“He owes you a lot. Makes me wonder if you came here willingly, despite the debt-bondage arrangement.”
“He would have made an end of himself. I couldn’t have that.”
We are quiet a moment, the news of Ultán fresh in our minds. Did he finally feel the weight of his misdeeds? Did he recognize the cost of loyalty to an evil master? He will carry the answers to his grave.
* * *
* * *
Almost before I know it, it is time for me to go. Dau extricates himself from those who want to talk with him—there is a small crowd—and comes over to us. “You’re leaving already?” he asks me.
“I can’t stay any longer. Folk are waiting for me.” True will be wondering if I have fallen into more strife; perhaps considering coming after me. I cannot let that happen. And Eirne will be waiting. Eirne who is carrying our unborn child. Conscience requires that I tell her about the healing drops and how we used them. “I’m sorry,” I say. Oh, more sorry than they can know.
“You saved our lives,” Dau says. “We are indebted to both of you. Please convey my thanks to your friend. His generosity has transformed the future for me.”
“No debt,” I say. “We’re Swan Island men still and we help one another. I will pass your message on to True. Now I must go. You have many things to do, and I have many miles to walk. Farewell, friend.” I give Dau a quick, hard embrace. “Liobhan. Keep singing, will you? I may not hear you from that other realm, but I’ll know.”
Now she’s really crying, and so am I. We hug for a long moment, then step away.
“Safe journey,” my sister says.
“And you, dear one. Farewell.” As I walk away, I hear birds singing in the ancient yews. From a distance come the voices of monks, chanting. The melody is in the mode druids call willow, which is suitable for this occasion: not sad, exactly, but contemplative and solemn. It sounds entirely right. “Be happy, the two of you.”
I head up the rise and away from Lord Scannal’s domain. True is waiting: my comrade, my brother. Soon I will reach the forest and set my steps for home.
50
DAU
All I want is to sit in our quarters with Liobhan, share a cup or two of mead, and make plans for leaving this place as soon as we can. But everyone wants to talk to me and I cannot deny them the opportunity. I cannot refuse to have supper in the hall with the household, or to talk with my brother before he returns to the infirmary. He was brave today. I had hoped he might speak out, but I did not expect it. He laid his sins bare, not only for the prior and his fellow monks, but for a far wider audience. I understand how much that cost him and I honor him for it, despite everything. It seems his faith in God is a true faith, and although I do not share it, I respect him for it.
With supper over, my father calls me to talk in private with only Beanón and Naithí present. I would like Liobhan to be with us, but I do not request it. My father asks the question I did not allow him before. Will I consider staying? Since I am now heir to the chieftaincy, will I not take up that responsibility instead of pursuing my life as a mercenary fighter?
I do not offer an explanation of what we do on Swan Island, which is so much more than he believes. Our work is secret and must remain that way. I thank him for the offer and explain, as best I can, that I am unsuited to be chieftain, and that the damage done during my childhood cannot be erased so quickly. I feel no tie with this place. I am sorry I cannot learn to know Ruarc anew. I am sorry Seanan’s wickedness has broken the family in pieces. But there are many good people here. With their support, my father can mend this community. He still has time.
There is no bond of affection between us, and I do not think there can ever be. It is too late for that. For now, we make an effort to speak civilly to each other, to stay calm, to ask Beanón or Naithí for an opinion when we cannot agree. Thus we make some arrangements and agree to certain provisions. Liobhan and I will depart in two days’ time. Tomorrow we have a job to do.
At last I am free to return to our quarters. Torcan is there with Liobhan—I asked him to stay so she would not be alone. He settles in the antechamber and I sit down before the fire. Gods, I’m weary. Now that we are on our own at last, I feel the weight of what’s happened in every part of my body.
Liobhan puts a cup of mead in my hand. She’s in her night-robe with a shawl on top, and her hair falls loose over her shoulders, warm gold in the firelight. “Tell me, if you want,” she says. “Or just sit awhile. You must be exhausted.”
“Did you have that burn tended to?”
She rolls up her sleeve, shows me a neat new dressing. “Miach did it for me.”
“Liobhan?”
She looks at me, brows lifted. “What? Don’t tell me you’ve agreed to be chieftain of Oakhill after all?”
“You know me better than that. I have a favor to ask. Will you come with me to visit Corb’s family tomorrow? Just the two of us? They’ve been given the news. They’ve received his body. But I need to go there in person and talk to them. I thought we could leave the following day. Arrangements will be made for that.”
Liobhan smiles. “Of course I’ll come. If only to help you with the dog. I hope you’ve worked out how we’re going to get her back here. She’s a bit young to run alongside the horses.”
* * *
* * *
Mongan finds me a basket arrangement that is sometimes used when a rider needs to transport a small child. We ride to Corb’s family farm, giving Seanan’s place of torture a wide berth. Corb’s father, red-eyed but composed, receives us with courtesy; if he is angry, as well he might be, he gives no sign of it. Corb’s mother has no words. She stays in her chair, and on her knee is the little dog, Hope. As we sit with them, and as I explain that my father will pay a substantial sum in compensation since their son died in my service, her hand moves gently against the dog’s back, and the dog stretches up to lick away her tears. Sometimes she holds Hope close to her as if she were a human baby, and I want to weep myself for such a loss.
Corb’s father is faultlessly gracious. I tell him how much I valued his son’s service, his friendship, his kind nature. Liobhan tells how Corb was thrown into the job of nursing me through the worst of my illness, and how he kept on going even when he was exhausted and downhearted, and how, in the end, he proved the very best helper and companion I could have. She tells how brave he was and how ready to take on every new challenge. I say I am sorry. I am sorrier than I can ever put into words.
When there is no more to be said, we rise and make our farewells. And for the first time Corb’s mother speaks. “You’ll be wanting to take her. Little Honey.” A sob breaks from her as she stands up and lifts the dog as if to pass her to me. I understand in that moment that I must leave Hope behind.
“She seems very content here,” I say. “Perhaps it would be best if she stayed with you. We have a long journey ahead of us, too much for such a little one. Would you be prepared to keep her? She’s from good stock. In time, she’ll be useful around the farm.”
Corb’s mother enfolds the dog in her arms and shuts her eyes. It is answer enough.
Her husband sees us out. “Thank you,” he says, rendering me instantly wordless.
“Farewell,” says Liobhan. “Corb was a good son; you brought him up well. He was brave, wise, thoughtful, and kind. And he loved you; he spoke of you fondly.”
“Farewell.” Right now, that choked word is all I can manage.
We ride away, and though there are things Liobhan could say, she stays quiet. Thus we come back, for the last time, to my father’s house. And though when night falls I long for the comfort of her arms, and I see an answering look in Liobhan’s eyes, she sleeps in her bedroll before the fire, and I in the bed. Torcan has returned to his duties in the stables and will reclaim his pallet in the men’s quarters. Slowly, the whole household will become used to the new way of being, a way withou
t Master Seanan.
51
LIOBHAN
We leave Oakhill with three good horses, two to ride and one to carry our belongings. They were chosen by Mongan as part of Dau’s negotiations with his father, and we’ll be taking them all the way. That means traveling in short stages, with several overnight stops—a plan that would have accommodated the needs of a young dog as well as the horses. I know Dau is upset by what happened with the little one. I remember how she slept on his bed, close to him, and how peaceful he looked then. He made the right decision. But it has cost him.
As well as our possessions, which are few, we’re carrying rather a lot of silver. The fee paid for Dau’s future upkeep, determined on the basis that he would be dependent for the rest of his life, was seven hundred and forty-one silver pieces. He pointed out to his father that since he was now restored to full health and would be departing immediately, the better part of that fee should be refunded to the Swan Island community. Naithí performed a calculation, taking into consideration the quality of the horses. The pouches hidden in various parts of our baggage contain a total of seven hundred and twenty-nine silver pieces. It’s just as well both of us are Swan Island warriors and that we’ve been provided with some weapons, thanks to our friends among Lord Scannal’s men-at-arms. Canagan took me aside at the stables and told me all of them were greatly relieved by Master Seanan’s departure.
I’ve considered what Seanan will do, where he will go, whether he will be eaten up with resentment. I’ve imagined him following us with ill intent. Part of me wishes Dau had asked that his brother be held in custody until we had time to get home. But we’re strong, we’re trained for that sort of thing, we can look after ourselves. And each other.
Our first night is spent at a hostelry that provides communal sleeping areas, one for men and one for women. No private quarters. It does have good stables. We settle the horses, eat supper, avail ourselves of the bathing facilities, then bid each other a polite good night. Some time later I’m woken from a sound sleep by shouting from outside and a terrible wrenching shriek. I throw on some clothes and grab my knife. One of the other women in the sleeping area mutters, “Oh, gods, not this again,” and puts her pillow over her head. The rest of them are either still asleep or doing a good job of pretending.
Moonlight fills the courtyard with deceptive shadows. A man is yelling a string of foul curses, and he’s hitting someone, or something, hard with a stick. It’s not a woman screaming, it’s a dog. Is the man trying to break up a dogfight? Stop an attack? I stride toward them, but Dau is there before me, charging out of his sleeping quarters, seizing the man’s upraised arm and wrenching the stick from his grasp.
“Stop that!” His voice is like a scourge. “What are you doing?”
“What business is that of yours? Who do you think you are?”
I’m beside them now, ready to help if Dau needs me. The moonlight glints in the dog’s terrified eyes. It’s a big brindled thing, widemouthed, chained up and cowering. Violent tremors run through its body. The screaming has dwindled to a thready whimpering. One ear is half-gone, one eye is swollen and reddened. There are welts and scratches all over its body.
Fate is full of surprises.
“Let me go!” yells the man. “You’re breaking my arm!”
An audience is gathering now; faces between window shutters, figures in doorways.
“I think not.” Dau is cold and calm. Perhaps only I realize how angry he is. “No creature deserves this kind of treatment. What offense could possibly warrant it?”
“My dog, my business. Barking at nothing. Keeping folk awake. Refusing good food. Trying to run away. It’s a good-for-nothing piece of shit.” The man aims a kick in the dog’s direction. Dau applies pressure on the arm and the fellow spits out another curse. “Let me go!”
“Your dog, is it? A good-for-nothing piece of shit, I think that was your eloquent description.” Dau applies further pressure, and the man squeals in pain. “Not worth much, then? What’ll you take for the animal? Two coppers? That’s a fair price for such a worthless creature, surely.”
The change is instant. “Two coppers? You’re joking! This boy’s young and fit. He’s a fighter. He’d earn you more than that in one night. Keep him hungry, keep him wound up, he’ll beat the toughest dog anyone can put up against him.”
There’s a pause. I imagine Dau counting to five. I’m inclined to do the same.
“Hold this person for me, will you?” Dau says casually, letting go. I move in, pushing the man to his knees, grabbing his wrists, pulling his arms up behind his back. Dau crouches down. He’s not trying to touch the dog, only looking. Taking in the bites, the scratches, the lank coat, the haunted eyes. “It’s all right,” he murmurs. “You’re safe now. That life is over. There, now. Good boy.” When he gets up, he does it slowly, so as not to startle. When he speaks to the dog’s owner, he keeps his voice quiet. “Three coppers,” he says. “You want him off your hands, don’t you?”
“Ten coppers. A bargain at that.”
I pull the man’s arms up a little higher, knowing what pain that will send through his shoulders. Interesting; none of the folk looking on has a word to say.
“Five.”
Just as well this person doesn’t know we have a king’s ransom in silver with us. We’re not looking like wealthy folk right now. I’ve thrown on my tunic over my night-robe. Dau is in plain trousers and shirt, and barefoot. But he talks like a nobleman.
When the fellow doesn’t counterbid, Dau says, “That is my final offer. Take it or leave it.”
There’s no way he’ll let this man take the dog with him. I know that, but the man doesn’t. “You get the chain thrown in,” he says, his voice tight with pain. “That’s worth a bit. Ow! That hurts!”
“Do you not understand the words final offer? I don’t want your poxy chain. Five coppers and you walk out of here without your arms broken. Someone find me a length of light rope, will you?” This is addressed to the silent onlookers; I see a man head over to the stables.
“All right. Five. Robbery, that is. Let me go, will you?”
I glance at Dau; he shakes his head. “If you want your five coppers, you stay right there until I fetch them,” he tells the captive.
I hold the fellow while Dau goes for the coins. We’ve supplied ourselves with smaller currency to pay our way; nothing invites thieves more than the bright gleam of silver. While we wait, the man who went to the stables brings back not a length of rope, but a leather collar and lead, worn but serviceable. When he edges close, the dog lets out a subterranean growl, showing its teeth. The man steps back.
“Just leave it there,” I tell him. “My friend will put it on. And thank you.”
“Good fighting dog, that,” mumbles my captive. “Worth twice what he’s paying.”
“Shut your mouth.” I want to give the fellow a kick. He’s not only cruel, he’s stupid with it. Since it would probably frighten the dog even more, I don’t do it. While I wait, I ponder the immediate future. It’s getting more complicated by the day.
Dau returns. I release my grip on the man. Dau holds out five coppers and the man snatches them as if they might vanish. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, Dau crouches down and inches toward the growling, shivering dog. He talks in a murmur—“Good boy. It’s all right,” and so on—and after a long, long time he is close enough to put the collar on. “Good boy. Bravest of boys.”
The chain is harder. It’s been around the dog’s neck awhile and it’s been digging into the flesh. The man from the stables comes in beside Dau, provoking another bout of growling. They take their time, Dau holding the dog and murmuring reassurance while the stable hand uses a tool to prize a chain link open. When they finally work the thing off—without being bitten—there’s muted applause from those who have stayed to watch. I realize suddenly how cold it is and how bone weary I am, not o
nly from the day’s riding but from everything.
The dog’s owner has disappeared. The master of this hostelry has come out in his nightshirt and stockings, with a blanket over his shoulders, and is talking to Dau. The dog hasn’t moved; Dau holds the lead quite casually and stands two paces from the creature, looking as if nothing is amiss. I note that he is still speaking very quietly and moving very slowly. Every single thing is calculated. Every single thing is a tiny step on this wretched creature’s journey to a better life. I have never been prouder of my friend, not even when he stood up and spoke truth to his father.
I decide to take myself quietly back to bed. I know Dau won’t let that creature out of his sight all night, which may well mean sleeping on a pile of straw in the stables. My admiration for him does not stretch as far as volunteering to keep the two of them company. I murmur, “Good night,” and retreat to my bed. I don’t think we’ll be riding on tomorrow. Maybe I can sleep late for once.
By the time I drag myself out of bed the next morning, it’s become clear that Dau will need a while to work with the dog before it can possibly come with us. The animal is terrified of its own shadow. It cowers and cringes and bares its teeth if anyone comes close. I was right about the stables; Dau and the dog slept there last night and will do so again, in the quiet company of horses belonging to various travelers. Only two men work there. Fortunately, they’re inclined to be helpful.
I can’t help. I like dogs well enough, but I don’t have the special magic that lets a person win a dog’s trust even when it’s half-mad with fear. Dau has that. Where a damaged creature is concerned, it seems he has infinite patience. I leave them to it. To stop myself from dwelling on the probability that Dau and I will not share a bed before we get to Swan Island, which might mean it never happens at all, I find a secluded spot not far from the inn and run through the daily exercises I’ve been neglecting. But even as I work my body into a sweat, my thoughts return over and over to the same dilemmas. We’ll have some explaining to do when we reach the island. Some negotiating. There’s a no-dogs rule on Swan Island. How Dau is going to get around that I have no idea. And there’s the other issue, the rule that doesn’t exactly forbid members of the fighting group from forming relationships, but which spells out all the reasons why such liaisons are not considered a wise choice. I thought we’d talk about it while we were on the road and work out a plan. I thought we’d have time together, alone, to act on our feelings. Now I’m picturing us lying on opposite sides of the bed with the dog in the middle, baring its teeth at me if I so much as move a finger.
A Dance with Fate Page 44