The Well of Shades

by Juliet Marillier

  “Not quite. I gave her some more of the draft. I’ll need to forage for herbs again: wild endive, tansy, perhaps holly leaves. What I brewed is almost finished.” He bent to rub his leg, wincing. Eile had quickly discovered this weakness; there was no point in pretending it did not slow him down. The knee ached at night and it was stiff in the mornings. When he had told Eile he got the injury fighting a pack of wolves she had refused to believe it.

  “I’ll go,” Eile said, coughing again. “Where are they? How far upstream?”

  “No, I’ll go. I want you to keep warm; to stay well. Eile, some friends of the king live not far from here. It would be half a day’s travel back the way we’ve come, then up a branching track to the east. There would be proper shelter there; warm beds, women who could help.”

  “Is that what you want to do?” The look in her eyes was wary.

  “It is a possibility. Once there, she’d have a better chance of recovering quickly. But we’d have to take her out in the cold to reach Raven’s Well. If we stay here and wait, we can keep her in bed and out of the chill air.”

  Eile nodded. “Are you asking me to choose?”

  “To consider it. We’ll decide together.”

  “You could go there and fetch help,” she said, giving him a sidelong glance from where she squatted by the fire.

  Faolan was astonished at the strength of his own reaction to what he knew was, on some level, an entirely reasonable suggestion. “Absolutely not,” he said. “I’m not leaving the two of you on your own.” His mind showed him, one after another, all the ills that might befall them in his absence. Each was darker than the last; all were unthinkable.

  “We’ve come through some hard times already, Faolan,” said Eile quietly. “I think we could manage a day on our own. We have food and shelter. We have fire.”

  “I’m not doing it. I won’t discuss it further.”

  “Oh.” She gave the rabbit an experimental prod. “Well, it’s too late for us to start back for this place today, so we may as well wait and decide in the morning. Perhaps she’ll be better.”

  Faolan heard the fear in her voice despite her efforts to sound calm and capable. He did not think the child would die; she was healthy, though slight. He was more concerned by Eile’s rasping cough. But what did he know? Only last summer, they said a malady had swept through White Hill and carried off several children like newborn lambs in a sudden cold snap. The amenities of court and the attentions of no less than the king’s druid had not been able to prevent that. Saraid was as small and vulnerable as a new violet. Eile was frail; her fierce will could not disguise the translucent pallor of her skin, and her eyes still seemed too big for her face, despite the better diet of recent times.

  Faolan put a hand on her shoulder and, feeling her flinch, withdrew it. “I’m no expert,” he said. “Right now, I’d prefer the two of you were warm and dry, here where I can keep an eye on you. It’s best if we don’t travel until both of you are well again. Tonight, I want you to take the herbal draft, too.”

  Eile made a face. “It smells like dog piss,” she said, reminding him that she was only sixteen.

  “And tastes worse, no doubt. But it’s good for you. Now I’m going to get those herbs. If I can find some wild onions to go with the rabbit, I’ll bring them. I won’t be far off, Eile. Stay alert, and shout if you need me.”

  Her smile was hard to read. He deduced it was a good sign that she would smile at all. Then she began to cough again, and Faolan headed off up the stream, hoping she had not seen the alarm in his eyes before he turned away.

  He’d gathered most of what he needed when he heard Eile’s voice raised in a defiant challenge. He ran. The ground was muddy and studded with mossy rocks and tangles of vegetation. His foot slipped, causing him to half fall, jarringly, against a tree stump. He regained his balance, pain lancing through the injured knee, and forced himself on, the knife he had used for cutting herbs ready in his hand. After that single cry, she had not called out again. He reached the clearing where the little hut stood. There were men, horses. Eile was in the doorway; the point of her knife was steady, aimed in the general direction of the three men who stood in front of her. Her eyes were big with shock.

  “Come one step closer and I’ll stick this in your guts,” she hissed in Gaelic.

  Faolan raised his arm, positioning his own knife for flight. He pitched his voice to be quite clear to them and spoke in the Priteni tongue. “Lay a finger on her and you’re dead. Turn around slowly and put down your weapons.”

  They turned, and he saw that none of the three had weapons in hand. He saw that they were familiar. His pose did not change, nor did his tone. “Step away from her,” he said.

  “Faolan!” exclaimed one of the men, a tall, square-shouldered individual with close-cropped hair. “Put down that thing, will you? We mean no harm; we were offering to share our provisions in return for a chance to warm ourselves by the fire. The girl was the one who started flashing knives.”

  Faolan lowered his hand. “She doesn’t understand this language,” he said, limping across to the hut and positioning himself between Eile and the travelers. “And you’re hardly a reassuring sight, the three of you.” They were men of Broichan’s household: tall Cinioch, sturdy Uven, and a younger fellow whose name he could not recall. No threat, certainly; not to him. He could see how their grim demeanor and warrior tattoos would appear to Eile, not to speak of the array of bows, knives, and swords hanging about their persons. He reminded himself that, household guards as they were, these fellows had all served in Bridei’s army last autumn.

  “There’s no cause for alarm,” he told Eile in the language she understood. “I know these men; they are friends and may be able to help us. I’m sorry I took so long to get back.” He would not say, “I’m sorry you were frightened,” though he could see the terror in her eyes.

  “Your leg’s hurt.” Her voice was shaking.

  “It’s nothing. Eile, I’ll have to let them share our fire. They may have useful news.”

  She gave a tight nod. “Just tell them not to try anything.”

  “I said I’d kill them if they did.”

  Eile gave him an odd look, then vanished inside the hut. Faolan sheathed his weapon.

  “Who’s the girl?” asked Cinioch.

  Up till this point of the journey, Faolan had introduced her, where necessary, as his wife, and Saraid as his daughter. He was too close to White Hill for that to be appropriate any longer. He did not especially care for the daughter of a friend; coupled with the ache in his knee, it made him feel old. “Eile’s a friend,” he said simply. “From home. She and her child are traveling to court under my protection. You’ll treat her with respect.”

  “As Cinioch said, the girl was the one who wanted a fight, not us. You have a child in there as well?” Uven’s brows were raised.

  “They needed help. I was the only one offering. Enough of that. Share our fire if you wish. Eile and the little girl are sick; a fever and cough. We’re camped here until they can go on. Unpack your gear, then give me what news you have. If you’ve food to share, we’d welcome that.”

  The three were on the way back up the lake to Pitnochie; they’d been to Raven’s Well with messages, and to seek out news of Broichan. Over a supper of fish caught by Cinioch, the roasted rabbit, and an oaten gruel, they provided Faolan with more news than he had expected to hear, a great deal of it unsettling. Eile had chosen to eat her food in the hut with Saraid. Distrust had been written all over her features.

  Faolan listened intently and chose his questions with care. The alarm bells were at full peal. The king of Circinn dead. Bridei deciding not to contest the kingship of the southern land. Broichan not at court; Broichan gone away somewhere, leaving no idea of when or if he might return. That was not just odd, it was disturbing. When the Christians came up the Glen, and Faolan thought that would be soon, the king of Fortriu was going to need his druid.

  “We heard another strange
thing,” Cinioch said. “Something you might want to pass on at White Hill, though it’s only rumor. A fellow who was passing through Raven’s Well had it from another man who’d been traveling near Thorn Bend; he’d been up and down the Circinn border. You know how Carnach went home for the winter?”

  “I didn’t know, but that’s not so surprising,” Faolan said.

  “The word is,” Cinioch went on, “he’s been talking of rebellion. Unhappy with the king’s decision about this election, and speaking to all the chieftains of his own region about mounting a challenge to Bridei. Carnach wouldn’t put his hand up for the kingship of Circinn, though he could have, seeing as he’s of royal blood. What Carnach wants is Fortriu. He thinks Bridei has gone weak. The word is, there are others who agree with him.”

  Faolan felt a cold sensation in his spine. “What others?” he asked calmly.

  “The fellow didn’t say. We challenged him for proof and he went quiet. He did hint at help in high places; I’ve no idea what he meant. But I didn’t like what I heard. I’d have taken it straight to Broichan if he’d been home. Even if this is no more than malicious tales, the king should know.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Faolan said, his mind working fast. While he had been taking his time to travel, going at a pace suited to Eile and Saraid, it seemed all manner of potential disasters had been closing in on Bridei. If he’d been on his own, he could have been at White Hill by now. “Spring’s been here awhile; shouldn’t Carnach be at Caer Pridne, where the king can simply ask him the question outright? Who’s in command of Fortriu’s fighting men?”

  “He could be back for all I know.” Cinioch sucked appreciatively on a rabbit bone. “I’m out of it, myself. Getting married soon, settling down to help my cousin and her man look after the Pitnochie farmland. I don’t care if I never see another Gael in my life.” There was a pause. “Present company excepted, of course,” he added, glancing from Faolan to the hut and back. Inside, Saraid could be heard coughing, and Eile speaking to her in a low voice.

  For a little, nobody spoke. Faolan’s reputation meant the Pitnochie men-at-arms would not engage him in idle conversation or tax him with obvious questions such as, “When were you planning to move on?” or “How can we help?” Most folk were afraid of him; all were wary in his presence. His sudden unlikely acquisition of a woman and a small child did nothing to allay their natural caution.

  “Cinioch,” Faolan asked after a while, “with Broichan gone, who is currently in residence at Pitnochie?” Broichan’s house was the next logical stop on the trip up the Glen; a fair way, but a house of friends, well able to provide everything needed for Eile and the child, and inhabited by folk who understood discretion. It was quiet and secluded; less frightening for Eile than the grand establishment at Raven’s Well would be. But…

  “The lady from the Light Isles is still there,” Uven said. “Her and her betrothed. They’ve been in the house all winter. Lovely folk to look after: quiet, courteous, no airs and graces. Even Mara likes them. But they’ll be off soon.”

  Faolan ordered himself to breathe slowly. “Off?”

  “To the north, to Drustan’s lands,” said Cinioch. “They were waiting for Broichan to conduct the handfasting, but now it seems they’ll be married at White Hill, with another druid performing the ceremony. News of that came just before the three of us headed off for Raven’s Well. They could be already gone when we get back. You want to ride with us?” He glanced around, apparently for horses.

  “We’re on foot,” Faolan said. “Eile’s not much of a rider. I’d hoped to secure passage up Serpent Lake by boat, if there’s anything going that way. Right now the two of them are too sick to be moved.”

  “And you’re in a hurry,” Cinioch ventured.

  “You could say that.”

  “You want us to take the girl and the child back to Raven’s Well while you go on? We can lend you a horse and replace it with another from Talorgen’s stable. We’re not in such a hurry that an extra day would make much difference.”

  “No.” It was an effort to get the word out. Bridei needed this information; it could be vital. This was Faolan’s job, his mission. Take one of these sturdy mounts, and he could be at White Hill in a day or two. “Eile would be frightened; she doesn’t know the language. And the child’s too sick to go even as far as Raven’s Well. I’ll wait until they can go on.”

  “Suit yourself.” Uven gave him a searching look.

  “You can help me by letting the household at Pitnochie know we’ll be coming; we’ll avail ourselves of at least one night’s shelter there. If Eile and Saraid can’t travel further, I’ll leave them in Mara’s hands. Do you have sufficient oatmeal to leave us a supply? That will be welcome. The child needs good plain fare.”

  “You can take what we have,” Cinioch said. “Our bread as well. It’s not as if we’ve far to go, and we can hunt easily.”

  Faolan could see a bemused look in the three men’s eyes; this encounter would likely be the cause of much speculation when they moved on. He cared nothing for that. Let them think what they liked.

  He’d had to go back for herbs, since he’d dropped what he’d gathered when Eile called out. With the Pitnochie men settled in their cloaks by the fire, he took his fresh harvest into the hut.

  Saraid was asleep, snuggled deep in her blankets. Eile sat cross-legged on the floor by the hearth, staring into the fire. Her supper had barely been touched. The look on her face disquieted him; even her daughter’s illness had not brought such shadows to her eyes.

  He squatted by her, herbs in hand, and reached for the little pot of water.

  “What am I going to do?” Eile’s voice sounded as if she’d been crying. “I can’t understand what anyone’s saying here; the words you’ve taught me are no help at all. How am I going to get on? Those men, I thought they’d come to kill us or to… to make use of me the way Dalach did…”

  “I won’t let that happen, Eile. I promise you.”

  “What were they telling you? It was something important, wasn’t it? You need to go. To go on ahead.”

  A tear escaped, running down her cheek, catching the firelight. Not letting himself think too hard, Faolan set down knife and herbs, reached out a hand and wrapped it around hers.

  “We’re staying here until Saraid’s well,” he said. “I wouldn’t dream of going on without you.”

  She had not snatched her hand away. It was the first time, and that seemed a small miracle. He found that he was holding his breath.

  “But you want to.” Her tone was flat.

  “I made a choice. These men offered to take you back to Raven’s Well while I went on. You’re right, there are urgent messages to deliver, messages that only I can carry. I declined the offer. They’re leaving us some supplies and heading on in the morning. I won’t lie to you, part of me wants to be at White Hill as soon as I can. It is important. But another part of me knows I have to wait. I made a promise.”

  “I told you we could cope without you.”

  “Then why are you crying?” he asked her quietly.

  The response was instant. “I’m not!” A moment later, she put her head against his shoulder and dissolved into convulsive, silent sobs. His heart thumped; this was completely unexpected, and he did not know what to do. This was not a woman who could be comforted by an embrace; she had made it clear such closeness was repugnant to her. And yet his instincts made him put his arms around her shoulders, awkwardly, and lay his cheek lightly against her hair. She wept; he held her. All the time his heart beat a kind of warning, but of what he was not certain. He had not held a woman in his arms since he said good-bye to Ana. Ana… Gods, Pitnochie was not far up the Glen, and she was still there. He longed to see her, and yet he wished with every fiber of his being that he need never see her again.

  “Hush,” he whispered. “Hush. You can trust me. Believe it. I won’t let anything happen to you, or to Saraid.”

  “I’m scared, Faolan.” For all the childlik
e statement, the tone was a woman’s. The fear he heard in it was a grown-up fear, the terror of yet another move, yet another loss, yet another betrayal. “I’m tired and sad and scared of what’s to come. And I’m angry. Angry with myself for being so weak. I should be happy. Grateful. I could be still in Dalach’s hut; so could Saraid. I could be facing execution. I’m sorry. You’ve done so much for us. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She seemed to notice, at last, that he had his arms around her, and disengaged herself, pushing back her hair then scrubbing her cheeks.

  “You’re tired and sick, and you’ve got Saraid to look after. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “You’re tired, too, and your knee’s hurt. But you just seem to keep going.”

  “If you think I’ve never suffered from despair, you have a very short memory,” he said. “Eile, I want you to eat that supper.”

  “I feel sick. I don’t want it.”

  “You need it. Just the oatmeal, if that’s easier. And drink some of this when it’s ready.” After a moment he added, “Please.”

  She drew a shuddering breath. “If you want. I wonder if I’m always going to be like this.”

  “Eat it, Eile. Like what?”

  “Always remembering. So that, as soon as things go wrong, I feel like I’m back in Dalach’s hut, and my belly goes tight with terror, and I have to force myself to do what needs to be done, when all I want is to be a little child again and have Mother and Father come and make things better.”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s the way I said before: the memory’s still there, but it fades so you can bear it. Going back helped me. I didn’t think it would, but Ana was right to make me go. To see my family well and content… that healed a wound for me, even though my mother is gone, even though Áine is no longer herself. But it didn’t wipe out what I did to my brother. I still dream of the blood. I still wish, every day, that I could change the past.” He realized this was not at all what he had intended to say to her. “You’re young,” he said. “It will get better.”