Requiem for the Wolf

by Tara Saunders

  “Pardon, Tánaiste, but I thought you should know.” Connlech sucked a lungful of heartening air. “Tánaiste Fodhla and a company of ten disciples are dismounting in the stables.”

  Carad snapped a nod at Connlech and the man withdrew.

  “Nuada, quick!” Carad poked impatiently through the contents of his writing desk. “Have a man ride hard for Dun with this.” He scribbled fine-worded nothings onto thick, creamy paper and sealed it with a drop of wax from the candle and his embossed Tánaiste’s chain. No time for niceties.

  “I’ll have Garbhan leave through the vegetable garden.” Nuada was already at the door. “He won’t be seen, I promise.”

  See? So much better with a whole throat.

  Carad arranged himself carefully in a brocade armchair and, when he heard feet on the stair, changed his mind. His scramble to the straight-backed chair by the writing desk was undignified, but there were no eyes to see the Tánaiste scuttle like a novice.

  The door tapped, more discreetly this time, and Carad arranged himself over the most recent scout reports before calling, “Come.”

  Connlech eased the door open to its fullest this time, his face a smooth mask of umber. “Tánaiste Fodhla has called to pay his compliments.”

  A good man, Conn. Lucky for him he had no taste for power.

  “Show him in.” Carad allowed the tiniest tinge of surprise to colour his voice. “And tell the innkeeper we have need of refreshments, whatever he can pull together with such little notice.”

  Fodhla followed Connlech into the room, with Fodhla as broad and handsome as ever, curse him. The smile of greeting he directed at Carad seemed completely genuine, as always. Carad would find the man’s soft underbelly even if it took him a lifetime.

  His faithful Searlas followed, brown eyes suspicious above swinging jowls. What sort of man would make a life out of serving another?

  “Well met, Fodhla.” Carad turned the report he held face down and crossed the room, his own smile clenched tight. “I didn’t expect to see you, close as we are to Dun.”

  “I heard you followed a false scent this direction.” Fodhla’s voice oozed condolence as he settled himself into the green brocade armchair. “You didn’t lose much time, I’m hoping.”

  Carad prevented his teeth from grinding with an effort. “A few days only. We leave again at dawn, and this time there will be no mistakes.”

  And that, my friend, is the only true thing you’ll get from me today.

  The refreshments arrived with impeccable timing. The bald-pated innkeeper himself brought spiced wine and elaborate sweetmeats, bowing so low before each of the Tánaiste that Carad could guess the fate of the absent hair. That was one benefit of travelling so close to Dun. Innkeepers here knew the respect due a Tánaiste.

  “You crossed my man on the road, I’m certain?” Carad watched Fodhla over the lip of a cup so thin it was translucent. Pretty, but a most unsuitable vessel for spiced wine. Each tool for its purpose.

  “No.” Fodhla lowered the sweetmeat he had intended to bite, and led again with his full-force smile. “You sent me word?”

  “Of course, when I ended up so near.” The lies tripped off Carad’s tongue like ink from a broken pen. “How go your dealings with the Ard?”

  Not well, I’m hoping.

  Fodhla beamed wider. “I’m glad we keep this friendly, you and me. My business with Neise proceeds well.” He raised a blue-flowered cup to his lips, wincing as the wine’s heat bit his fingers. “Already he’s started to ask my opinion on a question or two. I brought a company with me, and they’re making themselves useful in the halls of power. Searlas in particular has proved his worth again and again.”

  Searlas flushed, and the look he turned on Fodhla would have sickened even a honeybear’s strong stomach.

  “You work quickly.” Carad tried to look pleased. “I hadn’t thought the news would be so good.”

  “Nor did I, if I’m honest.” Fodhla certainly looked honest. “This isn’t a duty I would have chosen, but the business of the court suits me well.”

  “The Athair will be pleased.” The words curdled on Carad’s tongue.

  “By the One Book!” Fodhla cursed as hopelessly as a babe-in-arms, slamming the cup onto the hearth with force enough to knock a chip from its base. “I would have come away without giving it to you.”

  “You have something for me?” Carad watched red wine bleed slowly from the cup onto the white marble hearth.

  “From the Athair.” Fodhla patted at the belt of his tunic. “A bird came this morning, and the message was addressed to you.” He slipped a sealed note from the belt-pouch and handed it to Carad.

  “It was good of you, to deliver it in person.” Carad had no idea whether his words were appropriate. The cool, smooth paper under his fingertips sucked at his attention like the mouth of a leech.

  “It was nothing.” Fodhla waved the favour off. “It suited my purposes to be out of the city today. Neise has fallen into the habit of inviting me for wine before dinner, and finding me absent will set his mind wondering.”

  Carad’s thumb slipped under the blue-blobbed wax seal, cringing at the crack as it came away from the envelope. What did the Athair know?

  Everything, it seemed. Carad was careful that his hands didn’t shake as he placed the letter onto his desk, weighting it in place with a fist-sized lump of polished granite. He could feel Searlas’ eyes on it, drawing meaning from the fold of the paper and the curve of Carad’s fingers on the stone.

  “The Athair’s holds to life.” He met Fodhla’s curious brown eyes. “Although he bids us be swift.” You get no more from me, Tánaiste.

  “That’s a blessing.” Fodhla nodded. “Although I’d prefer a more honest account than his own. It’s hard to be so far from home.”

  Carad turned from the pain in his rival’s face. Now was not the time to recognise Fodhla’s finer qualities.

  “You’ll excuse me now, I hope.” Carad paid only the slightest homage to good manners. “We leave at first light, and there’s much to prepare.”

  “Forgive me!” Fodhla jumped to his feet, with Searlas following more circumspectly. “I forget myself.” He offered a long-fingered hand, and Carad had no choice but take it in his own, scarred one. “I wish you well, Carad, and I mean that. I hope that whatever comes we’ll continue as friends.”

  They were gone in a haze of farewells and good wishes, and Carad sat again at his desk. He smoothed the creamy white page, absently picking at the wax with a fingernail, and settled himself to read it again.

  * * *

  Three fat white candles patterned the desktop with interweaving ovals of dancing yellow light as Carad pulled on his sky blue tunic. He paused to run his fingers over the wide black belt that named him Tánaiste before he buckled it carefully over a flat stomach. The belt never felt like a proper fit, puckering the tunic’s fullness. No matter how he studied Fodhla’s easily elegant folds, his own garment always looked creased and sloppy.

  Dawn was yet little more than birthing pangs in the sky, but already Carad could pick out the muted clink and jingle of sure hands at work outside. Good men, all of them. There were worse he could have at his back.

  Nuada’s knock preceded the man himself by a single heartbeat. He left the door open, moving to the hearth’s gaping mouth. The Allsayer followed, twinkle-eyed and smiling; he settled into the brocade armchair, crossing one small foot over the other. Last came the Dealgan man, and it pleased Carad to see the surprise in the Allsayer’s face as Aod swaggered into the room.

  Nuada reacted more circumspectly, but Carad could read the slight sway of his body into the mantel’s bracing support.

  “Trackers finally admit that we follow a false trail.” Carad made sure that all saw him look at the Allsayer. “It seems the information that led this direction was no good.”

  Aod’s mouth dropped open, but a warning look from Nuada shut it before any words could fall out.

  “That can’t be.
” The Allsayer spoke low, unperturbed. “I myself confessed that supplicant. Your trackers are mistaken.”

  “You’ve been misled, Allsayer. And here is the word that proves it.” Carad slammed the letter onto table with enough force to make the Allsayer jump. “Even the Athair knows that we’re chasing our tails.”

  The Allsayer would have said more, but Carad’s raised hand prevented it. “You. Soldier who would be a Disciple. Tell me again where you saw them.”

  Aod stood by the open window, legs spread and chest puffed. “I saw them leave. No circling or false tracking, they headed straight for Milis.” His eyes cut to the Allsayer. “The opposite direction from Dun.”

  “And where from Milis, do you predict?” Let the boy have his moment. He’d learn soon enough that the Allsayer was a dangerous man to cross.

  “The only place to go from Milis is Amhan, and the ferry to Ullach.” The boy was almost panting in his eagerness. “They’re gone to Ullach.” Aod swayed on his heels, satisfaction wafting from every pore.

  “Is there another interpretation of the Athair’s words?” The Allsayer’s cheeks dimpled but his fists were clenched. “You know that I don’t make mistakes.”

  “ ‘Fool, you fail even in the simplest of things. The Unclean you chase are on Ullach.’ There’s more, but I find that clear enough.” Carad spoke through gritted teeth, and none would meet his eye. “Or do you think I follow the wrong track on this also?”

  “Tánaiste, you have my apology.” The Allsayer’s face was white as bone, save two bright spots high on his cheeks. There were no dimples. “It will not happen again, I swear it.”

  “It had better not.” Carad dismissed the older man with a turn of his head. “Aod, what takes them to the Island?”

  “I don’t know.” The game-cock deflated. “Sionna had no connection there. The Northman could have business on Ullach, or the guard. Tarbhal was always close with his secrets.”

  “What about that other Unclean, the dead one?” Nuada thought fast, for a carthorse. “The trail starts with him, does he drive it on further?”

  Aod was shaking his head even before Nuada finished, his spirit returning as he felt all eyes on him. “Not Proinsis. A Dealgan man to the backbone, him. He never moved more than half a day’s walk from where he birthed.”

  “The why of it hardly matters for now.” Carad met each set of eyes in turn. “Nuada, make ready to leave. And find a better horse for our army man. That sheltie will never keep pace.” He waved off Aod’s gush of gratitude.

  “Allsayer, make yourself ready to work. We’ll have supplicants enough soon to tell all the truth in the Tiarna.” The old man nodded sharply and followed the others out the door with uneven steps.

  The door closed and Carad returned to his writing desk, sorting his documents into order. His fingers lingered on the Athair’s letter a moment before he bundled it with the others. Not a good beginning to this thing, and trust the old goat to have information Carad didn’t. Carad would dearly love to know the source of these birds that brought so many whispers.

  Why would a Lupe travel to Ullach? Scalded worst of them all during the Purging, Uls didn’t welcome strangers and they didn’t tolerate any who might be rumoured Unclean. A difficult place to travel unnoticed, which should aid Carad considerably.

  A polite tap at the door made him grit his teeth. Was there no peace? Connlech, not so anxious as last time, and the buzz of good news in his face.

  “Tánaiste, forgive me. Garbhan is back from Dun only this minute, and I thought you’d want to hear him where it’s private.”

  “What news?”

  “He met a Disciple in Dun, one who roomed with him when they were penitents. Seems Fodhla keeps a pair of messengers busy running from Dun to the Citadel and back again. Whatever word he sends, he doesn’t trust it to the birds.”

  You stoat, Fodhla! I was just beginning to believe in you. “Send Garbhan in, I’ll see him before we go. And make sure he’s well fed, he’s been riding all night.”

  Connlech cleared his throat. “And what of Draioch?”

  “Leave him where he lies. Let them learn that nobody disappoints the Tánaiste, not even his own.”

  10

  Fat yellow flames crackled and snapped at Breag’s curled toes, with occasional sparks of red-orange ascending into a blue-black sky. Cú snored solidly in his lap and the promise of slowly roasting red deer twisted thick in his nostrils. One morning’s walk would take them to Caislean, and his duty done.

  The lightness of the thought was unfamiliar and exhilarating. His life reclaimed--hard to believe it even now.

  Beside him, Sionna leaned forward to turn the meat, brushing closer to Breag than she had since Macha. Her scent was green apples and fresh-baked soda overlaid onto winter turf. And sorrow, blood-thick and bone-deep. Breag turned away from her, poking through his pack for an excuse to busy his hands. He found his promise knot, iron-wrought on a fine-linked chain, its clink tolling him back to sweeter times.

  “That’s an unusual piece, lad.” Tarbhal’s eyes missed nothing, except for what he didn’t want to see.

  “It was given to me, the night before I was chosen.” And bitterness meant he didn’t give it back. “My people wear them for luck and exchange them in love.”

  “Does the shape mean something?” Tarbhal skirted the hurt’s proud edges.

  “It’s an old symbol, from the Dawntime.” Breag felt Sionna creep nearer. “You’ll hear the stories if you spend any time with my people.”

  Sionna jerked back, and Breag wished the words unsaid. Our people, and no helping it, girl. His fist clenched around the knot.

  “It’s been a while for me, laddie. Tell it anyway.” The words were for Sionna’s sake; the old weasel had suckled craft with his mother’s milk.

  “Before memory, before time,” Breag’s voice fell into rhythms familiar from boyhood, and he struggled against a smile to see Laoighre draw close, “the Daoine lived somewhere else. We laughed and fought, took what we would, lived like animals,“ a flickered glance for the rapt Laoighre, “and gave nothing to the Lady except a moment’s prayer for good winds and a strong left arm.

  “The Lady allowed us chance after chance, but finally even Her patience scraped bottom with its keel. She sent a wave, greater than any wave before or since, to snatch up the Daoine’s horned boats and sweep them far from everything they knew. My people cried for their homes and for their children, but the time for forgiveness had passed and the wave held them tight in its fist. Long they were carried, and far, until their food was gone and their water finished.

  “And then those faithless ones fell to their knees, accepting the Lady’s will and begging only that She gift them with her pardon before their bodies failed. Our Lady saw then that Her people had truly learned a lesson, hard-won and without price. She took pity on the Daoine and allowed Her wave to cast them up in a green and fertile place, their horned boats broken and nothing with them save the salt-thick clothing they stood up in.

  “‘Obey me now,’ She told Her people, sprawled on their bellies in gratitude for Her forbearance. ‘Do good and not harm, work the land instead of taking what you want, and above all things live not as animals but men.’ And that place was here, and those people were my people.”

  Laoighre sighed, turning it quickly into a cough. The old stories had taken Breag that way too, before he found himself tangled in their nets. Sionna seemed less enthralled, her eyes fixed on the torn tunic she stitched by firelight. Her hands were still, though, and fisted in the bunched fabric.

  “And what does your knot have to do with that pretty story?” Tarbhal’s tone held none of the irony Breag tasted in his words.

  “The knot is the symbol of our faith, symbol of the promise we made.” And symbol of another promise, this one. “When young ones came and memories of the wave blunted on strong roots and bright futures, some of the Daoine argued against the truth of the Lady’s words. One of her commandments in particular they t
ook issue with.”

  Tarbhal glanced briefly at a raptly oblivious Laoighre and nodded slightly. Sionna’s hands shook as she took up her needle.

  “They called themselves Dílis, faithful to the old ways. Our holy men cast them out. And, so that they could know faithful from heretic, the Eolaí--the holy men--bid each of our People wear a promise knot, cast in iron to represent the strength of our vow.”

  But promises are easily broken, are they not Eithne? Even the ones made over a promise knot. Forever, you promised me.

  “I never heard that one before.” Laoighre’s voice was hungry. “Stories I know are mostly heard in inns, not about real people and gods and such.”

  Breag saw Sionna’s long-fingered hand slip into the boy’s, and irritation bit deep.

  “Tell me more about the horned boats.” Laoighre wasn’t ready to let the thing lie, elbows propped on knees and his whole focus Breag’s.

  Tarbhal busied himself with the fire, and with bread and meat, and Breag found himself enjoying the boy’s attention. Laoighre’s sharp eyes and pointed chin sparked memories long put away, when the boy-Breag, himself lean and hungry, had fought for every crumb of attention. What harm a story or two to quicken a dark night?

  “In the Dawntime,” Breag settled himself, relishing even Cú’s sleepy grumble at the movement, “my people were carried in boats as long as two fields of pasture. Up front the boats had spiral horns and red eyes, and behind they had an arrow-tip tail pointing up and back.

  “The horned boats had square sails and banks of oars each side, although more than that is lost to us now. And each boat carried men and women, Daoine and Fiach.”

  “Fiach?” Laoighre butted in, and Breag allowed it, remembering.

  “Little people. Dark faced and hump-shouldered, standing only up to a man’s waist.” This part of the story had always been a problem for Breag.

  “Many of my people believe they’re no more than stories, tales to make children behave. Partners to us in the Dawntime, although none know how or why. It’s said that they lost patience with the Daoine when we cast out the Dílis, accused the Eolaí of twisting the Lady’s words to their own ends. None know where they went, but the old women say that we should salute a raven when we see one. They say the Fiach see through their eyes, and tell the Lady if we misbehave.”