The Well of Shades

by Juliet Marillier

  “It seems we may need her here a little longer,” Bridei said. He was pale; Tuala saw the signs of an approaching headache of severe proportions. Her husband was plagued by these at times of great pressure.

  Ferada nodded. “It’s evident the court of Fortriu will not be able to call on its powerful druid at this critical time,” she said. “I wonder how Colm and his brethren will react to a woman as the king’s chief spiritual adviser.”

  “Fola can be formidable,” Tuala said, “for all her diminutive size. She will do a better job of standing up to this visitor than, say, Amnost of Abertornie would. We’d have been obliged to ask him to stand in for Broichan if he hadn’t already left for home. A shy sort of man; he was most uncomfortable in the confines of White Hill.”

  “Fola doesn’t like it, either,” Ferada said. “She’d much rather be outdoors with oaks as her walls and the sky as her roof. Bridei, I have another reason for coming here. I have a request from my brother.”

  “Bedo?”

  “No, it’s from Uric. Since the boys are not permitted in the royal quarters anymore, and since this is apparently deeply private, he’s made use of his elder sister as go-between.”

  “Deeply private?” queried Tuala. “Should I absent myself?”

  Ferada smiled. “That shouldn’t be necessary. Uric wants to borrow Ban for the day tomorrow.”

  Bridei stared at her. “Borrow my dog? Now that I didn’t expect. May I ask for what purpose?”

  Ferada was abruptly serious again. Tuala, who knew her friend very well, could see the reddish tinge around her eyes and the pallor of her cheeks. Garvan had commissions at White Hill. If Ferada was leaving, that meant a difficult farewell. “Father has told you, I think, that Uric and Bedo are on some kind of quest. Uric has been spending a lot of time out riding. He wants to take Ban with him next time. I assume he thinks this particular dog can sniff out whatever it is they’re looking for. They’re being quite mysterious about it all.” She eyed Ban skeptically.

  “We have hunting hounds in the kennels. They are trained to track by scent. Ban is just… a dog.”

  “Whatever he is,” Tuala said, looking down at the small white creature who sat at Bridei’s feet, “Ban cannot be described as just anything. He’s a being with a complicated and very long history.”

  “Even so,” Bridei said, “what Talorgen told me suggested this particular scent has long gone cold.”

  “It can do no harm,” said Tuala. “As long as Ban is prepared to go.”

  Ban was a one-man dog. Since the day when he had first appeared by the scrying pool at Pitnochie, a creature from a vision made suddenly flesh and blood, he had shadowed his master with a loyalty that was as complete and absolute as a dog’s can be. Left behind when Bridei rode to war with the Gaels, Ban had been the saddest being at White Hill; on Bridei’s return, the most joyous.

  “Tell Uric I’ll meet him at the stables in the morning,” Bridei said. “A run won’t hurt Ban. I may well make my permission contingent on your brothers’ agreeing to limit their activities to this one last venture before returning home with their stepmother. My belief is that the episode they’re concerned about is best forgotten. As for Ban himself, if I bid him go, he’ll go. I hope he’s not too much of a disappointment to Uric. Rabbits, he’s got a talent for flushing out. But I doubt very much that that’s what your brothers are looking for.”

  EILE DIDN’T KNOW quite what she felt. After taking Derelei back to his nursemaid, she went to her quarters with Saraid and found herself straightening the blankets for a third time and taking one gown then another out of her storage chest and putting them away again. Both she and Saraid were far better clothed now, for the kindly Queen Rhian had sent them garments from a household store of good, plain wear, and Tuala had made a gift of several of her own old gowns. As Eile’s hands worked automatically, folding and smoothing the clothes, feelings were churning away inside her, a monstrous jumble of feelings she could make little sense of.

  “Mama sad?” inquired Saraid, who was seated on the green mat doing up the fastenings of Sorry’s gown. At Cloud Hill, she had been trained to call her mother Eile, so as not to draw attention to the irregularity of her parentage. Here, where the twins and Derelei all used Mama and Papa, Saraid had fallen into the same habit. It made Eile smile.

  “No, I’m not sad. I’m happy that Faolan’s back.” That was true, but much too simple. She was more than happy, she was joyful. She was also confused and afraid. When she’d asked him to put in words the message he should have left them, she’d expected a simple apology. Not a declaration. She tried to make sense of it. What had he meant, exactly? The words had been almost… tender. But a father could speak thus to a daughter, or a brother to a sister. Had he really dreamed of her and Saraid every night? What kind of dreams?

  That was not something she could ask him. By speaking thus, by looking at her the way he had, by showing his jealousy of Dovran so plainly, he had changed things between them. He had indeed made this complicated. And now she was so mixed up she wasn’t even sure she would be able to go to supper in the hall, with many eyes on her, if Faolan was there. As for afterward and talking to him alone, here in her bedchamber, she feared it and longed for it. One glimpse of him had brought their journey vividly back, the nights in makeshift shelter, the easiness of their talk as they grew accustomed to each other, the memory of how wonderful it had felt to have a true friend at last and to know he would keep them safe. The fact that she had found a haven at White Hill and now had new friends did nothing to weaken that bond.

  She got out the plain blue gown again, the one Líobhan had given her. “Maybe I should have supper with you, Saraid,” she muttered. The White Hill children usually had their meals in a small area off the kitchens, under the supervision of a senior maidservant. “I think I’m too much of a coward for this.” Nonetheless, she fetched water, stripped and washed first Saraid then herself, trying very hard not to think of Dalach. Clean yourself up. I don’t want your stink on me.

  Saraid sat quietly, clad in a little skirt and blouse of dove gray, while Eile put on the blue gown and brushed her hair with such vigor that the fiery strands crackled. She put on her stockings and the good indoor shoes she’d been given at Blackthorn Rise. That seemed so long ago; so far away. They had come a great distance, a distance that could not be measured simply in miles.

  Eile paced nervously. Saraid watched her. After what seemed an impossibly long time, the sound of a metal plate being struck with a wooden spoon out in the courtyard indicated supper was imminent.

  “Here we go,” Eile said.

  When Saraid was settled with Gilder and Galen and a small clutch of other children deemed old enough to sit up at a table to eat, but not yet ready for the adult meal, Eile wavered a moment. She could make do with a bowl of the soup the maidservant was giving the little ones, then go quietly back to her chamber. Then, if he decided to come, she’d deal with it.

  “Bye, Mama,” Saraid said, blowing a kiss.

  “Bye,” Eile said, deciding she must be brave. “Enjoy your supper.” It was possible, she thought, that she wouldn’t even see him in the hall anyway. Despite so many folk packing up and leaving court, there were still fifty or more at the table every night, a press of people, and the only ones she got to talk to were the folk seated near her.

  Hovering in the children’s dining area had made Eile later than usual. She scanned the hall but could not see Faolan. Dovran was guarding the king; he stood behind Bridei’s chair, stern and watchful. Bridei looked tired. Tuala, seated beside him, was pale and drawn. Eile knew the queen was worried about Derelei. He’d been behaving increasingly oddly in recent days, not that he wasn’t always an unusual child, but he’d been much harder to cajole out of his fits of melancholy. Eile resolved to offer her services for tomorrow morning. She would take Saraid and Derelei for a really long walk, an exploration of new parts of White Hill. She would tire them out so they had a good sleep in the afternoon. That
way, Tuala could at least get some rest. She was feeding a baby, after all.

  Garth was holding up a hand, beckoning Eile. The usual assortment of folk sat close to him: Elda, Wid, Garvan, and Ferada, these last two tonight seated almost side by side; there was one empty place between them. Eile made her way to the table and sat in the spot they had kept for her, between Garth and Wid. A surreptitious glance up and down; she couldn’t see him. Perhaps she’d been braver than he had tonight.

  “Did you hear about the Christians?” Ferada was asking the old scholar.

  “Mm,” murmured Wid, applying himself seriously to the barley broth. “Expected, of course. That they’d make their way to court with a request or a petition or suchlike. They want the king’s permission to spread their doctrines throughout Fortriu, as others of their kind are doing in Circinn. I suppose Bridei should be pleased that they’re taking the trouble to ask. What nobody expected was an arrival attended by miracles. Folk like feats of magic. That kind of thing gets their attention. This Colm is astute.”

  “You think it’s true, then?” Garth asked. “That this priest raised a fellow from his deathbed?”

  “Who knows? Perhaps the man wasn’t as sick as everyone thought.”

  “Even Broichan could not perform that feat,” said Elda. “Raising the dead.”

  “The almost dead.” Wid broke off a chunk of oatcake and dipped it in the soup. “Then we have to ask ourselves, was it magic or miracle, and what is the difference between the two?”

  “You need Fola to debate that question,” Ferada said, then turned her head. “Ah, someone’s even later than you, Eile.”

  There he was, walking down the hall toward them between the tables. He was clean-shaven now and dressed in fresh clothes, blue and gray, the anonymous kind of garb he favored. He was trying not to limp. And it seemed to Eile that, once she set her eyes on him, there was nothing else in the hall worth looking at. She did not smile or nod or offer a greeting; she simply fixed on his well-schooled features, his dark, guarded eyes that held, tonight, the same expression she had seen when he uttered those words: I will dream of you every night.

  “Sit here, Faolan,” Ferada said, indicating the place between herself and Garvan. “You nearly missed the soup.”

  Faolan halted, standing behind the bench, gazing at Eile across the table. For a moment she wondered if his knee was so painful he could not perform the maneuver required to scramble over the bench and sit. Then his eyes moved to Garth and he gave a little jerk of the head. Garth sighed, slid his own bowl, knife, and spoon across the table and put the untouched ones from the empty spot in front of him. He got up and moved around the table, which involved edging behind a large number of folk and drawing considerable attention to himself. Elda, Wid, Ferada, and Garvan watched with undisguised interest. Faolan came the other way. If the leg hurt, he disguised it well. Eile felt him settle beside her. As he sat down, his hand brushed hers and she felt the blood rise to her cheeks. She reached for the ladle and spooned soup into his bowl; it was something to do.

  After that, although the talk went on, lively and at times combative, about the Christians, the threat they posed and what the king should do about it, Eile heard it without comprehension. The awareness of him beside her, so close, the new feeling that engendered, something sweet and good and at the same time deeply unsettling, robbed her of the ability to take in anything else at all.

  “You two not eating?” inquired Garth with a smile.

  Faolan had consumed barely a mouthful of the soup. Now he had a small piece of tonight’s pie on a platter before him, but he had not picked up his knife. Eile found herself unable to speak; she could not even manage an inconsequential remark that might make this more like any other supper. To divert herself she looked up toward the king’s table, and was surprised to find two pairs of eyes fixed intently in her direction: Dovran’s, somber and questioning from where he stood guard and, more alarmingly, Breda’s, narrowed in apparent fury before Ana’s sister turned pointedly away. Eile knew she had displeased Breda with her entirely reasonable refusal to become a handmaid. But that look seemed quite out of proportion. Maybe she’d done something else wrong, something she didn’t even know about. Well, at least this had put a topic of conversation into her head. Faolan had seen Dovran’s stare and was returning it in kind.

  “Don’t forget you have to work together,” said Garth.

  Eile spoke to Faolan in Gaelic, keeping her voice low. “While you were away, I had the opportunity to assist at the wedding, Ana’s and Drustan’s. Ana’s sister was unwell that day and I was invited to take her place. It was beautiful, Faolan. A druid came from the north to conduct the ceremony. It was at dusk, out of doors. I know they will be happy together. If you want, I can tell you all about it.”

  Faolan nodded absently. His hand was right beside hers on the bench.

  “I know it’s a little difficult for you,” she went on, “but I think it would be good for you to hear it. What I saw, and what I know of Drustan, convinced me that she will be loved and looked after for the rest of her life.” She hoped the babble of talk around them would prevent those of their neighbors who understood Gaelic from hearing too much of this rather personal statement.

  After a moment Faolan said, “If you wish, tell me.”

  “I… It was not so much my wish to tell it… More your need to hear.”

  He was looking down at his platter. His reply was little more than a whisper. “It was not of Ana that I thought while I was away.”

  Eile drew a deep, steadying breath. “Perhaps we should talk about something else,” she said.

  “I cannot tell you where I have been or what I have been doing. I regret that, but it’s the nature of my work for the king.” His hand had edged closer; it touched hers for a moment. It was extraordinary how such a little thing could make a flush rise to her face; how it could set her heart racing thus.

  “I could tell you what I have been doing. It’s not very interesting.”

  “I want to hear it.”

  “Eat up that pie and I’ll tell you. You look tired and I know you’re in pain. Good food will help you mend more quickly.”

  “Does what you’ve been doing include ordering small children about?” Faolan cut his pie, then used the knife to convey a morsel to his mouth.

  “Not ordering. Usually they just do as I tell them. Actually, it’s Saraid who’s taken to issuing orders…”

  “Use your new language, Eile,” put in Wid, a look of mock ferocity on his craggy features. Eile and Faolan turned their heads toward him in unison. Something in their faces made the old man say, “Ah, well, maybe not tonight. The return of friends merits some relaxation of the rules, I suppose. Your young lady there has proven to be quite a scholar, Faolan. She’s apt; very apt.”

  “I don’t suppose Eile likes to be called my young lady,” Faolan said. “She is her own woman. If you’ve been spending time in her company, I imagine you know that already.”

  “Fortriu abounds in women who know their own minds.” Wid chuckled, glancing at Ferada. “It must be something in the water.”

  “I am not a woman of Fortriu,” Eile said in the Priteni tongue. “He means well,” she added in Gaelic, finding that, without any real decision at all, she had moved her hand just far enough to curl it around Faolan’s on the bench between them where nobody else could see. She saw the color rise in his face; his fingers tightened on hers, and she felt warm all through.

  “I heard that,” said Wid, grinning. “Best watch her, Faolan; now she’s got two languages she’s becoming dangerous.”

  “You should see her with a pitchfork,” said Faolan. His voice was entirely calm. The tension in his hand told Eile a different story.

  Over the pie and the pudding that followed it, she gave him an account of her daily routines at White Hill; of Saraid’s blooming confidence, of the bond between her daughter and Derelei, of the trust Tuala had placed in her. She even described the clothes she had been le
nt and the wedding dress she had constructed for Sorry. “But,” she said eventually, “I don’t imagine this is really of much interest to you. Apart from being reassured that I did quite well without you.”

  “I did not do so well without you,” said Faolan. “It’s difficult to talk here. I find myself not at all in the mood for eating, nor for making conversation in public.”

  They were keeping their voices low; their companions at the table were now involved in a debate about the nature of miracles, and if they were listening to the soft flow of Gaelic they gave no sign of it.

  “I’m going soon anyway,” Eile said. “I have to collect Saraid and get her to bed. You need to remember… You shouldn’t…”

  “I understand, Eile. I know people see things and jump to conclusions. I’ll wait awhile here. All the same…” His hand tightened around hers once more.

  Dovran was still looking at them, and Eile did not much care for what she saw in his eyes. Perhaps, after all, she should have been entirely honest with Dovran from the first. If she had told him she thought he was a nice young man, but that she still had to work very hard not to flinch when he touched her, he would likely have turned his attentions elsewhere. It had been unfair to be friendly when she knew she could never meet Dovran’s expectations. As for what was between herself and Faolan, there was a barrier to surmount before the true nature of that would become apparent. Perhaps the talk of miracles was apt. No, best not think that way. She was in danger of setting her expectations too high; of wanting the impossible. That was to invite disappointment. It had been an early and hard-learned lesson, and she’d best not lose sight of it now. Causing your own heart to break was surely the ultimate stupidity.

  “I’d best be going,” she said with artificial brightness, and rose to her feet, her hand still in Faolan’s. “I must fetch Saraid. Good night all. Ferada, good wishes for your journey.”

  “Thank you.” Ferada was somber now. “You should come and visit us at Banmerren some time, Eile. I think my work would interest you.”