The Well of Shades

by Juliet Marillier

  “Come,” he said. “Are you ready to go in? We are housed in your old chamber, I understand; a very comfortable one with some beautiful embroidery on the walls. It was not hard for me to guess whose hands had fashioned that. Eile and Saraid are next door. If you don’t want to talk to Breda anymore, you need not.”

  “Of course I want to,” Ana said as they made their way down the steps. “But I’m not sure I know how.”

  REALIZING THAT SHE had been offered an opportunity at White Hill, Eile determined to swallow her doubts and misgivings and make the most of it. The old scholar, Wid, was both strict and kindly. He seemed to spend a lot of his time seated in a strategic position just where the queen’s private garden met the broader expanse of the general garden with its vegetable and herb beds, its substantial ponds, its small statues, its myriad places to walk or rest or, in the case of dogs and children, run about and chase things. Observing the pattern of guards, the fact that either Garth or Dovran tended to be on duty here along with any of a small group of other men who took it in turns, Eile deduced that white-bearded Wid with his ferocious hawk nose was an unofficial member of the team, his role to alert the others with a cough or a movement if he spotted anything untoward.

  Wid was a good teacher. She spent part of every morning with him, and in less than one turning of the moon she had grasped enough of the language to try out her basic skills on others, starting, at her tutor’s suggestion, with the king’s bodyguards, often conveniently present just across the garden. She’d been shy of both at first. Garth was a big man, the kind of man she shrank from instinctively, but he had a nice smile, and she had seen how gentle he was with his little boys. Dovran was stern and solemn; he took his duties very seriously. She had not thought he would deign to talk to her. As it was, her halting efforts elicited friendly responses from both men, and she managed a brief conversation every day with whichever was on duty. It tended to be restricted to remarks on the weather or a polite inquiry as to their family’s health but, as the days passed, she became more and more adventurous in her use of words. When they understood and replied, keeping their own speech simple so she in her turn could follow, it warmed her. Wid expressed his satisfaction by pushing her harder.

  Saraid was learning still more quickly. While Eile studied, her daughter played with Derelei, who had attached himself to this new arrival to the exclusion of all else. Perhaps played was not quite the word. The two of them could generally be found sitting quietly in a corner, with Sorry an inevitable third, examining some object of mutual interest—a feather, a leaf, a stone with patterns on it—and whispering in a language that was somewhere between those of the Gaels and the Priteni. This friendship had quickly won Saraid and Eile access to the private part of the garden. To her surprise, Eile on occasion found herself trusted to watch over the two of them, though never quite on her own; there was always a guard somewhere nearby. Saraid was now a frequent visitor to the queen’s apartments; Tuala said she was exceptionally good for Derelei. Eile found it hard to believe that, before her arrival, the king’s son had apparently spent his days running about with Garth’s energetic twins, the three small boys driving the household crazy with their exuberance.

  She’d had her own run-in with the twins. One rainy afternoon she had volunteered to look after all four children while Elda rested. Garth’s wife had a baby due in less than two turnings of the moon, and her boys did wear her out. Eile had taken a set of rolling balls and led her small troop to a covered courtyard, out of the wind. She marked goals with chalk, and they took turns to get as many balls through as they could. The man-at-arms whose job it was to keep guard nearby was coaxed to take a turn, but was laughing so hard he missed the goal by a handspan. The whole thing was loud, competitive, and chaotic; the twins grew red-faced, trying to outdo each other, Derelei retreated to a step nearby to watch, and Saraid, to her mother’s surprise, played a little, observed a while and then took charge.

  “Gilder, put the ball down. His turn.”

  “My turn!”

  “I said no. Galen’s turn.” She stood with hands on hips, a miniature commander, and Gilder, round-eyed, surrendered the ball.

  “Now Derry’s turn. Come on, Derry.”

  Derelei got up, obedient to the voice of his new soul-mate, and bowled his balls across the flagstones, each one neatly passing between the chalk marks. For this perfect result to be possible, one ball had to change direction sharply as it rolled. Saraid glared at him; he had the grace to look a little abashed.

  “Not that one,” Saraid declared. “Roll again.”

  So it had gone on, orderly and civilized, until the twins’ mother, refreshed from her rest, appeared to fetch them and offered an invitation for Saraid to play with Gilder and Galen any time she liked. Elda spoke slowly, using gestures; Eile was delighted to find she could understand, and had sufficient words for a polite acceptance.

  “Saraid play Derry,” said Derelei, a frown on his infant features.

  “You, too,” Elda told him quickly. “And you are welcome, too, of course,” she added, smiling at Eile. “I could show you the stillroom, if you’re interested.”

  There was a lot that interested Eile: Elda’s herbs and potions, the wonderful music played in the great hall after supper, the stories Tuala told the children, which reminded her of her father’s tales, long ago. It came to her that, when she was a tiny girl, she must have heard the Priteni tongue at home, for her father and Anda had their origins in Caitt lands, the northern realms where Drustan came from, and must surely have spoken their native language together from time to time. She wondered what use Anda had made of the fabulous sum Faolan had paid for her freedom. She wondered if Anda had the capacity to use it wisely, or whether her aunt would let herself fall victim to another man like Dalach, a man who saw women as possessions to be used and exploited and cast aside. She recognized, to her surprise, that a trace of pity had crept into her feelings for her aunt. She hoped Anda had forgiven her. She began to think that maybe, some day, she in her turn would be able to forgive.

  They had provided her and Saraid with a little chamber next to the one shared by Ana and Drustan. It had a comfortable bed, a small table, a chest for storage, in which their possessions filled only a corner, and a window looking out over the garden. Shutters could be closed to keep out the chill wind and opened to admit the sun. There was a green-dyed blanket on the bed and a green felt mat on the floor. It was not the house on the hill, but it was a good place. Eile ordered herself not to like it too much; not to start taking it for granted. Allow herself to do that and, inevitably, it would be taken away.

  Ana and Drustan would be leaving soon. She could see the restlessness in them, the profound desire to be away on their new journey. It had occurred to her that, once she was no longer under their protection, her place at White Hill might change. Ana treated her as a friend, if a rather perplexing one. Drustan’s attitude seemed part that of older brother, part wise adviser. His fluency in Gaelic had made him the recipient of certain confidences she could not express directly to Ana. She would miss the two of them badly. Because of them, it seemed to Eile she had not sunk to her natural position in the hierarchy of the court, which would have been at the bottom scrubbing floors, washing linen, and taking her meals in the kitchen, not at the board in the great hall with kings and princesses. Without the patronage of Drustan and Ana, she would have fallen far below that middle level of folk, the one inhabited by people like Garth and Elda, who came somewhere between servants and leaders. Leaders had two levels as well: there were councillors and chieftains, druids and wise women, and, above them, those of royal blood. Of course, at White Hill there were places where that order became jumbled. Tuala treated Elda as a friend; their children played as equals. Eile suspected Faolan would be another piece that would not slot neatly into the puzzle, and perhaps that was the reason why she herself had unexpectedly become a friend to the folk at the very top, welcome to wander in their garden and learn from their old teach
er.

  She had met the king. It had been necessary, intimidated as she was, for he had asked to see her quite soon after her arrival. Bridei was not a physically formidable man like Garth; he was not strikingly handsome like Drustan. Nonetheless, he was unmistakably a king. Eile sensed his innate authority from the first moment she saw him, a square-shouldered, upright figure moving among his attendants and bestowing a grave smile here, a considered word there. When she was called to see him, alone save for Tuala, she had taken a while to conquer her nerves, but she had found him courteous, direct, and perceptive. He had spoken to her as if she was an equal; she had liked that. She sensed he had questions about Faolan, questions he was not quite prepared to ask. She gave him the same account as she had given Tuala, brief, accurate, lacking in detail.

  At the end of the meeting, after explaining the nature of Faolan’s work and his frequent need to travel at short notice, Bridei had said something she almost missed, for her mind had been on Saraid, under Ana’s care and perhaps fretting for her.

  “… oddly reluctant to go. I’ve never seen him hesitate before,” Bridei was saying.

  “I’m sorry?” Eile snapped back to the here and now. “Could you say that again, my lord?”

  “Faolan knows when a mission requires his own particular skills. This was one such. He’s always ready to volunteer promptly and to depart quickly. He is the best man I have. This time was different. I sensed he had reservations; something he wanted to tell me, but could not find the words for. You know how he is, I imagine.”

  Eile found herself smiling; ridiculous, he would think her a halfwit. She thanked the king and excused herself, fleeing back to her little chamber with the words hugged to her, an unexpected and wondrous gift. Perhaps, after all, Faolan had not set her aside as unimportant. Perhaps he had not forgotten that little children expect promises to be kept. She did know how he was. He would have wanted to be here; would have wished, at least, to leave a message. He had tried to put it into words, perhaps, and failed, knowing his first duty was to his king: a fine, good man deserving of loyalty. What that meant, she was not sure. She only knew it kept a tiny, fledgling warmth alive in her heart.

  THE KING OF Fortriu had never cared for hunting. He had the skills; they formed an essential part of any Priteni nobleman’s education, along with unarmed combat and horsemanship, the ability to conduct a logical debate, and an acquaintance with music and poetry. Being druid-raised, Bridei had received a somewhat more extensive training in which knowledge of lore ran deep, and love of the ancient gods of his homeland still deeper. Along with that came the awareness that the life of the Glen and of the wider kingdom was like a great net, intricately interwoven and finely balanced. Humankind, creatures, and the folk beyond the margins all played a vital part in it. To take a deer for food was one thing. The gods accepted the need for blood to be spilled as long as the huntsman performed the killing in the right spirit, with gratitude and respect. To chase and kill for sport was another matter and, where he could, Bridei avoided it.

  There were times when one had to grit one’s teeth and do what was required. He’d been neglecting Keother. The king of the Light Isles was a man of status and had the capacity to become a significant ally or powerful enemy. Bridei could only leave his entertainment to Aniel and Tharan for so long before an insult might be construed in the king’s constant occupation with other matters. As for Breda, it had been indicated to Bridei that she was a difficult girl, restless and awkward. While Dorica and the other senior women of the household would not say so, he had grown aware that their young guest was getting on everyone’s nerves. Seeing her sister after so long apart had done little to settle Breda. Tuala had told him Ana, in her turn, seemed saddened by the meeting and had not deviated from her fervent wish to be married and away from White Hill as soon as that was possible.

  Ged’s widow, Loura, and her son had arrived from Abertornie, bringing their local druid, a shy man called Amnost. Other guests trickled in from their more distant bases, among them the Caitt chieftain Umbrig, as huge and bearlike as ever. But not Carnach. There was no word from him and, as yet, none from Faolan, who had been gone twenty days. The feast of Balance was long past and it was almost summer. They could wait no longer. Bridei set the handfasting of Ana and Drustan for full moon, in two days’ time; the victory feast would be held the following night. Then he took his royal visitors out hunting.

  It was an expedition on horseback with hawks and dogs, appropriate to the rolling coastal lands between White Hill and the king’s fortress at Caer Pridne. In these parts the likeliest quarry so early in the season would be small: rabbits and hares, a fox or two, and, closer to the sea, great flocks of marsh birds. The party was a large one, for most of the warrior chieftains had welcomed the opportunity to give their horses a good run and to escape the confines of court awhile. Seeing them ride forth laughing and joking, Bridei remembered last autumn and the field of Dovarben where so many good men had fallen under his banner. He saw among the healthy, smiling faces of his chieftains a ghostly interweaving of riders, those loyal men he had lost in the quest to regain Dalriada: his guard and friend Breth; flamboyant, cheerful Ged who had lain in his blood and breathed words of joy and pain; the men of Pitnochie whom Bridei had known since he was four years old and sent away to be fostered by a druid. Others rode here too; the Priteni had sacrificed generations of men to win back their territory and their pride. I will not think it, Bridei told himself. I will not ask myself the question. But it was in his mind, always. I paid a monstrous price for my victory. Was it worth it? If those who fell could speak now, perhaps I would hear them say: You did not pursue the crown of Circinn; you wasted the advantage we won for you.

  There were few women in the party. Breda had brought three of her attendants. Some of the wives had accompanied their husbands; most had remained behind. Both Ana and Drustan had compelling reasons for not wishing to watch animals being flushed out and slaughtered. There had been no need to issue them an invitation, only to warn Drustan of the hunt so he and his creatures would not inadvertently set themselves in peril.

  Talorgen’s sons had both ridden out. They were handsome young men now. Bridei could not look at them without seeing Gartnait, their elder brother who had been his close friend. Long ago, Gartnait had been embroiled in his mother’s plot to kill Bridei and had paid the price for that treachery with his own life. The past held many shadows, dark rememberings that hung over the sunniest days, the most joyful occasions. Good men turned to ill deeds; loyal friends rewarded by death. Doubts that threatened to paralyze the hand that must move decisively to rule. If he had no news of Carnach soon he must appoint another in his war leader’s place. If Faolan brought word of an uprising, he must act swiftly against a man who had been his staunch supporter since the very first day of his kingship. It felt wrong. Instinct urged him to hold back. But he could not wait long; they were all here, at court, and as soon as Faolan returned Bridei must make the decision. He was king. He must lead.

  The hunt went well. A full and healthy mews was another essential part of the trappings of a royal court. Guests were allocated a bird and local chieftains brought their own. Keother’s hawk took a fat hare, Talorgen’s a fox. Others, too, were successful. Aled, the young son of Ged, brought down a pigeon with the goshawk he’d carried from home. Bridei flew a bird, not wishing to draw attention by refusing to join in, but his hawk struck nothing; it was the gods’ will that the king take no life today, and he thanked them for it.

  Breda did not hunt. She rode well, holding herself straight, her figure shown to advantage by her plain-cut tunic and skirt of dark blue. Her abundant fair hair was caught back in a cunning sort of beaded net. She watched as one of her handmaids flew a small merlin, which took a smaller marsh hen. She watched as Talorgen’s elder son, Bedo, congratulated the handmaid and dismounted to help her extricate the prey and put the hood back on her overexcited bird. She watched Uric, who was looking at her under his lashes. And she cast a nu
mber of glances in Bridei’s general direction, but he suspected it was not him, six-and-twenty years of age, married with children and of only middling looks, that she had her eye on. He’d brought Dovran as his personal guard today and left Garth on duty with Tuala and the baby. Dovran was young and well built; he tended to draw the ladies’ glances in a way no previous bodyguard of Bridei’s had done. The discipline instilled by Garth meant Dovran was doing a creditable job of not noticing Breda was there. They had their own designated watchers, she and Keother; Bridei had made sure of that. Dovran’s sole duty was to ensure the king’s safety. He would not have kept his job long unless he had been good at it.

  It happened out of the blue. The young lady’s bird was being troublesome, lifting its wings and trying to bate from her gauntlet; both of Talorgen’s sons were now occupied in helping the girl hood it securely. Others sat their horses, hawks quiet in hand, talking of this and that; it was almost time to ride for home and a congenial supper. The sky was scattered with dimpled clouds, tinged gold by the afternoon sun; the voices of geese, disturbed by the hawks, babbled restlessly across the marshlands.

  “My lord king,” said Keother, riding up alongside Bridei, “what do you think of—”

  Breda screamed, a sudden piercing sound of utter fright. Her horse reared up, leaving her clinging precariously with her feet out of the stirrups and her hands twisted in its mane. The creature’s front hooves came down hard amid a crowd of folk, and then it bolted.

  There was no time to think. Even as Bridei glanced at Dovran, the two men urged their mounts after the panicked mare with its dangerously clinging rider. The terrain was undulating, grassland pocked with unexpected holes and studded with great rough-surfaced stones. If Breda fell or was thrown, she could break her neck or smash her skull. The girl had got a knee over the saddle, but most of her weight still hung from the clutching hands. She could not last long. Shouts and screams behind them faded fast; there was only the thud of hooves, the honking of the birds, and the distant wash of the sea.