A Dance with Fate

by Juliet Marillier

  “Very well,” says the prior. “We’ll hear from you, Master Seanan.”

  Fergal comes forward and, with a little knife, severs the ties around Seanan’s wrists. Seanan gives him a look as sharp as any blade. If he’s exonerated, if he steps back into his old role, Fergal will be losing his position in the household very soon, along with anyone else who might have been seen to help Dau. Fergal organized the party to go up and retrieve the captives. He chose the guards who are on duty here today.

  Seanan rises to his feet. Moves to the center. Turns to look at his father, and speaks as if they are the only two people in the room. “My lord. Father. You must know that this is a pack of lies, a warped and twisted version of events as fantastic as any story Master Brocc there might invent to entertain a crowd. It is nothing short of preposterous. You must know where the blame lies for these damaging falsehoods. With my brother. With your youngest son, sitting there with a smug expression on his face, barely able to control his amusement at the trouble he has caused your house and your people, the shame he will bring down on us if this ever becomes public knowledge. You know him. He’s been a liar since he spoke his first word.”

  He pauses for dramatic effect, and Father Eláir takes the opportunity to say, “Master Seanan, as time is limited, it will be most helpful if you can give us your own version of yesterday’s events. You might begin with Mistress Liobhan going missing from the household—it would seem you have a different explanation for that.”

  I can’t see Seanan’s face very well—it appears that he plans to address his whole statement to Lord Scannal. Dau is sitting quite still, very upright, with his gaze straight ahead toward the table where Brother Máedóc sits. I breathe in a pattern, hoping he’s managing to calm himself the same way.

  “I know nothing of how Mistress Liobhan made her way to the outhouse. One of my men reported seeing smoke rising from the chimney. As I reserve that place for my own private use, I was disturbed enough to ride up there and check. Ultán came with me; he will back up my version of events. We found the woman inside the building, tampering with my belongings. She’s always got her nose into someone’s business, whether it’s my brother’s supposed maladies or the work of the stillroom or the personal lives of her betters. She cast a blight on this house from the moment she stepped in the door—”

  “Master Seanan.” Brother Máedóc speaks courteously, but his tone has the authority of the lawman he once was. When Seanan turns, his face no longer calm, the monk beckons him over and murmurs something, perhaps about the wisdom of keeping to the point.

  “I don’t need your advice!” Seanan snarls. “I didn’t ask for a legal representative! I can speak for myself!”

  There’s a moment’s hush, then Father Eláir asks quietly, “Are you sure, Master Seanan?”

  “Would I say so if I were not sure?”

  “Very well.” The prior is a picture of composure. “Brother Máedóc, stay where you are, please. We’ll still need your assistance with related matters. Go on, Master Seanan. As I advised others, it is best to keep to the facts.”

  I wonder if Seanan is about to lash out at him, too, but he draws breath and resumes his statement. “I won’t deny I was angry to find the woman in a forbidden place, meddling with what did not concern her. We tied her up to teach her a lesson. We gave her a sleeping draft to keep her quiet. Under the circumstances, it was entirely appropriate. She had committed an offense. More than one offense. I had the authority to punish her for that, and I did so.”

  “Master Seanan.” The equable voice of Beanón is welcome after Seanan’s poisonous lies. “Mistress Liobhan was missing from midmorning until Master Dau’s party found her just after dawn the next day. To be tied up for, I presume, most of that very long time seems rather a severe punishment for trespass. And would it not have been appropriate, if you considered she had committed an offense, to bring her back to Lord Scannal’s house so the matter could be dealt with by him?”

  “I act for my father. Everyone knows that.”

  I feel it then. A chill. A change in the air. It’s as if a trapdoor has been opened on a deep dark place.

  “With respect, I doubt very much that Lord Scannal would have dealt with the matter in the way you say you did, Master Seanan. We’ve heard that the draft you gave Liobhan could have killed her. And what about the mark on her arm? The burn?”

  I hold my breath, shocked at Beanón’s directness. I can’t bring myself to look at Lord Scannal.

  “An accident,” Seanan says smoothly. “She’s a strong girl. She fought against us as we tried to restrain her. She fell against the hearth. Anything else she says is complete falsehood.”

  Brocc rises to his feet. “Might I speak, Father Eláir? I have something pertinent to add at this point.”

  “Keep it brief, Master Brocc.”

  “I mentioned earlier that I have encountered those large crow-like birds before, in a different part of the forest. Several of Master Seanan’s caged birds had suffered burns, and some had knife wounds as well. Most of these were done in a particular shape. It is the same shape you have seen branded on Liobhan’s arm. It is the same shape you see marked out in silver on Master Seanan’s tunic: a sword and dagger crossed. Lord Scannal’s family emblem.” There’s a gasp of shock from the people sitting around me. Brocc goes on. “Some time ago I found one of these birds lying dead in the forest, with just such a mark carved into its breast. I have seen others wounded, dying. I understand Master Seanan sets traps for the creatures. I believe he may have been torturing his captives for some time. Setting his brand on them. Not so much a sign of ownership as a symbol of power. But then, if he is telling the truth about acting as chieftain in these parts, perhaps he can do anything he pleases.” My brother sits down.

  “Why do you imagine I take this action?” Seanan snaps. “I imprison them solely as a deterrent! The purpose of inflicting wounds, of killing a selected few, should be obvious—it frightens the others away from these parts. You should be grateful that I am protecting the people of Oakhill! What would you have me do, invite the vile creatures onto our farms to feed on our livestock? Open the doors of our homes to them, so they can rip our children to death?”

  Lord Scannal is as pale as chalk. Father Eláir shuts his eyes for a few moments, simply breathing. Then the prior says, “For now, go on with your account, please, Master Seanan. You entered the hut, you found Liobhan there, you drugged and restrained her. You left. What was your intention then?”

  “We’d have returned and released her, of course. Once she’d learned her lesson.”

  “You left her alone there.” Dau speaks. For the first time, his voice is not quite steady. He mustn’t let his anger overwhelm him. Breathe, Dau. Count up to ten. He’s standing. He can see me. For just a moment I put my hand over my heart, fist clenched: a warrior’s sign of respect. That sign means, I trust you. It means, I am your comrade. It means, You can do this. “And when you went back, you brought five armed men with you,” Dau goes on. “For what purpose? Does it take six of you to apprehend a young woman who has been bound, tortured, and drugged? Or was I the one you feared, brother?”

  Seanan bursts into mocking laughter. The sound rings out across the quiet room, strident and shocking. “You! The little brother who would hide away in a dark corner rather than own up to his misdeeds? The child who would creep out to cause mayhem, then retreat into sullen silence? The boy who was so full of lies nobody could ever trust him? You think I could ever be frightened of you?”

  One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five. “Oh, yes,” says Dau. “I think you are afraid now. I think you greatly fear the truth. And I come here armed with truth, Seanan. It is the most powerful weapon of all.”

  49

  BROCC

  Dau continues to astonish me. On our mission to Breifne he proved himself able as a fighter and outstanding as a spy. But the man I knew wa
s often arrogant, supercilious, all too ready to put others down with a well-aimed insult. The Dau I see today is a leader of men. That is in every part of his body. It is in every word he speaks. It shines from his face. As for the way my sister and Dau look at each other when they think they are unobserved, that I can scarcely believe. Each of them is destined for life as an elite warrior, a member of the Swan Island band. I do not think there is any room for tenderness in such a life. I do not believe there is any room for love, not the kind of love I enjoy with Eirne. When we were training on the island we spoke of it once or twice. How a bond of affection, whether between brother and sister or between lovers, would interfere with the execution of a mission. Of all those who trained with us, Liobhan and Dau were the most driven, the most competitive, the most dedicated to the task. Perhaps I misinterpret those looks. Perhaps I deduce too much from their sharing a bedchamber. She did nurse him through his illness. I could have asked her last evening, while we waited for Dau to return. But my mind was full of my own woes, and I did not ask.

  I knew Dau was a chieftain’s son. I imagined a life of privilege before he came to Swan Island, and perhaps it was so then. But the situation now is poisonous. The eldest brother has usurped his father’s authority and set his own stamp on all. Somehow, despite the presence of a number of very capable folk within the household, Master Seanan has managed to wrest control from Lord Scannal and career off on his own warped and wayward path. Now here we sit in the quiet surrounds of the priory, and with each word the man speaks, the more appalled I become. How has he done this? And why does Lord Scannal not speak up? He seems frozen, whether with horror or disbelief I cannot tell.

  “Truth?” Seanan’s tone is mocking. “You wouldn’t understand the meaning of that word, brother. You’re a disgrace to the family name.”

  “You would have me prove my worthiness by carving my father’s emblem into innocent flesh? By branding it on a woman’s body with hot iron? If that is your notion of honor, Seanan, then I walked away from this place not a moment too soon.”

  The prior speaks. “Master Seanan, may we return to the earlier question, regarding the skirmish that resulted in the death of the boy, Corb? With what purpose did you take a party of five armed men with you when you returned to that place? If you went there to free Mistress Liobhan from her bonds, surely you and your man would have done the job quite capably.”

  Seanan is caught unprepared; he takes his time in forming an answer. “I knew my brother was looking for the woman. Searching widely. Others were assisting him. It occurred to me that he might have gone up to that place. Perhaps with a group. Since Dau is known to be erratic in his behavior, and since he has trained as a fighter, I thought it best to be prepared for trouble.”

  “Erratic?” echoes Dau’s lawman. “Master Dau seems anything but erratic to me. What do you mean, Master Seanan?” His tone is soft and courteous. I think of the subtlest of traps, closing so quietly the victim does not know it is there.

  “Master Beanón, you were present at that hearing when we negotiated the terms of Dau’s return home and the penalty for the woman’s attack on him,” Seanan says. “You heard the evidence about his bouts of anger, how he would curse and shout and hurl objects, how he would try to hurt himself and others. How lack of sleep drove him out of his wits. How he could not cope with the loss of his sight. Everyone knows he exhibited that kind of behavior after his return here. Why else did he require two personal attendants? Now it seems he’s been miraculously cured. Dau can see again. That does not mean he is cured of his . . . instability. It does not mean he has suddenly learned to tell the truth. Father”—he turns to Lord Scannal—“you know he’s always had a streak of cruelty. Remember what happened to that dog, what was its name? Rose? Remember—”

  “Snow.” Dau’s voice is cold and clear. “Her name was Snow. Let me tell you what happened to her. Let me tell you what happened to me. And then you may judge, all of you, which brother is telling the truth.”

  “Is this tale pertinent to the matter in question, Master Dau?” The question comes from Brother Máedóc. Seanan may have more or less dismissed him as his own representative, but the monk has not forgotten his duty as a lawman.

  “Most pertinent, Brother. This goes right to the heart of it.”

  “Indeed,” puts in Beanón. “My lord, Father Eláir, I’m aware of the matter to which Master Dau refers. We spoke of it in private, this morning. It is deeply personal. I advised Master Dau that it was entirely up to him whether to include it. I can confirm that the tale is relevant. In my opinion it should be heard, especially as it seems Master Seanan would use his own version to discredit his brother.”

  “Very well,” says the prior. “Proceed, Master Dau.”

  He begins. The merciless killing of the dog he loved, the dog he had trained for three whole years when he was a boy. One brother holding him back, the other torturing the animal while he was forced to look on. Then being hauled before his father, and Seanan telling lies, saying Dau killed the dog himself when she would not obey an order. Dau’s hands and face and clothing dyed scarlet with the blood shed by Snow as, cradled in his arms, she took her last labored breaths. Every person in the room is motionless and silent.

  He goes on, calm and composed, only his eyes telling of a pain that still lies deep within him. Cruel acts, from as long ago as he can remember. When he was four. When he was seven. His brothers dropping him down a dark hole; leaving him stranded in a bog; making him climb to the highest, most perilous branches of a tree, then abandoning him there. Shutting him in an oak chest and leaving him for hours. Throwing him from one to the other until he soiled himself in terror. Each time, every single time, when their father called the boys to account, Seanan would have a well-prepared explanation of how Dau had done it himself, brought it on himself, disobeying sensible instructions, breaking rules, causing mayhem. In private, Seanan would threaten to harm those Dau loved if he told the truth. Their father always believed Seanan anyway. After a while young Dau became silent under questioning. He endured his punishment without a word.

  Sometimes he would make a friend. Sometimes a newcomer to the household would be kind to him. A tutor, a stable hand, a gardener. Each time, as soon as the bond became known, that person would be dismissed and sent away. Now, there are few in this household who remember Dau as a child.

  His account is not emotive. He does not wring pathos and heartbreak from this tale, as a bard might. There is no need for that. The plain, stark facts are enough to make a man weep.

  “After Snow died,” he says, “I tried to make an end of myself. Garalt, who worked in the stables, found me in time and stopped me. He helped me to leave my father’s house. We went . . . elsewhere. To a friendly household far from here. Garalt taught me to defend myself. He taught me to be brave. He taught me that a man should always stand up for truth. That is all I have to say.”

  I can hardly breathe. I, a bard who could recount a hundred tragic tales of waste and sacrifice and shame. I see Dau standing there, tall and quiet, dignified and strong, and I realize this is a tale of triumph. He is a survivor. He is a good man, despite everything. He has come through the fire and emerged burnished bright: a sword of truth.

  “Utter nonsense,” says Seanan. “Complete rubbish. I told the truth then, and I tell the truth today. He can do nothing but lie. You know that, Father. Dau ran away; he did not want to be here. He was no loyal son, he was . . . he is an aberration, born of our mother’s sacrifice. I have stayed by you. I have supported you. I believe in you. I am your son, your heir. Do not doubt me!”

  Lord Scannal rises to his feet. He looks on the point of collapse. He’s a ghost of a man. His hands tremble constantly, and there’s something deeply troubling in his eyes. Into the quiet following Seanan’s outburst, he speaks.

  “My family is riven in two, and I do not know what to believe,” he says. This is not the quavering, uncertain voice
I expected, but a tone both quiet and authoritative, despite the note of pain that underlies it. It is the voice of a chieftain. “The events of the last two days trouble me deeply. At the very least, it appears I have been negligent in my care of this household and of my community. The events of the distant past may seem irrelevant to some. My sons were children. I was mourning the loss of my wife. It was long ago, and to revisit that time opens old wounds anew. But since Seanan has used each son’s account of those events as the measure of honesty, we must look at them again. Two brothers face each other here, each purporting to tell the truth. I know which I believed back then. I know which sounded the more truthful. Seanan speaks with passion. He loves this community and works every day to sustain it. Dau speaks with eloquence. But he chose to walk away, and he has become a stranger. How can I weigh this?”

  My heart turns cold. Liobhan reaches out a hand and the woman beside her clasps it. Dau stands still as stone. Then a voice speaks from the back of the chamber, behind us.

  “You can add the testimony of an eyewitness, Father. I believe that will tip the scales clearly, one way or the other. When you made judgment, when you decreed punishment for those childhood misdemeanors, I was there, as I was when the events themselves occurred. For long years I have held my tongue on these matters. Now I believe it is time for me to speak. With your permission, Father Eláir.”

  Brother Íobhar. The man who was once called Ruarc. Because, of course, there are three brothers. He comes forward at a measured pace. He is like the others, a handsome, well-made man. His tonsured hair is red, not fair like that of his brothers. He stands in the open space between the tables. Now the three of them are on their feet, close together. The space between them is full of tension; this is like the moment before the roll of thunder, the bright spike of lightning.