The Well of Shades

by Juliet Marillier

  Saraid had made herself at home on the bed, surrounded by the contents of Ana’s sewing box. She held up one scrap of fabric after another against the shapeless form of Sorry, who was still clad in the pink dress Faolan’s sister had made for her. “New clothes?” the child inquired hopefully.

  “One piece,” Ana told the child. “You choose. Eile sew for Sorry.”

  “There’s no need. She shouldn’t ask—”

  Ana put a hand on Eile’s shoulder. “I want to,” she said. “So little… how can she know? A gift. A farewell. Sad… we will miss you… Sad you not come with us.” Then, seeing Eile’s expression, “You stay here. Faolan needs… you wait. You here when he comes home.”

  Again, Eile wondered if she had misunderstood. “Waiting is not a happy thing,” she said carefully in her new language. “My mother… she stopped waiting. I would not… be my mother…” The words began to spill out in Gaelic, “Father never came home. We waited and he never came.” She struggled with sudden tears; perhaps she would be an old woman before she could tell this tale without weeping.

  Ana crouched beside her and hugged her. It felt good, but made the tears come more quickly. Aware of Saraid’s big eyes and trembling chin, Eile made herself draw breath and be calm again.

  “Forgive,” Ana said. “You must forgive him. Your father. A good man. He tried. And… Faolan is not Deord.”

  “I know that.” Eile got up and began to help Ana out of the wedding clothes. “I’ll just put in a stitch or two and this will be ready. What will Breda be wearing?”

  Ana grimaced. “I do not know. She is… not interested. I wish…”

  “Blue.” Saraid had chosen her piece of fabric, a sweet, warm color like the sky on a hot summer’s morning. “Make clothes now.” Then after a little, “Please.”

  “Later,” Eile said. “Fold it up neatly as I showed you. Maybe we can find a strip of braid for the hem, so it’s like Ana’s pretty skirt.” She moved to collect the discarded wedding clothes as Ana got back into her everyday outfit. She thought about Breda, Breda who waited for her often in the outer garden, Breda who was not allowed to visit the queen although she herself was of royal blood and Tuala was not. For all her bevy of attendants and her place at the king’s table, Breda seemed lonely. “Maybe your sister is missing home.”

  “I… hostage… eight years,” Ana said softly. “Breda… maybe next.”

  “Yes, Drustan explained it to me.” It seemed odd to Eile that Ana, so plainly an honored guest here, so clearly one of Tuala’s closest friends, had only come to court in the first place as surety of her cousin’s compliance with Bridei’s rule. She felt a new surge of sympathy for Breda, odd girl as she was. Perhaps there was not so much difference between a bondwoman, bought with the payment of an éraic, and a hostage held as political leverage. Each had sacrificed her freedom; each had been robbed of the power to determine her own future. And yet, of the two, Eile was certain she was the better off. Maybe the éraic did make her a kind of slave. In some people’s eyes, perhaps she would always be one. But she wasn’t restless and discontent like Breda. There were so many good things here: warmth, safety, friendship, learning… It felt like the beginning of something new and fine. She must be careful. She must remember how easily things could change.

  “Come, Saraid,” she said, reaching out a hand. “You can tell me what kind of gown Sorry wants, and I’ll make a start on it.”

  “Wedding gown,” said Saraid. “Blue. Bray. Pretty, like Ana.”

  “Braid,” Eile corrected, grinning.

  Ana smiled and held out a length of ribbon embroidered with butterflies in gold thread and tiny amber beads.

  “Oh, we couldn’t—” Eile protested.

  “Only a scrap. Sorry should be beautiful. Faolan say heroic… Like you and Saraid.”

  AFTER THE ILL-FATED hunt, Eile had done her best to stay out of everyone’s way. She had known Cella slightly, for Breda’s attendants thought Saraid as sweet as a little doll, and often stopped to pet her on their way past, not without a curious glance or two in Eile’s direction. Breda herself had two faces where Eile was concerned; when accompanied by her maids, she ignored her completely, but when the two of them were alone, she seized the opportunity to release a flood of gossip about everyone at court, especially the men. An odd young woman indeed.

  Cella, by contrast, had been one of the friendlier girls. It was impossible to imagine her dead: so young, younger than Eile herself. As for Talorgen’s son, if he wanted to emulate his father’s prowess as a warrior chieftain, he was going to need all the luck the gods decided to bestow on him now his arm had been broken.

  On the morning of the handfasting Ana and Drustan called Eile in early. She had only just finished dressing, and Saraid’s gown was half unfastened. Eile knelt to do up the ties at the back as Drustan spoke.

  “Breda has sent a message to tell us she’s not well enough to take part in the ritual later today,” he said. “We don’t wish to delay it; already it has been too long for us.”

  Eile nodded. She knew how he hated court; how he longed to be free to take his other form and fly off over the forest, seeing with bird-eyes. The restlessness that had been building in him, visibly, must soon have its outlet or it would become intolerable. She thought of the low, dim place he had described to her, the place where his brother had imprisoned him for seven years. For seven years Deord had stayed by him, kept him active, held despair at bay, risked everything to allow his charge brief flights into freedom. Drustan had been at White Hill now for almost a turning of the moon. He had told her he would not effect his transformation here, while the court was full of guests who might see and not understand. But he must change soon; he was strung tight with the need.

  It came to Eile that Ana, too, would have a life of waiting. Ana had made the choice herself, and was content with it. Perhaps love made that possible. They were blessed, these two; blessed to have found each other.

  “We want you to take Breda’s part, Eile,” Drustan said. “We’d be honored if you would agree.”

  She felt herself flush scarlet. “Oh, but—” she began.

  “Bridei and Tuala have approved our choice. There are only two brief responses for you to give, and plenty of time for you to memorize them. Wid will help you. The druid understands you are new to the language. This seems entirely right to us.”

  “Please, Eile,” said Ana, using her limited Gaelic. “Tuala lend gown. Same size.”

  Thus it was that, at dusk, Eile found herself clad in a queen’s gown, soft violet with gray borders, with a little wreath of flowers in her hair, in the middle of a handfasting ceremony held under the dimming sky in the small upper courtyard. Torches burned around the flagstoned space with its central table. It was nothing at all like her imaginings of the wedding of a princess, and yet it seemed to her utterly perfect. For Faolan’s sake, she tried to notice everything. Perhaps he had said that he did not want to be here, but she knew in her heart that he would be hungry for her description, if ever she got the chance to give it. Ana was his beloved and he was losing her. That would not make his feelings for her any the less.

  A small circle of folk was in attendance. There had been no public announcement of time and place, and the stalwart Garth and Dovran were stationed where steps came up from the lower courtyard, ensuring there were no uninvited guests. Ana was a vision in her plain cream with her golden hair loose over her shoulders; Drustan wore a russet tunic and trousers over a snowy shirt, and had his wild mane tied at the nape, though strands escaped like licking flames at his brow. The crow perched on one shoulder, the crossbill on the other. Their eyes were bright, but Drustan’s were brighter, fixed on Ana with such love and tenderness that Eile began to think, just possibly, that certain things Faolan had told her about men and women might be correct after all. There was a sweet trust between these two, and a shy passion that showed itself in their every touch, their every glance. She could not for the life of her imagine Drustan treating
his wife cruelly, or requiring her to endure anything she feared or disliked. That was not possible for a man so gentle, so courteous, so selfless. Ana had been carrying a child; Drustan’s child. Did that mean it was indeed possible to lie with a man and, if he was the right one, actually find pleasure in the act? Could it really be true?

  If there had been time, a great deal of time, perhaps Eile would have learned enough words to ask Ana this question in the Priteni tongue. But Ana was leaving; she and Drustan were not even staying for the victory feast. After tomorrow, Eile would not see them again. Forever was a long time. Likely they would visit White Hill again in two years, three years, perhaps with their children. The pattern of her own life thus far suggested that, wherever she was by then, it would not be here.

  The druid, Amnost, spoke the ritual words quietly, with reverence. Much of it Eile did not understand, but Wid had explained, while coaching her in her responses, that the handfasting was sworn by the powers of earth, water, fire, and air, and that the Shining One, most revered goddess of the Priteni, was asked for a special blessing on husband and wife. Ana made her responses softly, from the heart. Drustan spoke his with ardor, his voice shaking.

  Bridei and Tuala watched on, hand in hand, more like a pair of young lovers than monarch and consort. Ana’s cousin Keother was there, a king in his own right, a silent, imposing figure. Tall, severe Ferada stood across the circle, Ferada who, Eile had learned, was head of the school for young women that she had dismissed so lightly in their first conversation. A scholar; a woman who had defied convention and made her own choices. By Ferada’s side was a very large, very plain man whose place here Eile could not work out. The two of them did not touch; they hardly looked at each other. Yet there was something between them; something powerful. As if aware of Eile’s thoughts, Ferada looked across the circle into her eyes, and her well-shaped brows lifted.

  There was a wise woman, a priestess, assisting the druid with the ritual. Fola, her name was, a white-haired personage of diminutive size with piercing dark eyes and a big nose. She passed Amnost the ritual foods: bread, honey, herbs, and water. She spoke the prayer to the Shining One, her features calm, her eyes showing clearly her affection for the bride and her approval of the bridegroom. A wave of anxiety came over Eile. What was she doing here among such clever folk, kings and queens, druids and priestesses? If they knew the things she had done, if they knew the dark and bloody path she had traveled…

  There was an awkward silence. All eyes were on her where she stood a little behind Ana. Eile realized she was supposed to speak now. For a moment, the words she had practiced over and over during the day fled entirely from her mind, leaving only a space full of terror and shame. She looked down, and her eyes fell on the embroidered border of Ana’s skirt. Pretty, like Ana. In her head, someone said, Heroic, like you. The words came back. She lifted her head and took a shaky breath.

  “Step forward on your new path with love and courage,” she said in the Priteni tongue, moving forward to light a candle from the lamp on the stone table and place it in Ana’s hand, then do the same for Drustan. “Honor the gods and be true to each other.” As she stepped back she saw Tuala smile and Bridei nod approval. Ferada had unbent sufficiently to bestow a little smile of her own; as Eile watched, the red-haired woman slipped her hand through the arm of the lumpish man standing by her side. He put his big hand over hers, engulfing it, and Ferada’s pale cheeks turned pink.

  Wid’s earlier explanations allowed Eile to understand the general meaning of the words now spoken to conclude the ceremony. Fola invoked the blessing of the Shining One, and called down her light to illuminate the pathway ahead for the new husband and wife. As the wise woman spoke, the moon sailed up above the dark outlines of the pines, full and perfect in a sky deepening to dusky violet.

  Then the druid called on the Flamekeeper to brighten the lives of Drustan and Ana with courage, and to bless them with the gift of children. Eile saw the sorrow pass over Ana’s perfect features; she saw the shadow in Drustan’s eyes. It was only a moment. Now she had to speak again. “Blessed All-Flowers fill your home with joy, and keep you and yours safe from the storm,” she said, her voice steady. She took up the handful of petals set by and cast them across the stone table. It was a pity Saraid was already tucked up in bed under Elda’s watchful eye; she would have liked that part. Now it was done, and the handfasting was over.

  She could tell Faolan how beautiful Ana had looked; how the moonlight had touched her lovely face to pale purity. She could tell him how Drustan’s love for her could be heard in his every word; how he touched his new wife as if she were at the same time lover, best friend, and goddess. Maybe Faolan wouldn’t want to hear that part. But she’d tell him anyway. He loved Ana more than anything in the world. He’d loved her enough to let her go, even though it had broken his heart. He would want to know that Drustan recognized the value of that selfless gift. He would want to be certain that Drustan would make her happy.

  They said their good nights. There would be no feasting or celebration to follow the handfasting. In the morning the druid would conduct a funeral rite for the young woman who had been killed. And Drustan and Ana would set off down the lake, taking the easier route back to his home in the west, Dreaming Glen. Tomorrow night, Bridei would hold his victory feast. It must be difficult to be a king, Eile thought. With a tiny new daughter and a son of barely two, he had scant time to take a breath and watch them grow; scant time to come to terms with one challenge before another loomed. They said he’d been very brave and skillful when Breda’s horse bolted. Maybe a king needed to be able to do everything. It was a pity if that meant Bridei had no time to be a husband and father, Eile thought. She had never really considered, before, that kings and queens were real people like herself underneath.

  Time to go; the others were talking among themselves, King Keother congratulating Ana, the druid and Fola in intense debate, Drustan speaking to Bridei. She muttered a farewell and made her way down the steps. As she crossed the lower courtyard she found she was being shadowed by the tall form of Dovran, the king’s bodyguard. He said something which she interpreted as an offer to escort her to her chamber.

  “No, I’m fine,” she said, his presence by her side at night making her acutely uncomfortable. “I can go by myself.” Then, as he kept walking, she struggled for words to say it politely in his own tongue. “No, thank you,” she managed.

  Dovran kept pace; when she glanced up, his handsome face—long, straight nose, fine gray eyes, firm jaw—bore a slightly awkward look. He said something more; it had Bridei’s name in it. Perhaps the king had ordered him to do this, though why she would need a personal guard to help her find her way along a couple of passages and down a flight of steps she could not imagine. Eile walked on, and Dovran walked with her. When they got to the steps he offered his hand to help her down. It was quite silly. What did he think she would do, trip over her skirt and fall in a heap? Since refusal would seem ill-mannered, she let him do it. At his touch, her body tensed with fear. She hoped he could not tell that panic was making her heart thud; that cold sweat was breaking out on her skin. At the foot of the steps she withdrew her hand, forcing herself not to snatch it away.

  They reached the door of the chamber she shared with Saraid. Elda would be within, watching the child; the twins were in the care of a maidservant.

  “Thank you,” Eile murmured, holding on to calm. “Good night.”

  “Good night.” Dovran was not a man given to smiles; right now, he was even more serious than usual, and had his gaze fixed on the wall above her head. He said something else, then turned on his heel and marched off without another word. Eile stood there a moment, putting the words together and wondering if her interpretation could be right. Surely he hadn’t said, You look beautiful tonight? Perhaps it had been an expansion of their weather conversations, the far more innocuous, It’s a beautiful night. She didn’t think so. He’d looked embarrassed; bashful but determined.

 
; Saraid was fast asleep, tucked up with Sorry, whose blue wedding dress lay half completed on the little table. Eile thanked the yawning Elda and saw her out, then undressed and got into bed, blowing out the candle. She couldn’t stop shivering. Her head was full of images that didn’t seem to go together but, in an awful, inevitable way, did so all too well: Drustan and Ana, eyes locked, faces radiant with happiness; Bridei and Tuala with hands clasped, like a pair of inseparable children; Ferada blushing as that big man wrapped his gentle hand around hers. Dalach. She tried to force Dalach out of her head but he wouldn’t go. He was still there; he’d always be there. And Dovran: a nice young man, comely, unwed, with a good position at court; Dovran whose courteous touch had made her blood run cold.

  Eile found that she was crying; she kept it silent from long practice, not to disturb Saraid. This was such a good place. It was a haven. But… but… Watching Drustan and Ana was like looking in a window at something bright and precious, something she would never have for herself. Something Dalach had ensured she could never have. The two of them seemed to Eile deeply pure and innocent, and their love for each other true and selfless, a thing of wonder indeed blessed by the gods.

  The tears flowed in a hot river. You’ll never have that, she told herself. Never. No matter how much you want it he’s made sure you can’t reach it. Saraid stirred, making a little sound, and Eile ordered herself to be still, though her nose was blocked by tears and her eyes stung. She knew she should be happy, grateful, astonished at the good fortune that had brought her to this house of kindly, generous folk. The remarkable fortune that had seen her put on a queen’s gown and take part in the wedding of a princess. The wondrous fortune that had seen Saraid blossom into a different sort of child, one with the confidence not just to make new friends, but to take charge of them… And she was grateful; she understood how far they had come from Cloud Hill. But the tears still flowed. Her heart was a tight core of misery. It wasn’t right. It still wasn’t right. She tried to fill her mind with a picture of the house on the hill, the cat, the garden, the savory smells, but tonight it would not come. She was cold all through; her body felt the touch of Dovran’s fingers and remembered Dalach. She curled herself into a ball, pulling the green blanket up to her chin. In the darkness her lips formed words in silence: Where are you?