“We must wait now.” Faolan pushed him back to sit on the stone, himself remaining crouched. “To be seen here would be disastrous for your future. We must wait until they are gone. Then we will ride and talk. You shed tears. She is a beguiling creature, that much I see plainly. In the tales of my homeland many such women appear. They are both beauteous and perilous.”
Bridei made a graphic gesture indicating an intention to slit the Gael’s throat for him if he did not stop talking, and Faolan, who was smiling, obliged with silence. Below them, half glimpsed through the bushes, the women gathered their tools, their cloaks, and set off in orderly file for the long walk home. Despite himself, Bridei moved to look again, just for a moment more. Tuala was at the end of the line, by herself, although the others walked in pairs. She kept turning to look back; one slender white hand came up to brush the curls from her face, and they fell in a defiant tangle back across her brow Her eyes were shadowed as if she, too, had been troubled by her dreams.
“Don’t move,” Faolan said quietly. “Let her go. I see how you long for this; it explains much. Let her follow them. To act now would spell ruin.”
He was right. That did nothing to quell the aching of Bridei’s heart, a pain that seemed to spread into every part of him, urging him forward, now, now, before she vanished from his sight forever, for how could he bear to be so close and not to speak, not to touch . . . He stayed quite still and silent as Tuala moved down the stream and away. He waited longer, as the ache in his heart was joined once more by a deep throbbing somewhere behind his temples. What he had suspected was true; this was a malady for which Broichan had no cure. Eventually Faolan got up and went to untether the horses. It was safe to begin the ride back to court.
They went awhile without a word. It was Bridei who broke the silence. “Was that another part of your calculated strategy? To make me weep before you, so you can report my weakness back to the masters who pay you? Did you know these women would be here?”
“Yes and no,” Faolan said. “Certain information came to me suggesting Fola might bring her charges out on the first fine, dry day; there are rites that must be performed here in preparation for Gateway. And I’m told the students need to gather herbs in the wild as part of their training. I did not know exactly the day and the time; in that, your gods intervened. They play a complex game with you, Bridei.”
“Why? What interest can you have in this? It is my own particular misery; it need not be drawn into what we do at Caer Pridne.”
“No? I seek to discover the source of your malady. That is most certainly part of my job. A man who is beset by crippling headaches, a man who cannot sleep more than a snatch at a time, and that plagued by nightmares, will eventually become incapable of fulfilling the role that awaits him. You told me you did not need a woman; that such release would not help. What I see today suggests that you were wrong.”
Fury made Bridei’s teeth clench tight. His head was pounding like a war drum. “Do not speak of her thus,” he said. “You cheapen this. She is my oldest and dearest friend; closer to me than any other could be. Last time I saw her, she was a child. You see what she is now: a wise woman, a daughter of the Shining One, called by the goddess herself. Tuala is no forest enchantress sent to lure me to my doom like the sprites in the tales. Nor is she some common creature for easy taking. She is . . .” He made himself stop. The more he said, the fiercer the pain.
“Brought up in Broichan’s house. Your sister.”
“No. Not my sister; we were ever closer than sister and brother. More like the two parts of one whole: kernel and shell; petal and stalk; pipe and reed; harp and string.” Bridei anticipated a withering response, but none was forthcoming. They rode on in silence until, in the distance, the walls of Banmerren could be seen once more and along the bay beyond them the looming shape of the king’s fortress. They had gone by ways which, Faolan had said, did not cross any likely walking tracks; they might be wishing to establish a pattern, but it was the spies of influential men they wanted to attract, not a gaggle of women.
“Very well,” Faolan said abruptly, reining his mount to a halt. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“I’m sure you do. Here’s the dilemma: a man who needs to be at his best, and soon, for the fate of a kingdom depends on it. A man with a problem to resolve before he can be well again. A problem that cannot be resolved unless he breaks the rules. But he cannot break these rules for fear of offending someone: his foster father, the monarch, the gods. So I ask again, what do you want to do?”
“Are you presenting me with a choice? You, the man paid to stop me from walking into danger? The man who dogs my every step?”
“Give me a plan,” Faolan said. “A strategy. If it meets with my approval, we’ll do it.”
“A plan. A plan for you to take straight back to Broichan. He’s the one with the silver pieces.” Bridei heard the edge in his own voice and felt shame, but right now this seemed to be the best he could manage.
Faolan sighed. “I am my own man, for all the silver pieces. A fellow has to eat; that need not render him mindlessly obedient. Broichan’s particularly busy right now The king requires his full attention. Besides, from what I’ve learned of druids, they’re not your best experts in matters of the heart. I don’t think we need reveal anything to Broichan just yet. It’s plain to me you must see this young woman alone, speak to her, bed her if you have to—on second thoughts, that could cause all manner of complications, so perhaps better not—and sort this out once and for all. You have certain challenges to overcome. She’s behind high walls. She may not wish to see you; who knows a woman’s mind? You have enemies. Nobody must know, save for myself. Work it out; make it foolproof. Then tell me. It must be soon. We don’t have long.”
Bridei cleared his throat. He was momentarily lost for words. This was probably just part of another convoluted scheme. “It is not a case of bedding, as you so crudely put it,” he said. “Tuala is—was—a child; it is not appropriate . . .”
“You’re deluding yourself,” Faolan said. “Look at me and tell me you watched her down there with her pearly skin and her dreaming eyes and didn’t feel desire. What is it you want? Isn’t it, at heart, as simple as that?”
There was no answer to this. It was and it wasn’t. He needed her as fledgling trees need rain, as opening flowers need sun. He yearned for her as the salmon yearns for the home pool high in the hills. He craved her as a lonely child craves a friend of the heart. And he wanted her as a man wants a woman. That much, after today, was starkly clear to him. Not as occasional lover nor as convenient mistress; not as temptress from beyond the margin. As his wife. There was no other way it could be. And it was impossible. Apart from the objections Broichan would raise, and Aniel and the others, Tuala herself had made it so. The Shining One had taken her from him.
“I love her,” he said simply.
“Mm. You mean purely, honorably, nobly, that kind of thing?”
“It is, I imagine, beyond your understanding.”
“No doubt. Let us ride; best if we appear at Caer Pridne while it still lacks some time until dusk. I want us to be seen. You work on your plan and I will devote tomorrow to mine. If your gods visit you tonight, ask them for more fine weather. I’ve no desire to be riding out in a tempest.”
IT WAS THE morning of Gateway. The moon was a few days from her perfect fullness, but the weather was wet and windy; the face of the Shining One would not be seen over Caer Pridne tonight as the darkest of rituals took place deep under the earth by the Well of Shades. Bridei had slept little. He felt like a stretched wire, every part of him jangling, every sensation magnified. His head swarmed with thoughts, ideas, unresolved questions. Foremost among these dilemmas was tonight’s ritual. He had an idea of how it would be enacted here at the Well, based on court whispers and on the details Wid and Erip had half explained. The thought of it chilled him to the marrow. There were gods and gods. The Flamekeeper he loved
wholeheartedly, a deity of light, courage, and strength, who rewarded men for their valor and expected nothing more complicated in return than loyalty and purpose. He revered the Shining One in her beauty and wisdom; he respected Bone Mother as a child respects an ancient elder, with both love and fear. But the god whom the men must honor tonight was a different matter. What he demanded was terrifying, repellent, a test of utmost obedience that must stretch the will almost beyond sanity. Bridei did not know, in truth, whether he would be able to look on as it happened and maintain his composure. He must do so; it was another test. A man who would be king could not afford to fail it.
Those others, Carnach, Wredech, they would have experienced this before, as the king’s close kinsmen. Drust the Boar would have enacted it himself in the days before he turned to the Christian god; his advisers, having turned their backs on the old ways, were unlikely to attend tonight. For Bridei, this would be the first time. Passing Broichan’s door, he saw the druid kneeling alone, facing the wall, deep eyes distant, arms outstretched in pose of supplication. The chamber was almost dark; a single candle burned, throwing Broichan’s shadow across the stones in a looming, distorted shape. Bridei was reminded, sharply, of the day he himself first came to Pitnochie; of his sense of his foster father as immensely tall, shadowy, a presence alive with harnessed power. He stood in the doorway watching for quite some time. Broichan never moved from that pose of total concentration and utmost discipline. Eventually Bridei walked on, a silent Garth at his shoulder. He sought out Gartnait, thinking what was needed today was a simple activity to tax the body hard and drive away dark thoughts: wrestling, perhaps, or a bout with staves. But Gartnait was unexpectedly busy. He sat with the king’s scribe, laboring over his letters.
“Sorry,” Gartnait said. His rueful grin sat askew with the look in his eyes; they were uncharacteristically bleak. “My mother has taken it into her head that certain gaps in my learning must be filled; she has set an exacting schedule for me. I may have some free time later.”
“I’ll look out for you,” said Bridei, retreating. This was odd; surely Lady Dreseida knew her son well enough to realize the scribe was wasting his time with Gartnait. Some men were simply not made to be scholars. The heir to Raven’s Well was able enough in other spheres; he was a powerful swimmer and adept with sword and staff. He rode capably. He would never grasp reading and writing, history and philosophy. Bridei had only to compare his own attempts to share some of what he knew with Gartnait and his efforts with Tuala. Tuala soaked up learning as if born to it; Gartnait simply wasn’t interested. When you were bored, you didn’t learn. It seemed both Gartnait and the scribe were in for some long, fruitless days.
Faolan was nowhere to be found. It was too wet to go out riding, too cold for any but designated guards to be out on the wall-walks. There was nowhere tolerably quiet save their own quarters, and to spend the day there was to leave his mind open to thoughts of the ritual to come. The silent, still figure of Broichan in the adjoining chamber would do nothing to keep them at bay.
They went to the hall. Breth was there already with a group of men throwing knives into a wooden target, an effigy that was all staring eyes and hair done in scarlet paint: clearly a Gael. Others gathered close to the hearth. Men were sitting over game boards, women listened to the king’s bard as he coaxed a mournful tune from the harp, others were deep in conversation. Bridei had become expert at scanning such groups and identifying those he must engage in talk and those better avoided. Talorgen was watching the knife throwers, and so were the king’s cousin Carnach with several of his men, and the councillor Tharan. Aniel was absent; the king was ailing and would be in need of support to strengthen him for the night’s ordeal. There was no sign of the queen, nor of her brother. But among the men who stood near the hearth, talking in low voices, were the two emissaries from Circinn. The cold-eyed Bargoit was doing most of the talking, while elderly Fergus listened and nodded. The Christian, Suibne, was smiling amiably and tapping his foot in time to the harp, as if there were not a good king dying in this place. Bridei did not allow himself to become angry. This must be treated as an opportunity; he must force his mind from the other matter that sought to drive even the ritual from his thoughts. The little packet lay safe in the pouch at his belt. There had been no other message, nothing save what Ana had slipped into his hand as they passed in the hallway, the day the girls came back once more from Banmerren. Only this: a scrap of cloth bound with a green ribbon, and within, a shriveled oak leaf and a round white pebble. Tuala was clever. Who could interpret that save druid or wise woman? Who could recognize its meaning save a child raised in such a household as Broichan’s? It gave, instantly, the when and where he needed for Faolan.
Bridei had been through all the arguments. He had sworn to himself, after that day at the ancient cairns, that he would not seek her out; could not. She did not wish it; she had chosen Banmerren. She would send no reply. He must not doubt the wisdom of the Shining One. Should he become king, should Tuala then agree to become his wife, he would be condemning her to a life of unhappiness. At court she would be subject to gossip, whispers, perhaps outright hatred. Nobody trusted the Good Folk. How could one of them ever be accepted as queen of Fortriu? Over and over Bridei had told himself these truths, while every day he had waited with beating heart for Ana’s return. She had watched his face with some curiosity as she slipped the packet into his hand. Bridei had turned away quickly with a murmured thank you; his heart had been behaving unreliably, and he’d felt the flush in his cheeks. He had acknowledged, then, what he had known all along since he had seen Tuala by the stream that afternoon, so grave and sweet, so wonderfully changed yet so remarkably still herself. He must see her, despite the risk. To be discovered within the walls of Banmerren was to throw away the prospect of kingship; to venture there was to insult the goddess. He must do as Faolan had suggested, then; make a plan and ensure it was foolproof. Tuala had given him half the plan with her stone and leaf, a message clear as any words: the oak tree at full moon. Only four days away, so soon, so soon he would see her again, and this time touch her, tell her . . . no, that was getting too far ahead. He had to smuggle himself and Faolan out of Caer Pridne and along the sand to Banmerren unseen, by moonlight. He must take a rope. He must trust that Tuala would be waiting for him, no matter when he got there. And he could not be there long. But he would go . . .
He could not think of that now. Bargoit had ceased his narrative and was eyeing Bridei, arms folded, expression challenging. Beside him, his fellow councillor Fergus had taken up a similar stance. If they wanted some kind of debate, he would give them one. Every meeting must be used, and used well, if he was to have the numbers when it counted.
“Play knives if you want,” he murmured to Garth.
“Best if I just keep an eye on them; too easy for someone’s hand to wobble, in here, and something sharp travel beyond the target at an unfortunate moment. You planning to talk to that long-faced misery from Circinn?”
“That’s the plan. Better be quiet if you’re coming over with me. We must at least make pretense of being civil.”
“To a fellow who throws the wise women out of their houses and installs wretched foreigners like that Suibne instead?”
“To just such a fellow, Garth. He’s one of our own, whether or not we like his approach.”
“Silent as the grave, that’s me.”
“Good man.”
A conversation ensued that covered a wide range of topics without ever quite mentioning the sad fact that Drust the Bull was dying, or the undeniable truth that Fortriu would soon be needing a new king. They began on neutral territory, speaking of fishing and hunting and what opportunities existed in the Great Glen as opposed to the gentler lands near the southern court of Drust the Boar. Circinn was not without hills, although nothing there could rival the high, bare peaks of the Five Sisters or the snow-capped mountains of the west. Drust the Boar’s own fortress was set atop an ancient mount, close by the sacred
hill that had been a place of pilgrimage since time before time: the Mother, it was called. Wise women no longer made their climb up the Mother’s bony flanks, nor kept their vigil on her peak at Gateway or at Measure. Christian missionaries had put a stop to that. The houses of the goddess in Circinn had been closed down one by one, the wise women displaced. Bridei wondered if folk still made the journey secretly, alone or in little furtive groups. He turned his thoughts back to the topic under discussion: what game might be found on the wooded slopes of that region.
“You hunt deer yourself?” Bargoit inquired. “A good pastime for a young man.”
“I was raised by a druid,” Bridei said quietly. “I have participated in the hunt at Raven’s Well. But my knowledge of wild creatures is based on the understanding of the world we share, not on a need to pursue and kill. At Pitnochie our table was furnished chiefly from the farm. And with fish, of course. The hidden glens north of Serpent Lake are home to some of the finest trout that ever graced a man’s table.”
“Mm,” said Bargoit. “They tell me Morleo’s lands at Longwater are rich with lakes and streams. You fought with him at Galany’s Reach, did you not? What opinion did you form of the man?”
“I think Morleo an admirable leader,” Bridei said cautiously; this topic was more complicated. “Forthright, flexible, respected by his men.”
“And Ged?”
“Well loved. Valiant.”
“You describe Morleo as flexible. No man who adheres unswervingly to the old ways can be called that. You’re living in the past, all of you. No wonder . . .” Bargoit appeared to think better of what was to follow. His sudden reticence was more than a little artful.
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