The Well of Shades

by Juliet Marillier

  As if in answer to his thoughts, Bridei’s wife came in now, tapping gently on the door then slipping through. Although they had known each other since he was a child and she an infant, Bridei’s heart still turned over each time he saw her afresh. Tonight Tuala was wearing a tunic the hue of violets, cut wider to accommodate the growing child in her belly, over a skirt of gray wool and soft kidskin slippers. Her dark hair was plaited down her back, but wisps escaped around her pale face to form a soft halo, and her ribbon was half untied. Her eyes, turned on his as he came across to embrace her, were troubled.

  “Oh, Bridei,” Tuala said, “you’re sitting here in the dark again, worrying. I’m so sorry. If I’d known Broichan would react this way I would have waited to confront him with it until after the crisis was over, Drust and the election, I mean—”

  “Shh,” Bridei said, putting his fingers gently against her lips then bending to give her a kiss. Although her pregnancy was well advanced now, the swell of her belly was small; she had ever been a slight girl and this infant seemed likely to take after its mother in stature, as Derelei did. “Don’t apologize. Who among us would have predicted that Broichan would take such drastic action? He’s not known for being impetuous. I have been sitting in the dark, as you put it, planning exactly how I will explain my decision to him when he returns.” He detached himself and moved to light a lamp from the single candle on the table beside him. “I’m wondering if the future of the Priteni kingdoms may pale into insignificance for my foster father beside the news that he may have fathered the queen of Fortriu. I still find it hard to comprehend that it never occurred to him before.”

  The lamp’s glow spread across the small chamber, making Tuala’s large eyes shine like an owl’s. “I hope he is safe,” she said soberly. “It’s so cold out there.”

  They both fell silent, remembering a past winter, one in which Broichan’s determined efforts to shut Tuala out of his foster son’s life had seen her make her own desperate journey down the glen through the snow. If he were indeed her father, he had a great deal to come to terms with.

  “You know—” began Tuala, then stopped herself.

  Bridei waited.

  She twisted her hands together, a small frown creasing her brow, then spoke again. “You know when I ran away from Banmerren with those two?”

  She meant the boy and girl of the Good Folk, Otherworld guides who had aided her flight and come close to coaxing her away from the human world forever. Bridei could not remember that night of fear and wonder and death without a shudder. “Mm,” he said.

  “You remember what I told you, how I got down from the wall by believing I was an owl? I must have changed, the way Drustan does, but only for a moment. I must have flown. But there was no spell, no incantation, nothing. I had no awareness of using magic. I did it without thinking. Bridei, I suppose I could do that again, or something like it, if I chose to.”

  He was not sure where she was heading, only that she was deeply uneasy, pacing, fidgeting in a way quite unlike her. She had ever been his still center, his anchor and his repose. “I imagine you could,” he said. “And I understand why you have never attempted it since.”

  “I just thought… I suppose I’ve been thinking about Derelei and what will happen with Broichan gone. Our son is too little to understand the concept of never. He looks for Broichan every afternoon. He sits and waits, more patiently than is natural for any child of his age, and when Broichan doesn’t come he curls up and puts his thumb in his mouth like a baby.”

  “He still is a baby. Didn’t you say he is too young for such intensive study? Perhaps this will allow Derelei to spend more time being a child before he must become a mage or a druid or whatever future awaits him.”

  “I do let him run about with Ban, and kick a ball, and play with Garth’s boys,” Tuala said, an edge in her tone that was unusual. “And he enjoys those things. Not long ago I would have told you that is quite enough for any child of his tender years. But Broichan was right all along: Derelei’s precociously talented. He can’t help what he’s inherited, from me, from you, from Broichan himself. He savors his tutelage in the craft. He craves it. Already he misses his lessons terribly. It would be so much easier if we knew how long Broichan planned to be gone.”

  Bridei grimaced. “From the sound of things, there wasn’t a lot of planning in it. All I know is that, if he does not wish to be found, it will take a person of remarkable skill to track him down. I doubt the ability of Aniel’s man to do it.”

  “Agreed,” said Tuala. “But I think I could. Not by scrying; Broichan will be using all his craft to block such seeking eyes. There is another way.”

  “Wh—?” Bridei bit back his response. Tuala was not given to statements of the foolish or ridiculous kind. In that, she took after Broichan. “That fills me with trepidation,” he said. “If you mean what I believe you mean, it would be fraught with risk on so many levels I could barely start to list them. Broichan has acted unwisely. He doesn’t deserve such a response, Tuala. Besides, there’s the child.”

  “This one, you mean?” She laid a white hand on her belly. “Breeding does not stop a vixen or a hart or a she-badger from traversing the wildwood, Bridei, whatever the season. As for deserving, if he is my father I’m bound to care about his safety whether he deserves it or not. You’ve gone white as fresh cheese, dear one. Don’t be alarmed, I’m not planning precipitate action, all I’m doing is thinking aloud. Perhaps we’ll get a message soon to tell us he’s arrived at Pitnochie and that there’s no cause at all for our fear. My mind turned to that partly because of Derelei. I think I may need to continue what Broichan began with him. He had learned some tricks now, some skills that could prove perilous if left to develop unguided.”

  Bridei nodded; this, he had been expecting. Not the other. “Set safeguards in place,” he said. “Take Aniel into your confidence. He is completely to be trusted and thinks highly of you. Wid could be useful, too. I’m confident you have the goodwill of everyone at court now, but those who come and go are less of a known quantity, and we’re heading into a difficult time, thanks to Drust’s demise.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Tuala said. “I wouldn’t do anything to undermine you, Bridei. I hope you know that.” She sounded suddenly close to tears.

  “I didn’t mean that—Tuala, don’t cry, please. Of course that wasn’t what I meant.” He wrapped his arms around her, aware of how slight she was, unborn child and all. “If I speak of safeguards, it’s because I fear for you, not for myself, dear one. I won’t have you hurt, not by the least cruel word. You know the way some folk think. They’ll seize on the slightest oddity in the king’s personal life if they think it’s a means to discredit him. In the light of my decision not to stand for the dual kingship, we’ll be under ever closer scrutiny.”

  “Oddity. I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.” Tuala grinned through her tears.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m joking, Bridei. I seem to weep over the silliest things these days; I put it down to having a child on the way. Once she’s safely born, I trust this weakness will cease. And don’t worry about my other suggestion. If I take it into my head to attempt a magical transformation I’ll warn you first, so you know that beetle on your pillow may actually be your wife.”

  “Just as long as you can change back again,” Bridei said lightly. The terror that clutched his vitals at the very thought of her trying such a thing, he kept entirely to himself.

  A REGULAR, JARRING pain. A horse, cantering, each step another stab through his neck, another jolt of his lolling head. He was over a saddle, head down. They forded a stream and it wet him up to the eyes. All he could see was the horse’s side and a leather strap with a buckle. Gods, this hurt.

  Eile. Where was Eile? Nobody was talking; this was serious riding, swift and purposeful. If he’d been unconscious a while, those fellows back at the bridge might already have her and the child well on the way back to Cloud Hill and pun
ishment. Curse it! Why in the name of all the powers had Echen’s people taken it into their heads to apprehend him now? At least, Faolan assumed they were Echen’s people, though their chieftain was said to have been gone these four years. He’d know that blue and black gear anywhere. He’d been seeing it in his dreams since his last night under his father’s roof, a night whose restless sleep had been preceded by another sharp tap to the skull.

  Maybe the chieftain of Blackthorn Rise was dead, but his men hadn’t changed their methods. Surely the old feud wasn’t still alive, after all that had happened? Surely there was nobody, on his side at least, with any will to keep it going? Only himself; and his quarrel had been with Echen, not with the man’s kinsfolk. Now it was too late for vengeance.

  Eile. Saraid. He had to get out of this somehow and go back for them. For all her bravado, the girl was scared, and with good reason. What she’d done had to catch up with her sometime, and in the face of formal justice she’d be powerless. Chances were the child would be handed over to the aunt, and not receive a kindly welcome. As for Eile, he was not certain what penalty she would face, but he could think of several possibilities, none of them pleasant. He couldn’t let that happen, not to Deord’s daughter. The girl was frail; skin and bone. He had to get her, get them, to safety.

  The horse was going uphill. Faolan’s head was jolted about, his teeth biting involuntarily into his tongue. He tasted blood and caught a glimpse of other riders, black boots, blue shirts, and the glint of silver on their harnesses. A hill with birches; a tower. He thought he recognized the place. A dog. He knew that, too. Persistent creature. Its flanks were heaving and its tail was down, but it kept pace. So maybe she was here. Why? Why take her?

  The muddy track turned to gravel and then to flagstones. They had reached somewhere. The horse halted; rough hands untied Faolan from the saddle and dropped him to the ground like a sack of turnips. The dog licked his face, above the gag. He sought Eile with his eyes but could not see her, only a circle of male faces.

  “Take him in, lock him up,” a woman’s voice said. “Don’t untie his hands and feet until you have him secure. He has a reputation for getting away. Don’t dawdle, move.”

  A large man who smelled of garlic picked him up bodily. He was conveyed over this person’s shoulder to a stone building, dumped on straw and then, mercifully, bonds and gag were removed by the big man while two others held thrusting spears with the tips uncomfortably close to Faolan’s chest.

  “After that ride,” he croaked, “believe me, I haven’t the inclination so much as to attempt a crawl to the door, let alone make a bolt for freedom.” Gods be merciful, could this be the prelude to another sojourn in Breakstone Hollow? His skin crawled at the thought of it. Deord, my friend, what have you done to me? “Don’t tell me my informant’s got it wrong, and Echen Uí Néill’s not dead after all?”

  “Shut it, will you?” muttered the big man. “It’s the Widow gives the orders here, and it’s not for you or me to question them. Now don’t try anything stupid or we’ll have those bonds back on before you can so much as blink. Here.” Another man, perhaps a groom, had appeared with a blanket, and the big fellow tossed it into the straw where Faolan half crouched, half lay, willing some feeling into his cramped limbs. There was no point at all in trying to resist. It would only get him spiked. The blanket seemed a positive sign.

  “Thank you,” he muttered, pulling it closer. “There was a girl. And a child. Did you—?”

  But, at a word from their leader, his guards had backed out of the room. “No funny business,” the big man said from the doorway. “There’s an armed man up the end and more outside.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” Then, as the fellow moved away, “I don’t suppose you can tell me why I’m here? What is it she thinks I’ve done, this widow?”

  “No idea. We just do as we’re told. Looks as if you’ve offended her somehow. She’ll tell you when she’s ready.”

  “Now why don’t I find that reassuring?” Faolan murmured, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.

  The big man folded his arms, leaning on the door frame. “She can be tough,” he said. “As tough as any man. But if you’ve a clear conscience you’ve nothing to worry about.” The grilled door closed; Faolan heard the bolt slide home with a clang. Footsteps retreated.

  What now? It seemed an interrogation was coming. He was practiced at those. It would help to know what this woman wanted with him. Who was she? The Widow; it had been spoken like a title. He had to assume that meant Echen’s widow, though he did not remember the fellow having a wife back in the old days. Someone had said, across the river, that she held the lands for her son; that Echen’s brother, who’d stood to inherit them, wasn’t interested. So she was powerful; her husband all over again? Faolan caught himself shivering and forced himself to stop. It had been years since the summer his brother had led a local resistance against Echen’s cruel chieftaincy and paid, not just with his own life, but with the very fabric of family.

  Did this widow know who Faolan was? One of those fellows at the bridge last night had seemed to guess at his identity. Could his return have been of sufficient interest to spark an urgent message to this lady, precipitating her appearance on the riverbank this morning? Surely not. She’d know the story, of course; everyone in these parts had to know, it would be part of local legend now. But nobody had confronted him with it in her hearing. He had not had time to give his name before they disabled him. Maybe this was a simple case of mistaken identity.

  There was another possibility. She was an Uí Néill, by marriage at least, kin to the High King and to Gabhran, deposed monarch of Gaelic Dalriada. And he was on this shore as a spy. He was in the pay of the enemy: Bridei of Fortriu, the very man who had just scored a stunning victory over a force rich in Uí Néill princes. He didn’t think she could know this; he was expert at covert missions. They’d taken his bag, but very fortunately had not asked him to strip. They did not know, therefore, the amount of silver he carried, nor the full extent of his concealed weaponry. He could deal with this.

  Faolan made an efficient examination of his place of imprisonment. The last time he’d been locked up, in Alpin’s fortress at Briar Wood, a bird had come to fetch him the key. That wasn’t going to happen here, nor was a more ordinary kind of escape, for the single window was sturdily barred, the door was strong and, short of starting a tunnel under the stone walls, there was not much he could do. An image of Eile and the child was in his mind, captive and marching back to the scene of that bloody killing. That bloody and altogether justified killing. It disgusted and repelled him to think of it, that wretched lump of a man forcing himself on her, stealing her childhood, making her a kind of slave, using her love and fear for the little girl to keep her compliant… The aunt was no better: too weak to do what was right. Eile had only survived, in Faolan’s estimation, because she was her father’s daughter. Strong; indomitably strong, for all her waifish build. He must hope she would be safe until he could reach her. He must hope she wouldn’t do anything foolish, like try to fight or make the wrong people angry. In Fiddler’s Crossing, long ago, he’d been robbed of the opportunity to try to save his sister. But he could save Eile. He could save her and her daughter, and he would, no matter what it cost him. They were survivors, the two of them; he would help her. He lay down on the straw, the blanket over him, his eyes narrowed to slits. Whatever might come, he would be ready for it.

  “NO!” EILE PROTESTED, her voice rising to a shriek despite her efforts to control it. “She’s frightened! Don’t take her away, please—”

  “She can’t stay here the way she is, and nor can you, girl.” The speaker was a large woman in plain, good homespun, a snowy linen apron wrapped around her waist. “I can see the vermin crawling in your hair. Nobody’s putting her head on one of my mattresses in that state.”

  “Let me go with her—”

  “In the name of Brighid, girl, stop your caterwauling, will you? It’s only a ba
th. The nursemaid will tend to the child and I’ll keep an eye on you. Anyone would think the two of you had never seen hot water before. Now hush your mouth and come with me. The girl’s not crying, is she? Good as gold, quiet little thing. And if she’s not upset, why would you be?”

  Saraid was in the arms of a sweet-faced young serving woman, being borne away to some other part of this enormous dwelling. She was silent all right; she had learned the necessity for that over three years in Dalach’s cottage. Eile hesitated a moment, then wrenched free of the large woman and darted across the chamber to snatch her daughter back before she could disappear forever.

  “No!” she said. It was not quite a shout. “If we have to wash, we will; but together.”

  The two serving women seemed perplexed, but something in Eile’s face stilled their protests.

  “Come on, then,” said the older one. “Aoife, is it? Funny name for a girl like you. And what’s your little sister’s name?”

  “Squirrel.”

  The woman eyed her strangely. “Oh, yes? Poppet, isn’t she? So quiet. Can she talk?”

  “She’s three years old. Of course she can talk.” Eile gritted her teeth. “She’s scared, that’s all. Where is this bath?”

  The woman led the way into a chamber that seemed to be a scullery or wash room, though it was bigger than the whole of Dalach and Anda’s place. There was a fire burning on a hearth. There were buckets and brushes and cloths, racks for drying things, pots and bottles and crocks on shelves. A large pan stood in the center of the flagstoned floor; vapor arose from it.

  “I’m Maeve,” the large woman said. “The housekeeper. Take off your things. The child, too. Then get in. We’ll have our work cut out, Orlagh. You’d better find some oil of rosemary for the hair. And ask one of the maids to seek out some fresh garments for both of them. What’s this you’re wearing, anyway, lass? Some fellow’s trousers?” Her nose wrinkled.

  “None of your business,” muttered Eile, eyeing the steaming tub. She could not remember the last time she had bathed in hot water. It had been before she came to live with them, certainly. Anda had only allowed cold, except for Dalach, and he didn’t wash much anyway.