The Well of Shades

by Juliet Marillier

  “Very well. I value your loyalty, Faolan. And your honesty. Make no doubt of that.”

  Faolan gave a stiff nod.

  “Tuala would like to see you.” Bridei gestured to Garth that they were going indoors. “I think it’s important you hear what she has to say about Broichan, for that matter is equally significant, if perhaps less urgent.”

  “If you wish.” Faolan’s voice sounded tight.

  “To be quite honest,” Bridei said, masking his concern, for something was wrong, that was plain, but he could see his friend had no wish to speak of it, “I can’t wait to show you my new daughter, although I know you have no interest in little children. She’s the image of my wife as an infant.” For a moment they were two equals, not Priteni king and Gaelic guard. “You set hard rules for yourself,” Bridei added. “Too hard, sometimes.”

  “An essential part of the job. So I remind myself.”

  Bridei headed down the stone steps toward the garden. Near the bottom, he heard Faolan’s voice from behind him, the tone quite different.

  “Bridei—?”

  Bridei turned. Faolan was in the shadows near the top of the steps; he had barely moved.

  “What is it, Faolan?” There was something there, an unease, a reservation.

  Garth loomed behind the Gael, a watchful presence, spear in hand.

  Faolan shook his head, not in a negative, but as if to clear his mind of unwelcome thoughts. “Nothing,” he said, descending the steps. “Nothing at all.”

  11

  (from Brother Suibne’s Account)

  We have visited the island. Another voyage; another test of faith and fortitude. Ioua is a place of deep calm, for all its winds and tides. Walking on that pale shore, I felt my soul swept clean of sin, my heart relieved of all burdens. Colm said, This is an isle of new beginnings, and our spirits knew it for truth. God wants us here; it is His place.

  The fisherman who brought us across—we did not take our own boat, for several of our brethren had not the will to sail again so soon—let us wander at length. He followed us with eyes like the sea, deep and watchful. When it was time to leave, he took us to the larger isle off whose coast Ioua lies, and thence back to Dunadd.

  If Brother Colm chafed before at the need to stay here in this half-court with its ailing monarch and wary guards, it is nothing to his mood now. He questioned me again about Bridei and his druid. He quizzed me on the faith of the Priteni, their deities and rituals. I have spoken to him on these matters many times, but I told it again. This time I spoke of the Well of Shades and the ceremony that required the sacrifice of human life to a god who remains ever nameless. Colm heard me out in silence. For once he asked no questions. Those will come later.

  Tonight, I examine my heart to discover why it was that I felt such reluctance to divulge that final dark truth about the folk of Fortriu. Perhaps I recognized that, after a certain point in the narrative, even the most perspicacious and balanced of listeners would cease to hear my words. It is too shocking: a thing brought forward in time from a primitive existence based on fear. I do not think Colm heard me tell him that Bridei had forbidden the practice, or that this king had only ever participated once. Perhaps that is why I never put it into words before. The king of Fortriu is a good man, a man of sound principles. To tell this tale is to seem to discredit Bridei. I would rather he and Colm met without prejudice and without illusions.

  Arrogant soul! I read my words fresh on the page and cringe in mortification. Who am I, that I would order the lives of king and priest to a pattern that happens to please me? Who is this lowly scribe, God’s servant?

  After reflection, I pick up the pen again. Like each and every one of my brethren, I am indeed God’s well-beloved child and servant. He will light the way for me, for Colm, for each of us. I wonder who lights Bridei’s way?

  We have Ioua in our eyes now, those of us who made the trip there. Colm has sent Sean, who was raised on a farm, and Tomas, who was a carpenter, across to the larger island to make the acquaintance of folk in the settlements there. When the time is right they will see about the acquisition of building materials and livestock. We will need a dwelling house, a small church, places for stores, a barn, a byre… My heart shrinks as I contemplate the conveyance of cattle by sea.

  The island is not ours; not yet. It is in Bridei’s gift. Before we can begin our new life on that lonely, peaceful shore, there must be a meeting. Bridei has forbidden the practice of our faith in these parts. He has banished many souls back over the sea to our homeland. There is no reason to assume he will look on Colm’s request favorably.

  I remember the druid, Broichan, a man with authority stamped on every corner of his being. He is a figure much feared even among his own. Broichan is not simply Bridei’s spiritual adviser, but also his foster father. He is skilled in magic, so they say. Colm asked about that. He said, So this man is impressed by tricks, shows of power? Demonstrations of the wondrous and unnatural? I do not know what Colm plans. His own power is in his voice and in his eye; it comes from God. Broichan must see in Colm an adversary, a threat to his own dominion. He will come to the council table with eyes and ears already closed. As for Colm himself, I regret my honesty in giving him the account of the Gateway ritual in all its cruel detail.

  God requires of me truthfulness; openness. That is what I have given. Perhaps, in the end, these two powerful men, each staunchly adherent to his own beliefs, may prove to be opposing forces of equal weight. How, then, can either prevail?

  I think this journal must at some point be burned, or shredded and fed to goats, or cut into pieces and tossed out into the waves west of Ioua to travel where it will. On occasion my musings disturb even myself. I have a theory about Gateway. I do not believe in Bridei’s Nameless God. The well, I believe, represents our past. The shadows it contains are those of our own misdeeds, and those of our ancestors since a time before memory. For a man who knows not the Lord God, the burden of his failures, his omissions, his errors and blunders can in time become intolerable. A man’s heart can break under the weight of it. So the sacrifice. The dark deity accepts; the burden is lifted for another turning of the wheel. I think there is some truth in it, a bleak sort of truth. Even without the well, and the god, and the ritual, a man can become a slave to his own past. Its entanglements can be a net holding him fast. If he does not break free, he will drag it along with him all his life. That is like walking in fetters, and blindfolded. When we go to White Hill, and the look in Colm’s eye tells me that will be soon, I must discuss this with Bridei. If he will.

  Enough of that. I am in danger of overreaching myself once again. I think I will entreat Colm for a little scriptorium on the island; a meager hut will suffice. There I will be still and quiet. I will copy those passages of scripture I most love, or, better still, those likeliest to lull to sleep all perilous thoughts and dangerous philosophies. On the other hand, it has always been plain to me that a man’s faith must grow stronger when put fully to the test.

  SUIBNE, MONK OF DERRY

  EILE WAS IN the garden waiting. Saraid crouched to look in the pond, then stood by the lavender bushes, showing Sorry the feathery gray-green leaves, the spikes of fragrant flower heads. It was a good place, sheltered by high stone walls and warmed by the afternoon sun. They’d not long arrived at White Hill. In the courtyard a confusion of Priteni folk had greeted them, people who seemed to know Ana well, people whose glances touched Eile and Saraid without much curiosity. Perhaps it was only when she opened her mouth that they would know she was a Gael. Eile reminded herself that there had been a war not long ago, and that the Gaels had been the enemy. She had not anticipated this would be a difficulty. In all her imaginings of White Hill, Faolan had been somewhere close at hand. He was a Gael, and he was the king’s trusted guard; at least, that was what he had told her. Thus far there had been no sign of him.

  Down at the far end of the garden, Drustan was talking to a broad-shouldered man with a sword and two knives at his belt
. Ana had gone to see the queen, who was apparently an old friend. Old friends were the only ones allowed in, since Queen Tuala had a very new baby. Eile wondered how Ana would feel about that. Sad, of course; but maybe comforted as well, if the two women were close. An infant was an assurance that, despite all, life went on. In time, Ana and Drustan would surely have another child.

  “Bee,” observed Saraid, pointing. “Bzz.”

  “Mm.” Eile was glad that Ana had left them to wait here, not in the parts of the house that were swarming with alarmingly grand-looking folk. It was surely only a matter of time before she said something wrong, offended someone, got in trouble as she had at Blackthorn Rise. Where was Faolan? Busy, she supposed. Occupied with his mysterious duties, plotting and planning. She’d thought he would be here to greet them. That was unrealistic, of course. Still, she’d hoped.

  Time passed. Drustan and the other fellow were still down there, out of earshot, deep in serious conversation. What would Ana say to the queen about her? Would she even mention her? There’s this girl Faolan picked up on the road; he doesn’t know what to do with her… No, not that; Ana was kind. She wanted Eile to stay at White Hill. At moments like this, the thought of volunteering to be Ana’s maidservant and travel north with them after all had strong appeal. She’d probably been stupid to say she wouldn’t go.

  “Look, a lady,” said Saraid, pointing to a half-concealed bench at one side of the herb patch, by the wall. “And a cat.”

  There was a cat, a little stone one in a niche, with a smug expression on its carven face and one paw raised for washing. Eile looked again. There was also indeed a lady; a real one. She was so like Ana that she could only be the long-lost sister the princess of the Light Isles was to meet at last on this visit to court. If the girl had noticed Eile and Saraid, she showed not a sign of it. She was standing by the bench, as still as a hunting creature sizing up its prey. Her sharp blue eyes were trained down the garden toward the tall, flame-haired figure of Drustan. The expression on her face took Eile aback. She looked hungry.

  “He’s taken,” Eile said before she could stop herself.

  The fair-haired girl started; clearly, she’d been unaware she had company. She snapped out a challenge, both guilt and offense in her tone.

  “I only speak Gaelic.” Eile had memorized this statement in the Priteni tongue. She’d worked hard at Pitnochie under Drustan’s tutelage, suddenly desperate to keep afloat once she reached this place full of alien speech.

  “Really? Who are you?” The girl’s Gaelic was almost flawless. Her eyes traveled from Eile’s head of dark red hair across to Drustan’s tawny locks. “His sister?” She glanced at Saraid, who was looking on solemnly. “No, I suppose you’re a nursemaid. Or a slave? You are a Gael, I see it now. Something in the eyes.”

  Eile swallowed her irritation. She’d endured worse insults before. Besides, if the éraic was taken into account, she was a kind of slave. “I’m…” What could she say? Ana’s friend? Perhaps Ana would have it thus, but to say so felt presumptuous. A traveler? True, but insufficient here, under this girl’s probing gaze. “I’m a friend of Faolan’s,” she said. “I traveled here with Ana and Drustan. I think you must be Ana’s sister. You’re very like her.” She was pleased with the confident sound of this.

  “Faolan?” The girl lifted her brows. “Who’s he?”

  “The king’s bodyguard. Like me, a Gael.”

  “Bodyguard? I thought Bridei only had the two, Garth there and a handsomer one, Dovran. I’ve never seen a third. Is this Faolan young?”

  “He should be here,” Eile said, a chill coming over her. “You should have seen him, I think. He’s…” Words fled. There was a perfect image of Faolan in her mind, correct in every detail: his strength, his kindness, his courage. His reticence; his wariness. Those things were the essence of the man. But they were not what this girl wanted. “Dark hair,” Eile went on. “Medium build, rather a forbidding look about him. About Drustan’s age, but he looks older. He should have been here several days. But then, it seems rather a busy place.”

  “Maybe I overlooked him,” said the girl lightly. “Who’s this little thing? Not Ana’s, I assume, since my sister apparently isn’t wed yet. I gather Ana’s been living with her betrothed all winter. Strange; she was always so prim and proper, even as a child.” She looked over at the two men again and her eyes narrowed. “Wait a bit. You’re telling me that’s him? My stuffy sister is marrying that splendid specimen?”

  Eile wondered greatly at the girl’s manner of speech. Surely this was not the usual way of things at court. Perhaps it was the opportunity to speak in Gaelic, a language it was likely few here understood, that had loosened this young woman’s tongue so alarmingly.

  “This is my daughter, Saraid,” Eile said. “And yes, the red-haired man is Drustan. We all traveled here together. My name is Eile.”

  “I’m Breda.” The girl looked from Saraid to Eile. “I see my sister’s not the only one to flout convention. You got busy early, didn’t you? How old are you, exactly?”

  It seemed princesses were not always taught good manners. “About the same age as you, I imagine. My lady.”

  Breda grinned. “No need for formality. It’s just the two of us, after all. None of the other girls speaks Gaelic. That could be fun. A secret language.”

  Eile wondered if this girl was younger than she looked. “How did you learn to speak it so well? Ana has only a few words.”

  “We have a bunch of Christians in the islands, countrymen of yours. They wander about telling stories and trying to convert us. We have slaves, too, not all of them wretched and ignorant. But mostly I learned from my Gaelic bard.” An odd little smile. “He’s very talented; magic fingers. He’s taught me all manner of things. It can be quite tedious there. One has to fill in the time somehow.”

  “I see.” Alien indeed, for all the common tongue. Eile thought of Dalach’s house and the aching, wrenching labors that had begun at sunup and ceased only when she was beyond exhaustion.

  “You’re judging me. I see it in your eyes.” Breda was suddenly severe.

  Eile bit back an automatic denial. She would not tell lies just to be polite.

  A peal of laughter rang out, causing the heads of the two men to turn in Breda’s direction. “You should see yourself!” Ana’s sister spluttered. “What an expression! Oh.” Her tone changed abruptly; her eyes darkened. “Garth’s noticed we’re here. Look, he’s stamping across to order us out of the queen’s private garden. That’s so annoying. It’s a stupid rule, and making someone of my status comply with it is downright offensive. There’s so much here that just isn’t right. Someone needs to fix it.”

  The large, well-armed Garth strode up, Drustan a pace or two behind with his birds on his shoulders. The bodyguard spoke briefly and firmly. Nobody offered Eile a translation. Breda scowled at Garth, offered Drustan a lopsided smile and a flutter of her lashes, and was gone. Eile took Saraid’s hand, intending to follow. If this garden was forbidden to a princess, Ana must surely have made an error in suggesting Eile wait here.

  Garth spoke again, putting out a hand. Eile stepped back before he could touch her.

  “Not you, Eile,” Drustan said. “You and I can stay here until the queen is ready. Was that Ana’s sister? Silly question; the resemblance is clear.”

  “Drustan?”

  “What is it, Eile?”

  “Could you ask this man… He is one of the king’s guards, isn’t he?… Could you ask him… No, never mind.”

  “I have asked,” said Drustan gravely. “Faolan has left White Hill, Eile. Garth is not at liberty to tell me where he’s gone. He’s been away five or six days.”

  “Oh.” Another promise broken. Thank the gods she had decided not to pass Faolan’s message on to Saraid. There was no way she would have her daughter clinging to false hope and continually disappointed. If you set your expectations low, there was less hurt in having them shattered.

  She had questions. Mos
t of them could not be asked. Faolan’s business was not her business. That had never been clearer than now. He would have left no message. He thought he’d tidied her away; that Ana and Drustan would take up where he’d left off.

  “I don’t suppose anyone knows when he’s coming back?” she ventured.

  A door opened at the far end of the walled garden and an elegant, auburn-haired woman of perhaps three-and-twenty came out. She spoke briskly; Garth retreated to his earlier post and the woman motioned Eile and Saraid toward the doorway.

  “This lady is the queen’s friend Ferada,” Drustan said. “The queen wants to meet you. I’ll wait here for now. The only male admitted to Tuala’s quarters, apart from her son, is King Bridei. That rule applies until the baby is old enough to be out in company.”

  “But—”

  “Tuala has some Gaelic,” Drustan said. “Don’t look like that, Eile. You can do this. Use the words we practiced.” He headed away toward the steps that rose to the high walkway where guards patrolled. Eile saw him go up in three long strides, as if near-weightless, his bright hair a flash of flame; she remembered his oddity, his wondrous talent. Hoodie and crossbill arose from his shoulders as he went, winging up, then settled again on the rampart by his side.

  “Come,” said Ferada in Gaelic, and Eile followed her in.

  She had expected someone grand, someone like the intimidating Áine, but taller, older, and more richly dressed. Queen Tuala was not like that at all. She was little and pale, with pretty, untidy dark hair and huge eyes. She seemed not much older than Eile herself, and her smile was warm, if guarded. Apart from the friend, Ferada, who had an alarmingly severe look to her, the only other people present were Ana and a tiny boy, smaller than Saraid. And a baby. The boy was standing by a cradle, but when he saw them come in he walked straight over to Saraid and reached out to grasp onto her shawl. Saraid used Sorry to hit him on the hand, and he let go. It did not seem an auspicious start.