Requiem for the Wolf

by Tara Saunders

  "I'm sorry, lad. It doesn't matter now, although I wish you hadn't learned of it like that." The old man's eyes caught Breag's for the first time that day.

  "It matters."

  Tarbhal shook his head, sharp and quick, flicking his grey-grizzled braid from shoulder to shoulder. "It was never personal, believe me. It was done for the best."

  The best. Strange how other people’s best never worked out that way for Breag. "Tell me all of it."

  "It can't hurt anyone but you now." Tarbhal re-settled his left shoulder against the door, herb-scent layered over old pain like new wine on vinegar. He seemed to favour his right knee, although the Lady knew that could be the opening of a new gambit.

  "Tell me." Breag's jaw ached with the weight of what he didn't say.

  "The man you saw was Ushna. He came to bring news of home. I'm needed elsewhere."

  The Lady scald the guard, Breag's guilt was anchored deep enough into bone without this. "He made good time."

  "It's easier for a man alone." Tarbhal used his knife to scrape at the dirt under his fingernails.

  "And he stumbled on you in the dark last night. Instead of asking at the inn."

  Tarbhal said nothing, intent on the knife.

  "Give me the truth, old man. No more lies."

  The knife stilled. "Proinsis lived and died all his life in Dealgan. Never set foot on Ullach, and as far as I know he never heard of Caislean."

  "Why am I here?" Breag clenched both hands in the strap of his knapsack, fighting to keep them away from his own knife. His boots bunched the hempen matting into ugly folds.

  "Not you, lad. Sionna. The old one wanted her here, and there's reasons the guard sometimes bends to the like of her. I thought to bring her myself, but when you walked into Dealgan the chance was too good to refuse."

  "I don't understand."

  "If the head of the guard took the girl and headed for the coast, we'd have Glór-hunters and the military all over us like flies in a privy every step. This way, it's the Lupe they're watching for. If bad turned worse, I would have taken Sionna and left you to sop up their attention."

  So. Bait to distract the dogs. Breag should have known better than to trust the soft words. To credit him, Tarbhal had played an inspired game.

  "I'm surprised the girl allowed my company."

  "She didn't know. Wouldn't have come if she did. Same with the lad, he's what he seems and no more." Tarbhal's knife-tip burrowed under a pristine left thumbnail.

  "You played the game on all of us, then." Although Sionna played her own game, and played it well. And Laoighre?

  “Not a game, laddie.” Tarbhal leaned forward, hands on knees, wafting odours of willow-bark and rosemary. “A battle, bigger than your dented pride or the girl’s fine notions. We’re at war here, and what’s called for in war isn’t the shiny heroics you young men dream about.”

  A muscle jumped in Breag’s jaw, and he ground his molars to still it.

  Heroic dreams? Old man, you’re twisting your fine speeches around the wrong Lupe.

  “You don’t like to hear that, do you laddie?” Tarbhal’s knuckles clenched ugly and misshapen around the knife’s horn hilt. “Think nobody suffers but your own self, I’m betting. You’ll take the girl through the mountains by force, will you, and blame the choice on them that drove you to it?”

  “What difference from what you did to her, except the destination?” Breag’s voice dropped, guttural. “When you sit warm and safe in Dealgan, waiting the next errand, will it be Sionna’s face or Raghlan’s that you see in the hearth-flames?”

  Tarbhal jerked to his feet, his scent thick and heavy as dried blood. “Don’t, laddie. Don’t try to tell me what it’s like to walk about with a hole inside you. You have no idea how it feels to see your wife’s dead eyes every time you close your eyes, every day for forty years. I’m hoping you’ll never breathe the worse pain of not being able to remember your son’s face even though you know you’ll lose your mind if you don’t.”

  Breag and Eithne had planned a family, once. A houseful of laughing children. “So you shuffle your friends like game-sticks to heal the hurt?”

  “Whatever it takes, my friend. Near forty years for the fight, and as much more if I had it.”

  “But you don’t. Five years, if you’re lucky, then it’s an unmarked grave and nothing left behind you except bitter words and broken promises.” The old man’s wince made Breag’s belly burn with acid gladness.

  “I’ve one last shot in me before I go under.” Tarbhal lowered himself to the bed’s edge. “My promise is kept now you’re here. Tomorrow I leave for the Citadel, on nobody’s say-so but my own. One last twirl of the cloak for this old mountebank. Might be there’s a trick left in me yet.”

  Breag's anger scattered into emptiness, futility settling into his legs and weighting him to the floor. Fine hairs escaped his braid to tickle his forehead and nape. Pointless, all of it. It was better to be Marbh, Lost to Death.

  "Stay out of my way. I don't want to see you again."

  "If that's how you want it, laddie." Tarbhal sounded nothing but tired. He slipped the knife back into its sheath. "You'll not be the first to hate me, nor even the best."

  "Enough self-pity. You did this; don't expect me to swallow it with a smile."

  "So be it. A word of advice, though." Tarbhal tangled his gaze with Breag's, as though any of his words could have meaning now. "Don't force the girl to go with you. It's easy to act in hot blood. Harder to live with yourself after."

  Breag watched as the guard folded his spare tunic into his pack. The herb-scent was fainter now, pain in its place. Tarbhal nodded a farewell and limped to the door, back straight and shoulders hunched. He left a small pile of silver on the dresser as he passed. “For your trouble.”

  Breag didn't stir until the door creaked shut at the old man's back. Empty of him, the room seemed to double its size.

  Tearmann, then. Sionna wouldn't like it, but if Anú could be kept out of the business then it could be managed. The girl would adjust. Tearmann was best for her.

  Even though she had changed? Even though the animal had tasted blood and taken life?

  The Eolaí would find her a collar, no pretending otherwise. And Breag had never known a collar to come off once it clicked into place.

  A mess, all of it. Breag could see no way forward that promised salvation for any of them, himself least of all. He had no hope in him now, not even in his deepest places.

  That's one thing the guard had the right of; we do what we have to.

  Breag hoped that when the price came due it was one he was willing to pay.

  17

  A curl of sea-breeze ruffled Carad's short blond hair, carrying with it the stench of waste and rotted fish. Only at times like this did he register his hair’s length, cropped in a criminal’s cut as an act of rebellion in his youth, and kept short through absent-mindedness and lack of interest.

  The Brotherhood's blue was the only colour to be seen on the streets. Despite a clear sky, the air had the claustrophobic weight of a coming thunderstorm. Trouble. Ullach stank of more than rotted fish.

  "Nothing." Nuada's tension veined through the word.

  "Not even gossip?"

  Nuada dug a ragged thumbnail into the heart of a sea-apple and twisted until it split into two creamy green halves. "Two of our Ears didn't show last night. The third did nothing but whine about his safety."

  "You reassured him, I'm certain." Certain of no such thing, but a Tánaiste must be seen to have faith in his men.

  "Offered him the chance to share his fears with the Allsayer. That perked him right up."

  Stupid. The Ear was probably half way to Slaidh by now. Carad glanced again along Puirte's deserted street, frustration feeding the tension in his gut. Every second house stood empty; the army cringed surly and near unmanned. Trouble here, rank and gelid.

  "I don't understand why you’re holding the Allsayer back. This is his strength, is it not, asking
questions? Let him earn his keep." The wind whipped a hank of coarse brown hair into Nuada's mouth and he spat, cursing.

  "Ullach is different." It angered Carad that he could explain no better; that Nuada didn't feel the disaster that hung so low over their heads it tickled their unshaven cheeks with its skirts.

  "He whispers that you've lost your trust in him since Dealgan. He does a deal too much whispering."

  "The Allsayer's time will come. He had better not fail me twice."

  "The Dealgan boy is soaking up the worst of his temper. A good thing Aod's too young to know what a dangerous enemy he made for himself."

  "The boy will either survive it or he’ll die. He rolls his own dice." As did Carad, whose every throw was made from a broken cup.

  Nuada grunted, noncommittal. Over Carad's shoulder he squinted towards the alehouse they used as their base, seemingly unaware of his Tánaiste's displeasure. Puirte boasted nothing so fine as an inn for them to bunk in.

  "Second patrol's ready to report. Nothing that will help us, I'll bet a copper coin, but worth hearing I’m sure." His hunched shoulders spoke their own more limited surety.

  "There had better be word soon." Carad saw no need to sketch the shape of 'or else'. Nuada had been with him for too long to need spoon-feeding.

  Consequences puddled between them, staining Puirte's tension inky black. At their feet, the sea-apple lay in two halves, untouched.

  This town had better give up its secrets, and soon. If Carad's answers had to come in another of the Athair's letters then Puirte would pay with its lifeblood.

  Fodhla. Tall, broad, laughing. He wore victory on his brow like the Lone Man's crown of oak leaves. Always first, penitent over novice; disciple over penitent.

  Carad would not come second in this. Whatever the cost, he would find somebody to pay it.

  * * *

  Garbhan's trousers showed a flecked pattern of brown mud-splashes on the left leg. His right knee was stained with grass, and pulled threads puckered one sweat-sodden sleeve. He hovered half a handsbreath from the wall, the blades of his shoulders stiff.

  Fodhla would never have allowed a disciple to report in such undress.

  "News, I hope." Carad was not Fodhla.

  "Some." Garbhan stood with his legs spread, arms clasped behind his back. Not one hair rested against the wall behind him. "More than we knew before at any rate."

  "Tell me."

  "We encountered a division of soldiers in the hills to the north, out searching for a missing patrol. Not the first to go astray, so it seems, and they fear it won’t be the last."

  "Did it take much trouble to unstop their mouths?" Nuada leaned against the stable's dividing partition with both elbows, his head and shoulders poked through the space above it.

  "Not much." Garbhan's colour paled so that each brown freckle-blotch stained his cheek like tarberry juice. "I sent a man to take poitín from the still we found upcountry last week. With full bellies and warm heads they told us all we asked of them and more."

  "That was well done." Fodhla would have burst a vein at the thought.

  "Soldiers are missing from every division on the island. The men talked of assassins targeting man after man. Seems every town is bleeding their soldiers to desertion, and even the best of them are rethinking their place in the ranks."

  "Interesting." Could this be linked to the guard and the Lupe they hunted? Impossible to know.

  "The patrolmen blamed this trouble on a rise in the guard. They’re meeting again, and in numbers not seen here since we broke their backs in Barst thirty years ago. There's talk that a good number of the deserters are being taken into the guard, although there's none proven yet to have switched to the grey."

  A mess, all of it. The man standing in Ullach's red heart when the turds began to fly would end up smelling of shit. The Athair would not choose an heir that smelled of shit. Fodhla never smelled of shit. "What word on our quarry?"

  "Nothing, Tánaiste." Garbhan's gaze flicked to Carad's face and on to the tack hanging behind his head. "Talk here is all about assassination and desertions. Finding what we need to know might prove ... difficult."

  Carad considered slamming a fist into the wall behind him. The hand would swell, though, and would delay his riding if there was news. A gesture of force ending in broken knuckles would look more than a little silly.

  "We will do this." Did Carad speak for himself or for the men? It didn't matter.

  "We need only find the one loose tongue that can give us the answers we need." Nuada, practical always. "Now might be time to slip the Allsayer's leash. Let him do what he does well and maybe we'll find our party before Ullach tears itself to dog-meat."

  Carad nodded. The sky was falling down; no more need for rain covers. "Send the Allsayer to me in my rooms. I have words for him before he makes a start."

  Nuada nodded and left. No last word of suggestion or banter--perhaps he did feel the tickle of dark promise on his cheek.

  "I don't like the feeling in this place, Tánaiste." Garbhan's words might have come directly from Carad's head. "These people walk the sword's blade. One slip and blood will run in the streets."

  "The Brotherhood is no stranger to blood." A reminder, not a reprimand. The pucker between Garbhan's blue eyes fed the unease in Carad's belly. Trouble.

  "We left the patrol as they strung up a rope to hang one of their own. A lad who spoke proudly in his drink of a grandfather who wore the grey. Tánaiste, these people have lost all proportion."

  Strong words to hear from the mouth of a Brother.

  Near a month lost in following a false trail. Carad thought again of Draioch, and his stupidity in trusting only his own eyes. What had been left of him was too generous.

  "Watch your men close, Garbhan. Not a foot out of bounds, not the hem of a cloak where it shouldn't be. We sit tight until we have our answer, then we fade like a whisper."

  Garbhan nodded, the pucker between his eyes deepening to a frown. "Soft voices and gentle words. I understand."

  Carad allowed the disciple to step in front of him out through the stable door, watching as those steady shoulders moved to do his bidding. A good man to have at his shoulder. A dangerous one at his back.

  By the ale-house porch Nuada raised a long arm and waved it slowly. News, then. The weight in Carad's gut knotted a further loop. A bird could mean disaster.

  "A bird from the Citadel." Nuada spoke when Carad was close enough that none could overhear. "Something from the Athair, and a word on that other matter."

  Carad clenched his jaw until the muscles in his cheeks popped. Too soon. There had not been time.

  Excuses.

  Carad allowed Nuada to lead him into the ale-house's murky bowels, where Connlech waited by the bones of a dead fire. Two letters on the mantle by his elbow, one sealed in sky-blue wax embossed with the Athair's sword-impaled wolf.

  It could be encouragement, or a call home. It could be, even weeks after the last progress, and the humiliation of having the Athair’s own hand correct the fault.

  An image, flashed and gone. Fodhla in a sky blue Athair’s tunic, embossed with sword and wolf.

  The thumb that slid between dread-weighted sheets to crack the seal was steady as stone. The shoulders that shut his subordinates from knowledge of the Athair's words were square and solid.

  "Our party is further along the coast, in Caislean." Carad's voice held steady. "The Athair bids us take them quickly."

  Conn was careful not to meet his Tánaiste's eyes. "I'll spread the word. All will be ready to leave at dawn."

  "No!" Too raw; too desperate. Carad tried again. "No. The Athair makes a point of haste. We leave in an hour. Any disciples still out on patrol should follow as they can."

  Connlech nodded, and Carad's temper flared--unreasonably--to see that the disciple schooled his eyes to the floor. He held himself motionless until the door swung gently at the disciple's back, afraid of a moment's lapse in self-control.

  Nuada
straightened at the hearthside. "The Athair has good Ears."

  "Better than we have, that's certain." Carad still breathed through his mouth. "Fodhla does well in Dun, so the Athair says."

  "Indeed?" A careful word. Even the best-trained workhorse will balk at a snake in its path.

  "Has the Ard broken to harness, so the Athair tells it."

  "And how does the other report tell it?"

  The other letter. Carad lifted it gently from the dead fire's mantle. The paper felt thick-grained where the Athair's was smooth; light for the Athair's heaviness. Blobbed white wax. No seal.

  The crack, though, sounded loud in the room's silence. The unfolding leaves crackled with the glee of a triumph unexpected. The words danced under Carad’s eyes, handing him everything he had wished for and more.

  "Lock up the wake-house, friend, and send home the Caoineadh." Not even he could question, now, the strength of the hand he held. "The game is won."

  18

  Sionna woke with the feeling that something was wrong. The soft ebb and flow of Breag's breathing intertwined with Laoighre’s nasal whistle to make music that had become as familiar as her own heart's beating.

  Tarbhal. No full-throated rasp marked the guard’s place in their company’s night song. He had stomped down the inn's stairs, muttered a blessing without allowing her eyes to meet his, and left. Breag, surly and brusque, turned his stone face on any call for an explanation.

  He left. He found out what I am, and he wants no part of it.

  Sionna had known it would come. She just hadn’t expected that Tarbhal would be the first. Laoighre would bleed away next--already the space he wedged between himself and her loomed black and empty as a she-Lupe‘s rotten heart.

  Funny how that old curse tasted sour and strange in her mouth now.

  Ugly thoughts drove her from her blankets. The pre-dawn darkness hid less than it should have, unfolding its secrets to her new-opened eyes. Her hearing, too, was sharper than it should have been. Just as she was more. And less.