Foxmask

by Juliet Marillier

  “He sees it,” Skapti said. “Make no doubt of that. Now we’d best be off. Come on, lads, step lively.”

  Asgrim’s tale was not quite finished. Thorvald and his party remained at Council Fjord for a few days, waiting until Niall was well enough to be moved. Some of the men, those with no families, stayed on to help. Most set off for their homes, to tend to farm or boat or other livelihood, and to spend time with their kin before the long work of rebuilding the broken community began in earnest. On the second day, Thorvald was sitting outside the shelter with Sam and Knut, working on some improvements to the Sea Dove’s sail, when Paul came running into the encampment, stumbling over his words in his haste to impart some news. He did not seem distressed, merely overexcited. They sat him down, gave him ale, waited as he got his breath back. The other men, alerted, gathered around to hear what he had to tell.

  Paul’s family lived in an out-of-the-way place, a tiny settlement on the northwestern margin of the Isle of Storms, set on a clifftop high above the sea. He’d headed off that morning, planning to reach the farm before dusk and give his mother a surprise. He’d taken a cliff path for much of the journey; it wasn’t the safest way, but it was definitely the quickest, and Paul knew the terrain well. That was how he’d seen it: Asgrim’s boat.

  “He was sailing north,” the archer said, “and making good progress. From his position, I reckon he must have been holed up at Little Bay, and headed out this morning. Probably aiming for the outer islands; only a scattering of folk there, and perhaps he thought they’d take him in, since they know little of what happens in these parts. The wind was favorable. He’d got around the northern edge of the Fool’s Tide, and the weather was set fair. Me, I’d have liked to make use of my bow to pick him off cleanly, but Thorvald had given him an undertaking, and besides, he was probably out of range. Out of harm’s way. Or so I thought.” He took a swig of his ale and wiped his mouth with his hand.

  “What happened?” Knut asked eagerly, for all sensed some wonder here, some dark conclusion. It could be seen in the teller’s eyes.

  “Strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” Paul said in a tone suddenly hushed with awe. “Calm sea, steady breeze, boat under perfect control. Then there were . . . there were hands, or arms, or . . . I don’t know what to call them, but they were there, all around his boat, dragging, pulling. I heard him cry out. It was a little enough sound in all that ocean. And then . . . and then they broke the boat apart under him, tore it up, shredded it to fragments. Last thing I saw was a . . .” Paul gulped, “a woman, something like a woman, reaching up and putting her arms around his neck, only it wasn’t like a wife does to her husband, you take my meaning, but more like an executioner with a victim . . . she was choking him even as she bore him under . . . A moment later, all there was to see was little bits of wood floating on the surface. Perfect calm.”

  For a little, all were silent. The image in their minds robbed them of words.

  “The Seal Tribe,” Knut said eventually, his voice shaking. “They came for him.”

  “Of course, his wife was one of them,” said Paul, nodding. “Retribution, that’s what it was. Look what he did to his own daughter. Her daughter. Had to catch up with him some time. All the same, I regret that arrow. There’d have been satisfaction in that.”

  Thorvald shivered. It was just, perhaps; on the other hand, he would not wish such an end on any man. The islands, it seemed, delivered their own punishments, in their own time.

  A cottage was provided in Brightwater, roomy and dry. There was a tiny, private chamber for Creidhe, not much more than a storage corner, with a shelf for sleeping. Gudrun had offered her a bed, and so had Jofrid, a Jofrid not yet restored to joy, for her losses would shadow her always, but at least a young woman who now had hope in her eyes. Wieland stayed close, watching over his wife like a hen with a lone chick. But Creidhe would not go with the women of the village. So she was lodged with Breccan and Niall, and with Thorvald and Sam, until it was time to move on. Niall ran a fever, and between them Breccan and Creidhe were kept busy sponging his burning body, administering drafts, and making sure visitors made as little noise as possible. Thorvald had a lot of visitors, for all the respite he had decreed before his council. Men sought his advice on their sheep, their boats, their sons living in the far islands. They told him of their wives’ anxieties, their children’s fears. They asked him to speak at an old man’s burial rite. They talked of building a temple, of refurbishing the council house, of seeking to emulate the Sea Dove’s neat construction in the making of boats, if only they could procure the timber. Some of them began to talk of trade and of treaties. Thorvald listened, commented and praised them for their initiative. He offered grave advice. Sam watched him with wonder. Was this the same man who had raged against the dark heritage of his blood, back home in Hrossey? Was this the lad who had barely known what he was doing when he borrowed the Sea Dove and its hapless master and set off on that foolhardy journey into the unknown?

  Sometimes Brother Niall was lucid, though he lay weak as a new lamb, his face dewed with sweat. When those times came, Breccan and Creidhe rested, and it was Thorvald who sat by his father’s side, dabbing his brow with a damp cloth, holding his hand and speaking in a low voice. At such times an expression could be seen on Niall’s face that was quite new to him. He had ever worn a mask, knowing it could not protect him from the world’s barbs, but recognizing it could at least conceal the way they wounded him. If he had felt love before, and perhaps he had done, long and faithfully, that mask had hidden it well. Now he set such artifice aside. It was wondrous indeed to see the gaze his single eye turned on his newfound son, and the reflection of that gaze in Thorvald’s own eyes.

  Niall wanted to go home. He wanted his quills, his inks, his parchments; he wanted the quiet of the hermitage, the empty sweep of hillside under the pale sky. He talked about the cow, the chickens, the little garden Colm had made.

  “Soon,” said Breccan. “When you are well again.”

  Sam had nearly finished provisioning the Sea Dove for her journey home to the Light Isles. The Long Knife people were generous; the boat would make this trip far better supplied than she had been on her wild voyage from Stensakir. They would take a different course this time, Sam said: more east than south at first, to skirt the shores of the Northern Isles before the run home. Knut was coming, not simply because, without Thorvald, Sam would not be able to manage the craft in open seas, but for change, adventure, opportunity. The young fisherman’s eyes were bright with anticipation. In a day or two they would be ready.

  There had been some discussion among the Long Knife people about Creidhe. At least four of the unwed men had made careful inquiries as to whether the fair-haired woman was planning to remain in the islands and, if so, whether it was really true that she was not betrothed to either Sam or Thorvald, but no more than their friend. The answer seemed to depend on who was asked. They gave up approaching Sam, who nearly bit their heads off with his curt response that Creidhe was going home with him, of course, and they should know better than to ask him such a stupid question. And Skapti, quizzed on the subject when he returned to Brightwater, seemed to believe there was an understanding between the girl and Thorvald, which their new leader had stated in no uncertain terms when he bargained for her release among the Unspoken. Word of this spread quickly and the men stopped asking. However, Skapti himself was heard to comment that if Creidhe was indeed Thorvald’s sweetheart, the two of them had evidently had a falling out, for the girl was a shadow of herself, picking at her food, wan and exhausted, and she never exchanged so much as a word or two with Thorvald, though there were many times when his eyes followed her with a certain expression in them that the big warrior thought he knew well enough. He’d been that way inclined himself for a little. He knew how foolish that was now, a bit like a stray dog looking at a princess. Besides, he’d Hogni’s family to worry about, Gerd and the lads. There was no time for dreams. He was sorry the girl looked so sad. There
was a tale there that nobody knew, nobody but Creidhe herself, and she had it locked up tight.

  “Father?” Thorvald asked as he sat by the pallet while all the others slept.

  Niall moved his head a little so he could read his son’s features. “What is it?”

  “Breccan said you can be moved in a day or so, now the fever’s broken. He must go back to the hermitage, at any rate; he has to resume tending the stock, the boys can’t be spared any longer. But—”

  “But what, Thorvald? Does it embarrass you to have a cleric for a father? You see some other path for me, perhaps one where I limp forward with a sword in my hand and a patch over my eye?”

  Thorvald flushed. “I waited a long time to find you,” he said, glancing around the room as if to check nobody was awake to hear him. “All my life. I had hopes you might choose to stay here, by me. To help me. I have a great deal to learn. I can pretend to be the leader they want, strong, wise, just. But in truth, I know nothing at all. I’ve been making it up as I go along. It was Creidhe who won their battle for them in the end, not I.”

  “Ah,” Niall said with a crooked smile, “a little humility. That’s good to see. It’s a quality I could have done with at your age, and lacked entirely. Thorvald, you are the leader they want. They have chosen you. They respect and love you. If the truth astonishes you and makes you humble, that’s just as it should be. You will spend your life becoming worthy of their trust.”

  There was a silence. “Father?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I’m not sure I can do it on my own.”

  “You’re not on your own. You’re surrounded by good, strong men and women, willing and loyal, whose hearts are bent only on a future of peace and prosperity. Besides, I won’t be far away. I expect I’ll manage to hobble down the hillside occasionally; and my door will always be open to you.”

  “It’s not the same. You have a wisdom beyond mine; an authority far greater, if you choose to use it. It’s you who should be leader of the Long Knife people. Should have been so years ago, I think, when first you came to the Lost Isles.”

  “Oh, no. Oh, no.” Niall’s face grew somber. “Never that. I challenged Asgrim, it is true. But I drew back from wresting power from his hands, misguided as he was. Do not forget what you know of me, Thorvald. I am as I am now. But I have performed deeds to make men shrink with horror. I was indeed blind in those days, and walking a path as twisted and awry as any the Devil himself could devise. If you wonder why I do not seek power in the world of men, that is half the answer. A man whose hands have taken his own brother’s life is not fit to lead. A man who cannot act without bringing darkness to all he touches should set himself aside; should place himself where he cannot be tempted to interfere. I became a hermit. I ceased to seek out Asgrim; I let him follow his own path. Until the day I sailed for the Isle of Shadows.”

  “What changed your mind?” Thorvald whispered.

  And Niall said simply, “Love.”

  After a little, Thorvald took his father’s hand in his, swallowing, and asked him, “You said that was half the reason. What was the other half?”

  “I discovered that God has a sense of humor. All those years I played the part of priest: I stood by my brethren and mouthed the words they spoke in true faith; I copied the scriptures not because I believed a single word of them, but simply so I would not lose the skills I had at reading, scribing and translation. I argued philosophy with Breccan: there was genuine pleasure in that. I tried not to let my cynicism confuse the boy. I found a certain calm in the pattern of their days; the order and discipline of their life suited me. But I was no Christian. My mind was full of doubt and disbelief. I have seen enough of the dark acts men can perform. I have felt such shadows in the core of my own being that I could hardly be swayed to believe in a god of goodness and light, however eloquently Breccan pleaded his case. Until now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “God’s joke: he saved it until the last, testing my resistance to him all those years. It was simple, Thorvald, simple and shattering. You came, and Creidhe told me I had a son, and I saw you, the one fine thing I had made. I had known nothing of your existence before then. Something changed within me; something opened, a tiny crack, a little chink. It is all God needs. I ceased to resist him, and I heard his voice. He laughs now, I imagine. He has won this battle, and I am truly his.” Niall’s eye was bright. It seemed to Thorvald the light that shone in the priest’s pale features owed little to the flickering glow from the oil lamp. This was an illumination soul deep.

  “I cannot think what to say,” Thorvald told his father, “save that if this news makes its way home to Brother Tadhg in the Light Isles, he will be even more astounded than I.”

  Niall grinned. “Ah, Tadhg. Creidhe told me he still lives, roaming the islands with his little satchel and his book of tales. How I feared that man! He had extraordinary power; God’s love was ever strong in him. Yes, he will be amused. And delighted. He once offered to teach me the ways of his faith and I would not listen. Thorvald?”

  Thorvald caught the change in his father’s tone and did not respond. He knew what was coming.

  “What happened with Creidhe? She won’t talk to me or to Breccan. It seems she won’t talk to anyone. I heard her on the Isle of Shadows, proud and strong, facing the Unspoken, protecting the child with all she had to give. But after that, such a terrible change . . . the bonny, smiling girl she once was has become a wraith, dispirited and hopeless. She has suffered some hurt we know little of, I’m aware of that. But Creidhe is resilient and courageous, like her father. I cannot understand this. Couldn’t you reach her?”

  Thorvald’s brief laugh was bitter with self-mockery and full of pain. “I? I am the last person she will confide in, Father. I was her friend once. She came here solely for me, to protect and guide me. I thought her foolish for that, but it was I who was the fool. It was Creidhe’s intervention that won us the peace. But something has changed. She’s been hurt and frightened. She was captive on the Isle of Clouds, and there’s no doubt in my mind the fellow used her. It seems to me that she does not recognize, yet, that she is safe.”

  “Fellow?”

  “There was a warrior there; he held her and the child prisoner. He’d been a long time without a woman, I imagine.” Thorvald could hear the anger in his voice. “I think it was Asgrim’s son.”

  “Erling? That dreamy, quiet lad, still alive after so long on the island? But yes, it does make sense; who else would have the love, the drive to preserve the child all those long years?”

  “Love,” echoed Thorvald with some bitterness. “He did not show much love to Creidhe; he abused her, defiled her. You’ve seen what she has become.”

  Niall was silent for a little. Then he said, “This sits at odds with what I knew of the boy, Thorvald. Still, it is a long time, and men change when their circumstances are extreme. He perished in your last battle, I take it? A sad ending for such a peaceable young man.”

  “I begin to believe it is not the same,” Thorvald said, “for this was no peace maker. He was a killer, professional, expert and ruthless. He deserved the punishment we meted out. In truth, he deserved more.”

  Niall waited.

  “I came close to killing him,” Thorvald said with a certain reluctance. “In the end something stayed my hand. Very probably he did not survive. He was wounded, and I left him where he lay.” The full truth he would not tell, lest he appear weak.

  “I see. So it is over for him, and over for Creidhe, the dark and dangerous times behind her. And yet, she still seems sunk in despair. I ask myself why? From what I saw of her earlier, when we witnessed the cruel death of an infant she had struggled to save, Creidhe does not seem a person easily thrown into despair.”

  “I thought”—there was misery in Thorvald’s voice—“that once the seer was safe, once she knew he was content and would not be harmed, she might forgive me for my meddling. That it might be as it once was between us.”
r />   “And how was that?”

  “It was . . .” Under his father’s searching gaze, Thorvald struggled for words to tell the truth. “All those years, since we were little children, she followed me, like a constant shadow, always there, listening, waiting, walking in my footsteps. When I was sad she comforted me. When I was hurt she helped me. She was younger; often I grew impatient or angry, and drove her to tears or to silence. But I . . . I got used to it, to having her near. I took her entirely for granted, Father. Until I believed her dead. And then I . . .”

  Niall waited.

  “I could not believe how it hurt. I could not understand how a man could suffer such a blow and still go on.”

  “But you did. Go on, I mean.”

  “The men needed me,” Thorvald said simply. “My feelings were unimportant. My grief, my guilt . . . they were of no matter, not when the future of the Long Knife people was in the balance. I shut them within me and got on with things.”

  “And now Creidhe has returned and you still take her for granted?” Niall’s brows arched in query.

  “No!” said Thorvald fiercely. “Never! When I knew those fellows were talking about her—was she going home, was she likely to wed one of them—I was so angry I had to go off by myself to save from setting my hands around their necks and throttling them.”

  “Why, Thorvald? Such talk seems not unreasonable in the circumstances. She’s a comely girl, and there is a certain shortage of marriageable women here.”

  “I never gave it much thought before,” Thorvald whispered. “Marriage, I mean. My mind was on other things. Besides, I knew Eyvind would never allow . . . but when they started to talk . . . How could Creidhe wed someone else? It just wouldn’t be . . . it wouldn’t . . .” He faltered to a stop.

  “But you will not tell her how you feel?”