Spirit of the Mist

by O'Kerry Janeen

  All she could do was draw herself up as tall as possible and look him straight in the eye. “I am on my way to see the king! Of course I would wish to look my best. It has nothing to do with you.”

  She turned around before he could say any more and started off across the dun. “Will you be so kind as to escort me to the house of this king?” he called after her. “I am told that he waits to see me.”

  “You may follow if you wish, Brendan,” Muriel called over her shoulder. She heard his footsteps in the grass as he caught up. She could not quite see him, but she could hear him following a few paces back.

  He was laughing.

  Her temper rising with every step, Muriel strode across the sun-warmed greenery of the grounds of Dun Farraige with Brendan following behind like a servant.

  She could think only of how glad she was that she had not allowed any sympathy for his plight to affect her feelings toward him. He might be physically attractive, but he had proved to have a common, mocking manner with women. He was just another ill-mannered, handsome young male who assumed that every woman he met would instantly fall in love with him.

  It was almost a relief to find that he was no different from any other man. She told herself that she would not have wanted to be involved with him anyway—and when word came back to them, as she was sure it would, that he was not a prince at all but just a smooth-talking captive trying to get better treatment for himself by lying about his rank, she would be free to go on with her life without giving him another thought.

  He was certainly no prince. And certainly not what she wanted in a husband.

  They walked through the scattering of the dun’s round white houses until they reached the long, rectangular building of the King’s Hall sitting at the center of the fortress. Muriel raised her chin a little, then turned to Brendan as she stopped before the wide central door of the hall.

  “Please go in. He’s waiting for you.” She stepped back to let him pass.

  He hesitated, then smiled and made her a little bow. “Thank you,” he said. Then he walked into the unfamiliar hall as though it were his very own.

  Chapter Three

  Muriel followed him inside, into the vast, high-ceilinged room. Sunlight filtered down through the thatched roof and streamed in through the hole above the huge, round firepit at its center. But her attention was drawn to the far end of the building, where the king and a group of his warriors and druids stood waiting. Brendan walked toward them as casually as though he were out for a stroll along the beach.

  She found herself staring at his tall form as he strode across the rushes. His plain gray cloak billowed out from his broad shoulders, ending midway down his long legs and appearing a dashing contrast against the sleek, black leather of his new pants and boots.

  Even in his plain, borrowed clothes he stood tall before King Murrough. He seemed to think he was just as regal and noble as the king, who wore brightly dyed blue and red and purple wools and who fairly glittered with heavy gold.

  “Good morning to you, King Murrough,” said Brendan in his clear and pleasant voice. Muriel moved to stand a little distance away. She was careful to look only at the king, not at the tall, gray-clad figure beside her.

  “Brendan,” said the king. “You are welcome here at Dun Farraige. I hope that the hospitality you have received has been satisfactory.”

  “It has been more than I could ask for, and more than I deserve. I am grateful to you, and to your people, and especially to this lady who stands near me now—this Lady Muriel.”

  He turned to her and smiled, and in that moment she saw only his blue and brown eyes and the smooth, fair skin of his face. She made herself look away and did not answer; instead, she simply inclined her head in recognition. She feared that her voice might quaver if she spoke…if those shining eyes gazed at her again…if that dazzling smile was fixed on her one more time.

  Brendan turned back to the king. Muriel drew a deep breath and willed herself to remain calm and unruffled. He was just a man like any other. It was simply his eyes that were different. That was all.

  “You are welcome to what we have,” the king said. “If you are now comfortable, we invite you to tell us your story.” He sat down on a bench, and the nine warriors and five druids around him shifted as they looked expectantly at their guest.

  “I will be happy to do so.” Brendan’s smile included everyone in the room. “My name is Brendan. I am from Dun Bochna, the home of King Galvin, my father. It is a long way from here, far across the bay.”

  “It is,” agreed the king. “It is five days’ ride from here—if one has five good days. I have been there twice. And on neither of those visits do I recall seeing you.”

  Brendan regarded him. “No doubt I was out riding with the other men patrolling our borders, or checking on the herd boys out with the cattle in the hills, or simply hunting deer or boar. When the summer comes, I am not often to be found within the walls of the dun.”

  “That is possible,” conceded the king. “But do you also set out alone in a little curragh when the summer comes?”

  Brendan almost laughed. “I do not. That is another story.”

  “So it is.” Murrough’s eyes narrowed. “You were found alone in just such a craft without weapon, sail, or oar. You were dressed in rags, your hair cut short in the manner of a slave.”

  “Criminals are cast out on the sea just as you describe,” accused the druid nearest the king in a murmur.

  Brendan drew himself up even taller. “I am no criminal.”

  “You had neither food nor water, as the law requires,” the druid added. “Were your supplies lost during the storm? Or do you mean to tell us that someone deliberately set you adrift in this way?”

  “Someone did exactly that. It was King Odhran.”

  There was a murmuring among the druids and the warriors. King Murrough glanced up at them, causing their silence, and then turned back to Brendan. “I was told that you had spoken of Odhran,” he said. “We know him far too well. He has tried to establish a hold on the rugged lands at the eastern end of the bay.”

  “He has done more than try,” Brendan proclaimed. “He has defeated the old king there and taken over his fortress. Odhran now holds Dun Camas.”

  “We heard that there was a battle—perhaps nine, ten nights ago,” admitted King Murrough. “The farmers there believed that both King Fallon and Queen Grania were killed in the takeover. We could find no one who saw it, however.”

  “That is because they were not killed. They were taken captive for a time—and then the king was blinded with the same pin that King Odhran uses to fasten his cloak. Odhran rules there now.”

  Again the men of Dun Farraige talked in low voices among themselves. Their king’s face grew even more serious. He looked hard at Brendan. “They may as well have killed Fallon outright,” he said. “No man can be a king with such a disfigurement.”

  “That is why they had it done: to shame him,” said Brendan. “Fallon tried to walk off the cliffs, but his queen begged him not to. I know this because they, and one of their men, were allowed to walk out through the gates as Odhran laughed.

  “After many days, they managed to find their way to Dun Bochna. The former king now lives quietly in the shadows there with his queen. He remains alive only for her sake—and I can tell you that on the day she dies, he too will be gone before the sun sets.”

  King Murrough gazed into the distance, nodding slowly and thoughtfully. “Something will have to be done about Odhran very soon.” He looked back at Brendan. “Yet you have not told us how you came to be set adrift.”

  Brendan smiled. “I am the second son of King Galvin, and I wished to be named tanist. I wanted nothing more in life than to be the next king, after my father moves on to the next life—and so, not long after King Odhran took over, I led sixteen men in a cattle raid against him.”

  The king raised his eyebrows, a slow smile spreading across his face. He nodded at Brendan. “A bold move,�
� he said. “Did you get the cattle?”

  Brendan grinned. “We got half of his herd. And all my men got away safely.”

  “All except you.”

  “All except me. I stayed behind to draw off the pursuit when it finally came. My men got away—but I did not.”

  “Another bold move. But you cannot be a king if you are held captive, or if you are dead.”

  “That is true, King Murrough,” agreed Brendan coolly. He paced a couple of steps, then cocked his head and grinned. “But as you can see, I am neither.”

  Muriel let out her breath. She wondered how this man’s bravado would strike the king and his men. Never had she seen anyone with such confidence, so sure of himself.

  The king seemed to be enjoying his guest’s story. “So you were the only captive,” he noted. “I am sure that King Odhran could not have been too pleased to know that you led the raid that took half his cattle.”

  For the first time, Brendan’s smile faded completely. He stood very still and faced the king. “You are right. He was not. He meant to kill me.”

  “Kill you?” Now Murrough was frowning. “If you are the tanist, as you say, why would they not just hold you for the generous ransom your own king—your own father—would surely pay to have you back?”

  “Because…when the attackers came, I fought with them so that my own men could ride away. I killed one of King Odhran’s men…and he turned out to be Oscar, the king’s own son and the tanist of his tribe.”

  The king raised his head. “Oscar is dead? At your hands?”

  “I did not wish to kill him. But he was determined to kill me. I had no choice, if I wished to live.”

  “Oscar was as mad as his father. He was vicious. Cruel. No regard for the law.” Murrough nodded. “You have done us all a favor.”

  Before Brendan could respond, the king fixed him with a cool stare. “So tell us, then—if you killed the mad son of an equally mad king, how is it that you live to stand before us here today?”

  Brendan smiled again, but this time there was no humor in it. He glanced away and seemed to look inward, clearly reliving a terrible moment.

  “Odhran meant to kill me with his own hands. He drew his sword and ran at me…and I would be dead were it not for his druids.”

  Muriel was struck by a sudden dreadful image of Brendan falling to the grass, shock and pain in his strange blue and brown eyes, his fair skin suddenly white as death and splashed with bright red, his golden brown hair lying still against green grass.

  She took a sudden breath and looked away. The image faded and she was greatly relieved to see that he still stood before her, draped in his soft gray borrowed clothes, calmly talking to the king.

  “They said that one dead tanist was enough. That two would be a disaster,” Brendan went on. “Though I believe they simply did not want Dun Bochna to attack them while they were still trying to establish themselves at their new home.”

  “The druids were much wiser than their king,” acknowledged King Murrough.

  “They persuaded Odhran to exile me, instead; and once he got that idea in his head, he came to prefer it. He went on at some length about how much longer it would take me to die, and how much more painful it would be if I were cast out onto the ocean with no food and no water.

  “When the druids protested this, he asked if they would prefer he killed me on the spot with his sword. They had little choice but to relent, and so they did.

  “That evening, Odhran and a few of his warriors stripped me of everything I had, gave me rags to wear, cut my hair like a slave’s, threw me into a boat, and shoved me out with the tide. All of them laughed as I drifted away, and they were quite certain that they had seen the last of me.”

  He turned to Muriel. “But thanks to this lady, they have not.”

  The king regarded him for a moment and then whispered to his druids. At last he turned back to Brendan. “So. All this would explain why you had the appearance of a slave when we found you.”

  A look of relief crossed his face. “It would. It does.”

  “We have all enjoyed your story, Brendan. But there is not a word of it that you can prove. You could just as well be a criminal who tells a fine tale—a criminal stripped of all you own and set adrift for your transgressions, to become the property of anyone who might find you.”

  “If you survived the waves,” added the druid.

  “King Murrough, I assure you my story is true. I am Brendan, the second son of King Galvin, the tanist of—”

  But the king abruptly stood, cutting off his guest’s protests. “Tomorrow I will send five men to Dun Bochna to ask about your story. They will be gone at least a fortnight, since they will be forced to ride far inland to get around King Odhran’s fortress.

  “In the meantime you will remain here. But you shall be neither noble nor slave, with neither weapon nor gold, until we know for certain who you are.

  “If your story is true, your king and father will no doubt send a ransom and men to bring you home. If it is not, you will go back to the rags we found you in and live out your life as a servant of my people—the ones who rescued you. Which will be more than you deserve should you have lied to us.”

  Brendan bowed to the king. “I thank you, King Murrough.”

  “Do not thank me yet,” said the sovereign. He walked down past the firepit and went out the door, followed closely by his druids and his warriors, leaving Brendan and Muriel standing alone in the filtered light of the hall.

  She looked at him, and he stared back, and for the first time Muriel saw doubt and worry on his face. Not even when he had been lost and facing death out on the waves had she seen anything but confidence in his eyes. Now, though, the supremely confident Brendan was beginning to realize just how precarious his position truly was.

  “Perhaps you would like to see the ocean from the hills up above the dun,” she said, watching his face.

  His eyes focused on her. His expression remained serious. But then he smiled and seemed to relax. “Thank you. I would like that very much.”

  She smiled, too. “Now that you are not so tall, I thought it would be necessary for you to stand on the highest hill to get a view of that same ocean.”

  Oh, it was enjoyable, the way the stunned expression spread across his fine features. It was clear now that she would be able to keep him at arm’s-length quite easily, and simply enjoy his company for a little while before he returned to his own people. There would be no danger of her head being turned by his tall, fair form, by his strange and beautiful eyes…

  “I am glad indeed that it was you who saved my life,” he said wryly, “for it must mean you like me at least a little. If you did not, think of how cruel you might be, with a wit as quick as yours.”

  Then, to her surprise, he sank gracefully to one knee before her in the rushes. “My lady, before you I am never any taller than this. Will you still show me the way to the highest hill?”

  She blushed. “Only if you get up off your knees.”

  “Ah, that is kind of you. I am so glad you would not have me travel on my knees. The rocks—”

  “Would ruin a good pair of leathers,” she snapped, cutting him off. But he got to his feet and stood back a bit, extending his arm toward the door with a little bow.

  She brushed past him and he followed closely as she walked outside. She was fairly certain she heard him chuckling.

  Muriel walked with long strides across the grounds of the dun. She looked neither left nor right but simply walked straight across the greensward toward the heavy wooden gates in the outer wall. It helped to keep her mind from dwelling on the tall stranger who followed her.

  And he is a stranger, she reminded herself. As the king had wisely pointed out, his story was still very much in question. She could not allow herself to forget that.

  The gates stood open to the day, allowing workers and servants to come and go as they hauled water in and refuse out. Muriel and Brendan walked outside and began the cl
imb up the grassy hillside above Dun Farraige, until they reached the wide, rolling hilltops scattered with oak and willow trees.

  The great size of the dun could only be properly appreciated from up here. Its two solid, grass-covered earthen walls—one inside the other, with a rain-filled ditch in between—formed vast circles around the twenty round houses and the long, rectangular hall of the king. The buildings had all had their straw thatching repaired, and the rooftops shone golden in the sun above white walls freshly daubed and smoothed with clay to keep out the cold winds from the sea.

  Along the inner wall were an armory, a smokehouse, and a huge stack of peat bricks for fuel, as well as pens holding glossy-coated horses and a few sleek calves and fat lambs. The whole place held an air of prosperity and plenty—and safety against the elements and against invaders.

  But Brendan only glanced at the spectacular view before turning back to Muriel. “I do think you must like me, Lady Muriel. Why else would you invite me to come up here with you?”

  She started to give him a cold reply, but then saw how his blue and brown eyes sparkled in the sunlight, how he was all but grinning. He was baiting her, hoping to see her lose her temper and quite possibly make a fool of herself.

  Well, it was not going to happen on this day!

  Muriel merely smiled politely at him. “I thought only to show a small kindness to a lost stranger. If you want to go back to the dun, please feel free to do so. The path is easily found.”

  “And I appreciate your kindness very much, as I have told you. But are you saying that you would have brought any stranger up here? Was there nothing about me at all that you found attractive?”

  She only shrugged. “I simply asked you to go for a walk with me. Nothing more. I’m sorry, Brendan, but you have no effect on me at all, either for good or for ill.” And she turned to gaze out at the bay.

  “You are saying that I do not touch your feelings at all?” He sounded incredulous.

  “I am saying that I have never let myself get carried away by a handsome face or a set of broad shoulders—much less a sweet-sounding voice. I have learned to control my emotions very well.”