Chapter One
In the darkness lightning flashed, and in its glare raged a storm-lashed sea. Rain drove hard against the waves and against the rocks of the nearby cliffs. And approaching those cliffs, tossed on the waves like a bit of bark, was a tiny curragh with a lone man inside.
He knelt in the center of the craft with his hands over the sides, trying with all his strength to steer his flimsy boat toward the beach and away from the rocks. But it was a losing battle against the wind that tore at his hair and tattered clothes. He had no oar and no sail. There was nothing between him and the howling storm except the bare wooden frame and leather skin of the curragh, and the strength of his own two arms.
He rubbed his face against his arm in an effort to push his wind-whipped hair out of his eyes. It was a young face, brave against the howling storm, with smooth skin and determined eyes. He kept on pushing the boat toward the shore, but it was no use.
With every heartbeat the roaring waves carried him closer to the jagged cliff- side.
Even his strong young shoulders were no match for such a storm.
The image wavered. Muriel tensed, trying to focus her thoughts in an effort to bring it back…and then realized that she had caught hold of the sides of her water mirror, vibrating the sea water within and disturbing the vision it showed.
She tried with all the power she possessed to recall the image of the man lost in the storm, but the water in the polished bronze dish turned clear and dark even as she watched. It was no use. The storm clouds rolling in from the sea had swallowed up the moon, and without the moon shining down there would be no visions in her mirror.
Yet Muriel had seen all she needed. She pulled the window shutter closed and, ignoring Alvy, caught up her purple-blue woolen cloak from her bed, threw it around her shoulders, and ran out into the night.
The great fortress of Dun Farraige lay dark and silent before the approaching storm. Muriel crept through the shadowy grounds, between the scattered homes and around the King’s Hall, until she reached the gate in the dun’s circular earthen walls. It was shut tight against the night and the wind. Two watchmen sat huddled on the covered walkway above.
Muriel pulled up her heavy rectangular cloak so that the top of it fell over her head, stepped into the shadows, and waited.
Rain began to fall. It ran down the leaves and gathered in the hollows of the trees, especially the tall willow just outside the gate. Muriel lifted her hand and made a small flinging motion, and the collected rainwater splashed down with a thump against the outside of the tall wooden entrance to the dun.
The two watchmen got to their feet. “Who’s there?” one of them called.
“Ah, it’s just the wind; no one’s there,” the second complained.
Muriel made the small gesture again. There was another thump against the gate.
“Someone is there,” said the first watchman, leaning far out over the walkway. “Who is it? Who’s there?”
“Somebody lost in the storm, or some farmer whose wife’s birthing time has come,” decided the second, climbing down the ladder. “You watch for them. I’ll open the gate.”
Grunting with effort, he unbolted the huge portal and dragged it partly open. Then he peered out but did not move from the threshold. “Who’s there? Answer!”
Muriel breathed deeply, gathering the last of her reserves, and made the flinging motion one last time. Another thump, farther away on the earthen wall, made the watchman step out into the grass beyond the gate. “Answer, now! I’ll not ask again. If you’re there, come in or the gate will be closed!”
Muriel slipped through behind him and quickly crept out into the darkness. Along the curving wall of the dun, she raced into both the night and the storm.
She fought headlong through the howling wind, struggling to fasten the heavy bronze brooch that would hold her woolen cloak at her shoulder. Muriel could see almost nothing in the heavy darkness, and had to find the path to the sea from memory and from the sound of the crashing waves. Never had the journey seemed so long.
At last, reaching the wet sand of the beach, she untied the strings of her folded-leather boots, pulled them off, and threw them aside. Closing her eyes as the rain poured down, she waded ankle-deep into the cold white surf.
Now in contact with the water of the sea and the life within it, Muriel raised her arms and spoke to two of those she treasured most…two sleek gray swimmers, smooth and swift, who laughed at storms and considered the roughest waves to be their playground.
Come to me…come to me. There is one who needs your help.
The lightning flashed and the thunder rumbled. A short distance away a pair of dolphins arced up out of the ocean, one after the other.
Near the rocks…the storm has him, but you are stronger. Help him…bring him here…bring him to me.
The dolphins leaped again, then vanished beneath the waves. Muriel shielded her eyes against the chill, driving rain and looked out toward the rocks, where she knew the man in the curragh struggled against the storm.
He was surely facing his death at this very moment.
Another flash, and this time she saw it—the curragh riding high on the white-capped waves, heading straight toward the boulders at the foot of the nearby cliff. Then there was only darkness and howling wind again, and lashing rain and crashing surf.
She took another step into the rushing sea. The sand tugged hard at the soles of her feet each time the waves receded. Help him, she called to the dolphins once more, closing her eyes and stretching her hands toward the cliffs. You can do this thing…you can bring him here…you can save his life.
She was almost afraid to open her eyes, fearing she would see nothing but roaring waves. But she did open them, blinking against the rain, and looked hard into the darkness—and a brilliant rippling flash showed her the little curragh bouncing and leaping toward her on the waves, pushed and guided by the two dolphins.
But there was no sign of the man.
Had she been too late? Had her friends rescued only the curragh and not its passenger?
The two creatures slapped the waves with their tails as they forced the craft to shore, right near where Muriel stood, then turned away and headed back out to sea.
Thank you, thank you! she thought. The two dolphins leaped up out of the surf once more, then were gone.
Muriel grabbed hold of the boat’s sides and looked in. The man lay on the floor of the craft, exhausted from the struggle and from the cold, the last of his strength spent in his battle against the waves.
“Get out! You must get out!” She struggled to drag the heavy boat up onto the beach before the waves could get hold of it again. “Get out!”
But the man lay unmoving on his side, his face half-covered by the cold water pooling at the bottom of the curragh.
She reached in and got him by the shoulder. With some effort she managed to roll him over onto his back. Was he dead? She placed her fingers at his neck. The skin was chilled by rain but warm beneath, and the pulse was steady and strong.
He was alive—but she had to get him out of his boat before the sea dragged it away again. “Wake up! Come with me! Wake up! Wake up!”
The man stirred a little, but then fell back again. Muriel raised her hand and slapped him sharply on the face—enough to sting his cheek and make him open his eyes.
He sat up suddenly and caught her wrist. In an instant he had come fully awake. “Who are you?” he whispered, staring up at her.
The lightning flashed and she caught her breath, for his were the strangest eyes she had ever seen. She’d seen them for only an instant, in the electricity of the storm, but they were unlike the eyes of any other man.
The sight of them was enough to make her wonder
just what it was she had rescued.
Even as she stared at him and the rain pelted her face, he began to lose his grip on her wrist. Muriel thought he had pulled away from her—but he had not moved and neither had she. It was the sea grabbing hold of the curragh and dragging it off on the waves again; he would quickly be pulled out beyond her reach.
Muriel leaped back. “Get out! Get out!” she cried as the boat moved farther and farther away. “I have not the strength to help you again tonight! You must get out!”
In one move the man vaulted out of the little boat and into the chest-high surf. He struggled against it, battling the water with the last of his strength—and then the waves took him down and he vanished beneath them.
Muriel started to cry out, started to go to him, but there was nothing she could do. The sea would take her, too.
Come back, come back…come back to me!
With a great gasp for air, the man flung himself up out of the waves and forced himself forward, one step, another, then another, until at last he struggled out of the grip of the angry sea and dropped to his knees at the edge of the beach. Muriel reached for him, but he only closed his eyes and collapsed to the wet sand at her feet.
Muriel felt she could again breathe. This stranger would be safe where he was, at least for a little while. He was out of reach of the storm, and the tide would not come in again before dawn. She unpinned her heavy cloak and wrapped it around him as best she could; the good wool would help keep him warm even though it, too, was soaking wet from the storm.
“I will come back for you,” she said. Then she ran across the beach, grabbed her wet leather boots, and hurried back to her dun.
The storm clouds had gone and the night sky shone with stars by the time Muriel returned, followed closely by four armed men from the fortress. She maintained her outward calm, but beneath it her heart pounded and her breath came increasingly fast.
Hurry, hurry! she wanted to say to the men. Our visitor is cold. Exhausted. He lies awash in the surf at the edge of the sea. He cannot survive there for long. Hurry, hurry!
But the men only made their methodical way down the rocky hillside path to the beach, moving quietly and carefully in the windy darkness. “You’re sure he was alone?” Ronan questioned as they walked. “You’re sure he was not the first of some invading force?”
“He was nothing of the kind. I told you, I found him alone in a leaky little curragh with nothing and no one to help him. No sail, no supplies, not so much as an oar.”
“An exile,” said Flannan. “Set adrift with no way to steer, for the sea to take where it wanted.”
“Well, it has taken him here,” said Muriel, “and we will care for him as hospitality demands.”
“If he lives,” added Ronan.
They reached the bottom of the hill and walked out onto the beach. Muriel left the men behind as she raced across the wet sand to the dark bundle at the water’s edge.
“Is he still alive?” called Flannan.
Muriel looked up from the fallen stranger and nodded. “He lives. But he grows colder. We must move him now, or it will be too late.”
“Well, that we can do. Grab a corner, lads, and lift.” The four warriors each took hold of an arm or a leg and began hauling their half-drowned guest back toward the dun. The purple-blue cloak that Muriel had wrapped around him fell to the sand. She quickly gathered it as the others moved away.
“Look at him,” remarked Flannan as Muriel hurried to catch up. “Ragged clothes of worn linen. No sword. No dagger. No gold at his throat or at his wrists. Hair cut short. Not even a pair of boots on his cold, bare feet. And I suppose that’s his boat out there.”
Muriel followed the warrior’s gaze and saw the battered remains of the stranger’s curragh smash against the rocks in the moonlight, breaking up into small pieces.
She turned away from the sight and back to the others. “You said he was an exile. Perhaps he was taken prisoner in a battle and—”
“He’s a criminal,” interrupted Ronan, hauling up the unconscious man’s arm to get a better grip on it. “Battle prisoners are not exiled. They are held for ransom, if noblemen, or simply kept as slaves or soldiers if they are not.”
“He is no criminal,” Muriel whispered.
“You are so sure? I don’t think—” But his words were cut off as his burden suddenly arched his back, twisted around, and wrenched himself out of all four men’s grasp. The captive fell facedown to the beach.
He was quick, but he was also numb with cold and exhaustion. Dun Farraige’s four warriors had him surrounded and at sword point before he could get to his feet. They shoved him down on the sand, where he sat very still with his hands braced at his sides.
Muriel moved past the swords and stood over him. Though he was pale and shivering with cold, he was nonetheless wide awake and surprisingly calm. He looked up at her and smiled, as if the two of them were alone together.
“I did see you,” he said. “You were no dream. I feared you existed only in the delirium of a dying man, but you are real—and that makes me very happy.”
She could only stare back at him, seeing nothing but those eyes. The moonlight revealed that one was blue and one was brown. Never had she seen anyone with eyes like that.
Still smiling up at her, he got slowly to his feet. Even in his weariness Muriel could see that he was tall and strong and broad-shouldered, and he carried himself like a warrior. He seemed not to notice as his four captors glared at him and pushed their sword points closer.
“Please, can you not put those away?” said Muriel. “He is unarmed. He is no threat to you.”
“We don’t know what he is,” said Ronan.
“We know,” said Flannan in a growl. “He is an exile. A criminal. A slave.”
The stranger glanced over at Flannan, looking him fearlessly in the eye. “I am no slave,” he retorted with a laugh. “My name is Brendan. I am a prince. I am the tanist of Dun Bochna.”
Now it was his captors’ turn to laugh. “Oh, I’m sorry! We should have known! You certainly do look like a prince,” said Flannan with a sneer. “Such fine clothes, such fine weapons!”
“A broken-down boat for a steed, and a school of eels for an army!” added Ronan.
Muriel looked up at Brendan, but he simply waited patiently for the laughter to subside.
“You were found adrift without even food or water, as the law requires,” said Ronan at last, when the others quieted. “Who would do such a thing?”
Again the man named Brendan looked straight at him. “Odhran.”
This time the men of Dun Farraige were silent. They glanced at each other and back at Brendan. “We’ve had our own dealings with King Odhran,” said Flannan.
“Something will have to be done about him soon,” added Ronan.
“A more false and wrongful king I have never heard of, not even in the old tales.” Flannan looked closely at Brendan once more. “Tell me, tanist, just who is your tribe? And who is your king?”
“Surely you know of Dun Bochna—and of King Galvin, king for more years than I have been alive.”
Flannan looked closely at him. “I do. But Dun Bochna is at least five days’ ride from here, on the other side of the bay. You must have drifted for a good long time.”
“I was not set adrift from my home. As I told you, I am no criminal.” Brendan glanced away, out to the dark sea, out at the rocks where the little pieces of his curragh clung to the waves.
“I will confess that I am not sure how long I was at sea,” he finally admitted quietly, and Muriel saw how much he still shivered. “I only know that there was no food, and no water, and I fought the waves for a very long time.”
“Please! We’ve been out here long enough!” she cried and reached up to wrap her cloak around his shoulders. “What sort of hospitality is this that Dun Farraige offers to an unarmed stranger, leaving him hungry and cold at our shores? Come with me. We are taking him back with us right now!”
T
he four men of her dun looked at each other. Finally Ronan and Flannan each pulled one of Brendan’s arms across their shoulders and began helping him walk toward the hill.
“All right,” said Ronan. “We’ll take you back to the dun. In the morning King Murrough and his druids will decide what’s to be done with you. If you are a prince, as you say, then you will be treated to the finest hospitality we can offer. But if you are a slave—well, then, your life will never hold uncertainty again.”
Chapter Two
The men shoved open the door of Muriel’s little round house. Inside, Alvy nearly dropped the iron poker into the hearth fire. “Mistress!” the old woman cried, hurrying over as quickly as her bent back would allow. “I was so worried about you—Oh, what is this?”
Muriel stepped into the deep clean rushes on the floor of her house and moved Alvy back near the shuttered window. “Put him there,” she said to Ronan, pointing across the room to the fine rope-and-wood-frame bed against the white clay wall.
Ronan and Flannan pushed their way through the door, still supporting Brendan between them with his arms up on their shoulders. They got him to the bed and let him fall on his back to the straw-stuffed mattress, his long, bare legs trailing off to one side. A fur on the bed was left beneath him.
“Thank you,” Muriel said. She hung her wet wool cloak on a peg in the corner. “We will take care of him and bring him to the king in the morning.”
The two warriors glanced at her, then at each other, then filed out of the house. Muriel closed the door tight behind them. Alvy remained where she was, safely behind the central hearth, staring wide-eyed at their guest. “Lady, what is this? I have never seen this man before! Who is he? And what’s wrong with him?”
Muriel hurried over to the bed. “His name is Brendan,” she answered, easing the man’s long legs up onto the mattress. “His boat wrecked on the beach. He nearly drowned.”
“He doesn’t look like much,” Alvy commented, coming closer. “So pale…dressed in rags…no gold…” She paused. “Is he a slave?”
“He’s not a slave. I’m sure of it.” Muriel got her arm beneath Brendan’s shoulders and helped him to sit up. “Alvy, pull that wet fur out from under him—that’s it—and bring another. Stir up the fire, too. He’s cold to the bone. We’ve got to warm him up, or else—”
Spirit of the Mist Page 1