever. They had the advantage of knowing the territory. The timing of the hunt? Two days if they were lucky; the boats would stand off the Isle of Clouds overnight, for the ground was treacherous even in full light, and there were presences. Not a man among them wanted his foot on that shore in darkness. Two days, and then home again, whatever the result; fail to cross over while the strange midsummer calm lulled the roiling currents of the Fool’s Tide, and the sea would have them if the enemy did not. The terrain? A beast of a place, full of sudden, sheer drops, holes, cracks and caves. Not much cover, and the enemy knew every bit of it like the back of his hand. There were birds everywhere, the ground in some areas slick with their droppings, the air full of their screams and pecking beaks. They’d have young to protect; it was an additional hazard. Anything else he should know? Well, there was the mist, the drenching rain, the chill; there were the hands under the water, and the voices . . .