The Well of Shades

by Juliet Marillier

  “Do you have a theory concerning Bargoit?”

  “Several; I have yet to decide which is the most plausible. I think it possible Carnach is luring Bargoit into a trap of some kind. It would be greatly to Fortriu’s advantage if Bargoit lost his influence with the new king of Circinn. I’m certain my sudden appearance in the middle of it all was highly inconvenient for Carnach. However, he used his wits to turn my presence to his advantage. He’d have known you sent me to find out what was going on; he used me to respond to your concerns. To let you know he can handle the situation, whatever it is. That you haven’t lost his support and that he’ll be back.”

  “Flamekeeper aid us,” said Bridei, “perhaps it really is good news. You know I trust you, Faolan. I wasn’t there; you were. The question now is, shall we share this and, if so, how widely?”

  “Who will be present at this council?”

  “Talorgen. You may be relieved to know he accepted his new post somewhat unwillingly, and only on a temporary basis. Fola, who will be leaving soon for Banmerren, but agreed to stay for this. Aniel and Tharan. Perhaps Tuala, if she can be free.”

  Faolan nodded. “The decision is yours, of course. I believe you can inform that group of this matter. Do I take it that Broichan is not yet returned?”

  “We’ve heard nothing. My next task for you may have to be seeking out news of these Christians; I hope their arrival is not imminent. Keother and his cousin are still here. I’d prefer to avoid the complication of dealing with both at once. He’s dangerous and she’s volatile. And there’s a strong Christian presence in the Light Isles, which Keother is known to tolerate.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Faolan’s tone had changed, as had his expression; something in Bridei’s speech had made him seek the protection of formality.

  “I don’t plan to send you off right away, friend,” Bridei said, guessing as one usually had to do with Faolan. “Right now, you should go off and wash, change your clothes, and have a bite to eat. Then I’d be glad if you would return here to give your personal account to my council.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He was nearly at the door when Bridei said, on impulse, “By the way, that young lady of yours has settled in very well.”

  Faolan stopped as if hit by a crossbow bolt. He stood utterly still, half turned away from the king.

  “Eile, I mean,” Bridei added when it became evident Faolan was not going to ask. “She’s learning the Priteni tongue—we asked our old tutor Wid to help her—and making new friends. She’s become quite a favorite here. Tuala says she has a rare touch with the children.”

  Faolan could be seen to breathe again. “She’s still here?” His voice was odd; tight and strained. “Does that mean Ana and Drustan haven’t left court? I thought—”

  “Ana and Drustan were handfasted some time ago, Faolan.” Bridei kept his tone neutral. He was perhaps the only person in whom Faolan had confided the truth about his impossible passion for Ana, and the complicated nature of the bond between the three of them, Ana, Faolan, and Drustan. “They are long since departed for the north. But Eile and her daughter stayed behind.”

  “I see.” It came after a pause in which Bridei thought he could almost feel the turmoil in his friend’s mind, such was the tension in the little chamber. “Where have you housed them? A rare touch, you said… Is Eile working as a nursemaid? That is not—”

  “Why don’t you go and ask her?” Bridei suggested. “She’ll very likely be in our private garden at this time of day, pulling up a few weeds and keeping an eye on Derelei.”

  “Your council—”

  “Go on, Faolan. We can wait a little. Remember you are human.”

  Faolan limped to the door and set a hand on its frame for support. “Oddly enough,” he said quietly, “I no longer need reminding.”

  THE SUN WAS low; its rays slanted across the quiet little garden, warming the rows of herbs and the creepers on the stone walls, setting a yellow glint in the water of the pond. The place looked deserted. That was just as well; his heart was pounding like a war drum and his tongue was surely incapable of uttering a coherent word. She was here. She was still at White Hill, and he had to find the right things to say, the safe, reassuring things, while his body had leapt with desire at the sound of her name and his head was a mess of chaotic thoughts and jumbled emotions. The king’s assassin and spy, cool and professional, was suddenly and completely unmanned.

  Faolan made to turn back. He’d best clean himself up and present himself to the council. That, at least, he would be able to do efficiently. A sound froze him in place.

  “One, two, three, buzzy bumblebee…”

  Saraid, without a doubt. Her voice came from behind the lavender bushes where, he seemed to remember, there was a small patch of grass edged by flower beds.

  “Four, five, six, beetle on a stick…”

  Eile. Oh gods, Eile. He felt his blood surge. Then a new voice spoke, a young man’s.

  “Seven, eight, nine, berries on a vine…”

  “Now Deny.” That was Saraid again. A tiny voice said something, the words indistinct, the inflection copying exactly that of the other participants in this game, whatever it was.

  “Very good, Derelei,” Eile said. “We’ll have you speaking Gaelic in no time. And you, Dovran.”

  Dovran. He would kill the man. No, he would turn and walk away quietly; he would go to Bridei and volunteer to travel down the Glen and find the Christians. She need never see him. She sounded happy; settled. And Dovran, a pox on the fellow, sounded as if he belonged there. Faolan edged back down the steps. On the second tread his foot slipped and he grasped at the bushes by the path to keep his balance. A moment later Dovran was at the head of the steps, spear poised to thrust; the king’s bodyguards were all professionals.

  “State your name and—Faolan!” Dovran’s expression relaxed; he withdrew the weapon. “You’re back! Welcome home.”

  But Faolan was not looking at Dovran. His eyes were fixed on the space behind the young guard, where one, two, three figures appeared: Saraid, clad in a little gown of pink wool, with Sorry under one arm; Derelei, big-eyed and solemn on the bodyguard’s other side; and Eile. She wore a skirt and tunic of deep green and her fiery hair was caught in two little braids at the temples, then flowed down her back. His hands could feel how soft it would be to touch; his mind spanned the distance between them, imagining the myriad sensations of holding her in his arms. He saw a sequence of expressions cross the pale, neat features: surprise, shock, confusion, something else he could not interpret, something that might be good… He wanted to hold out his arms; to invite her embrace. Automatic defenses held his body still.

  Then Saraid cried out, “Feeler! Feeler home!” and launched herself down the steps, and his defenses crumbled utterly. He knelt and caught her, and hugged her and Sorry both, blinking back tears. He murmured something that was both greeting and apology, feeling the child’s peach-soft cheek against his, then rose with Saraid in his arms and turned a certain look on Dovran.

  “I’d best be off,” Dovran said in the Priteni tongue, not without delivering his own look. “I’ll see you at supper, Eile.”

  “Thank you for playing,” Eile said. Her accent had improved markedly.

  “Any time.” The young guard strode past Faolan and away across the garden.

  “What’s he supposed to be doing?” Faolan demanded, using Gaelic.

  “Keeping watch. Keeping folk out of the queen’s garden. Don’t glare like that. Come up where I can see you.”

  The words were practical; why was her voice so shaky? Faolan mounted the steps and stood before her. He said not a single word. Eile scrutinized him, narrowing her eyes against the afternoon sun. “You look terrible,” she said.

  You look wonderful. “You’re still here,” Faolan said. “I thought you’d be gone. I thought Drustan and Ana…”

  “As you see, I’m not so easily tidied away. There’s plenty for me to do here, and Saraid seems happy
enough. I made my own decision. Come and sit down on the bench, Faolan. Your leg’s worse, isn’t it? What happened?”

  He limped to the bench, unable to pretend before her perceptive eye. He sat, putting Saraid beside him. Eile squatted down in front of him, the silent Derelei close by, staring. Scrutiny from all sides: he felt as if he were being weighed in the balance. Only Saraid, snuggling against him without question, had evidently judged him satisfactory. He cleared his throat; found words. “Bridei said you’ve settled in well. I see that is so.”

  “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

  “No, of course not—I’m surprised, that’s all. Taken aback.”

  “Taken aback that safety and kindness have made me almost content? Surprised that I’ve grown out of threatening intruders with pitchforks?”

  “Dovran. That surprised me. A man you’d never met when I left here, sitting on the ground as if he was part of the family, playing games with you and your daughter; looking at you with ownership in his eyes. I haven’t been gone so terribly long. It made me wonder if I’d misunderstood, earlier.”

  Eile’s eyes darkened with anger; she rose to her feet. “We can’t talk about this now, here,” she said, glancing at the two children. “I’m not sure if I want to talk about it at all. It sounds as if you’re saying I’m only of interest to you as long as I’m flawed; damaged. Things change. Sometimes they change despite us.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant.” He felt as if she’d struck him; how could she believe this of him? “I expected…” The image in his mind was clear as day, himself with his arms spread wide, laying his heart bare, and Eile running, her red hair flying, running to embrace him as if he were the only man in the world. It was farcical. “Forget it,” he said. “I should get back to the king’s council. I must clean myself up first; I stink.” He got up, feeling the fire shoot through his knee, and before he could take a step, Eile had reached out and gripped him by the arms.

  “Careful,” she said, her tone quite different now. “I can see how much it hurts. Go on pretending there’s nothing wrong and you’ll find you can’t walk at all soon. There are healers here; have it looked at. If you want, I can help you—”

  She fell silent, still supporting him with her hands on his upper arms. He felt her touch warm every part of his body. For a moment, the thrill of it drove out all caution, and he bent his head and touched his lips to her temple, just for a moment, a wonderful, perilous moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m going to get this all wrong. I think I should just turn around and go away again. That would be easier for both of us. I know it would be best for you.”

  Eile had not moved; she had neither flinched away nor made a sound. Her hands still held him, strong and unwavering.

  A little voice spoke up from beside him. “Feeler go away?” It was full of woe; when he looked, he saw silent tears streaming down Saraid’s cheeks.

  “No, Saraid,” Eile said shakily. “Faolan’s not going away again. No need to cry, little one. Shh, shh, you’re starting Derry off, too.” Then, looking up at Faolan, “You do stink a bit. No worse than either of us did coming up the Glen, but if there’s a council you’d better take time to wash and change. Did you come straight here after seeing the king?”

  “Yes, I…” It didn’t seem possible to frame coherent words, nor to make a simple decision. “Where are you lodged?” he asked her. “Can I see you later?”

  “We’re in a little chamber next to Ana’s old quarters.”

  “We?”

  “Saraid and me. What else? You imagine a miracle has occurred, and I have a perfect young man in my bed already?” Then, after a little, “Faolan, are you blushing?” Her tone was very sweet; it made his heart behave quite oddly.

  “I suppose,” he made himself say, “that if it were true—you and Dovran, so soon—it would be a good thing. Even though it would mean you had broken a promise. But… if it were true, it would… it would hurt me, Eile.”

  “You broke a promise,” she reminded him.

  “I know, and I am sorry for it. Bitterly sorry. The king made me go. I could not explain to him.”

  She had released him. Now she took Saraid’s hand and Derelei’s, as if preparing to leave.

  “Don’t go yet. Please.”

  “I don’t want to, Faolan. But I have responsibilities and so have you.”

  “It’s no excuse, is it? The king made me go. I wanted to leave you a message. I couldn’t find the words.”

  Something hung suddenly in the balance; Eile’s eyes held a question whose answer was all-important. “Can you find them now?” she asked quietly.

  His heart thundered; his blood raced. It was akin to the most difficult challenge in the world. No, perhaps not the most difficult; he thought that was still to come. “I don’t want to go,” he whispered, “but Bridei needs me to do this. I put my arms around you, and around Saraid, and I beg you to forgive me. I will dream of you every night until I see you again.” He felt cold sweat on his brow. If he had stood in the heat of a battle alone, naked and unarmed, he could not have felt more vulnerable.

  There was a long silence. Saraid yawned; Derelei remained still, looking at Faolan.

  Eventually Eile gave a stiff little nod. He had no idea at all if she was pleased or shocked or frightened. He could not say what was in his heart: I love you. I need you.

  “All right.” Her tone was constrained. “I have to go now, it’s Derelei’s suppertime and the queen wants to attend a meeting, probably the same one as you. This seems to have got complicated. We’ll have to talk about it. Later. But you can’t just march into my chamber. Not here at court. It’s not like traveling through the forest, where it doesn’t matter if you sleep side by side.”

  “I’m expert at coming and going unobserved,” Faolan said.

  “Faolan…” She was more hesitant now. “I didn’t mean…”

  “I know that. Farewell for now, Eile. I’ll see you tomorrow, Saraid.”

  “Bye.” Saraid’s voice was plaintive.

  “I know you didn’t mean that kind of invitation, Eile.” Even though I want it so badly; even though my body aches with the need for you. “We’ll talk, then I’ll leave. I promise nobody will see me.”

  “Farewell, then.”

  “Until later. Now if I can just persuade this leg to work…”

  “I HATE YOU!” yelled Breda. “You’re a stuffy old know-it-all, and you don’t understand!” She dissolved into furious tears.

  Her cousin Keother stood on the other side of the private meeting chamber in his allocated quarters at White Hill, arms folded, expression stern. “You’re behaving like a child,” he said. “It’s becoming more and more difficult to believe you are almost seventeen years old, an age at which, cousin, many young women have already borne their husbands fine sons. Have you taken in a word I’ve spoken, Breda?”

  Breda sniffed, flicking her fair hair back from her tear-stained features. “A big lecture about propriety,” she said. “I heard it. It’s stupid. The whole thing’s stupid. What am I supposed to have done? Go on, tell me. Tell me! Who’s been gossiping, I bet it was that Dorica, wasn’t it, the dried-up old stick, she can’t bear the way all the men look at me, even her husband who’s fifty if he’s a day—”

  “Breda!”

  Sometimes Keother used what Breda called his “king voice.” This was one of those times. She fell silent.

  “If you’re not capable of understanding that your behavior is completely inappropriate, then perhaps my best course of action is to send you straight home,” Keother said heavily. “I hardly know where to begin.”

  “You’re not still harping on about the stupid horse thing, are you?” Breda glared at him. “That wasn’t my fault. I was hurt and upset, and instead of being nice about it, everyone kept asking me questions.”

  “That episode is best forgotten,” said Keother. “I’ve spent more than enough of my time and energy making excuses for you. Your complete
lack of respect for Cella’s family, your total absence of remorse could not fail to create a very unfortunate impression. I have work to do at White Hill before I return home, cousin. There’s more hanging on this visit than an opportunity for you to parade your wares before a wider circle of young men.”

  A jug of bluebells stood on a side table; Breda’s fingers stretched out to wrench a flower from its stem, then shred the petals.

  “You’ve been seen more than once in the company of stable hands, kitchen men, others of Bridei’s household. If you must insist on behaving like a cat in heat, then do me the favor of confining it to those of our own party who have already sampled what you have to offer. And for pity’s sake show some discretion.”

  “It’s your fault.” The petals fell to the floor; she seized another stem. “You wouldn’t let me bring Evard.”

  “I hoped you might be able to restrain yourself. To emulate your sister for a little.”

  “Oh, Ana. Boring, prudish old Ana.”

  “I’m told Ana conducted herself, as hostage here, with dignity and discretion. She’s made a marriage that benefits both Bridei and myself. Allies among the Caitt are difficult to secure. A marriage for you may prove harder to arrange. It certainly will if tales of your escapades travel outside White Hill.”

  “I don’t want to get married. A child in my belly every year and some oaf in my bed who imagines a quick fumble is going to satisfy me—I’d die of frustration. You have no idea—”

  “You may have no choice. There’s every likelihood Bridei will require you to stay in Fortriu when I go home. If that occurs, he’s the one who will decide when and where to bestow your hand.”

  Breda stared at him then erupted into a peal of laughter. “Bestow my hand? You’re so stuffy, Keother, you sound like an old man. I don’t know how Orina puts up with you, I really don’t. But then your wife’s not exactly the lively, vivacious kind, is she? An illustration, in fact, of how quickly women lose their figures and their charm over those early years of marriage—”