The Well of Shades

by Juliet Marillier

  She huddled against the wall, willing her tears back. Weeping was a waste of energy; she must save what little she had. She must survive. No matter what else happened, there was still Saraid. But it was cold, so cold her bones ached with it. She did not think she had broken anything in her fall, though there was crusted blood on her face, by the temple, and something in her shoulder was not quite right. There should not be such pain when she moved it. She wondered, vaguely, how long a person could stay alive without water.

  Fight. It was her father’s voice; she could see him, dimly, seated against the opposite wall, not the young Deord with his red hair and calm smile, but the older one, after that place, the man who had been almost, but not quite, broken. You must fight. Take control. Save yourself.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “How can I?” The shaft was too wide to allow a climb with legs braced against one side, back against the other, even assuming she had the strength for that. The stone surface looked slippery and treacherous. “My shoulder’s hurt and my legs feel weak. I’m thirsty and I’m tired. I can’t even shout for help.”

  You’re strong, daughter. Get up. Climb.

  Eile struggled against the urge to lie down, to weep, to give up. She made herself think about her father’s words. Perhaps his ghostly voice spoke simple truth. Always, in the past, she had indeed been strong. She had endured Dalach, protected Saraid, taken action, in the end, to get herself and her daughter out of that place. It was only when Faolan had come that she had learned what it was like not to have to carry the whole burden herself. And even Faolan had been saved by her strength. Without her he would be dead by his own hand.

  Her father’s image had faded, but she had no doubt he could hear her; that he watched her, willing her to succeed. He loved her; he wanted her to live. “I have to,” she muttered. “If I don’t do it now, soon I won’t be able to do it at all. I must do it. For Saraid. And for myself. And for Mother and Father, to show them the story need not end like this.” She rose to her feet, ignoring the pain. She tucked up her skirt, gritted her teeth and began to climb.

  17

  (from Brother Suibne’s Account)

  We arrived at King Bridei’s new fortress in the afternoon. We were tired; it is quite a walk from the lake shore to the tree-blanketed hill that now houses the court of Fortriu. The dramatic events attending Colm’s progress up the Great Glen had renewed our faith in God’s grace and our hope for the mission, but our bodies were weary. Here, I thought, at least we had a good chance of sleeping in a bed and not a pigpen.

  At the gates of White Hill came a shout of challenge: “State your name and business!”

  I translated. Colm announced us as men of God; he gave his own name quietly, but such is the natural power of our leader’s voice that the word rang forth as if it were the peal of a great bell: Colmcille.

  “Drop your weapons! Turn around, kneel down, both hands in the air, and don’t move until I say so!”

  These warriors were not accustomed to dealing with clerics, that much was evident. Maybe we should have dressed as druids. I could not imagine that powerful mage Broichan submitting gladly to such abrupt treatment.

  I explained the commands to my brethren and we knelt, all but Colm.

  “Didn’t you hear me, fellow? On your knees or you’ll get an arrow through the chest!”

  “These are warlike folk,” Lomán whispered when I murmured the translation.

  Colm walked calmly across to the gates. An arrow was trained on him from above; I was obliged to disobey the command to turn my back, so I could watch. It was safe enough. Nobody was looking at me.

  “Open in the name of God!” Colm cried out in our own tongue. “We come in peace, with the light of faith to lead us! Open, I say!”

  There was no miraculous swinging apart of the great gates that spanned this stronghold’s main entry. That is the kind of detail that attaches itself, later, to tales of such momentous events as the visit of a great Christian leader to a powerful pagan king. It was the little side gate that opened, the one designed to let folk come in or out without the need to expose the place by spreading wide the main portal. A man came out, leading a donkey. Colm beckoned and, to a chorus of outraged shouts from the guardpost above, we arose and went in. I did not look up. God was merciful; it was not my day for an arrow in the heart.

  After a certain initial confusion, we were greeted cordially enough by one of Bridei’s senior councillors, a tall man named Tharan, whom I remembered from my visit to the court of Drust the Bull. He had, I recalled, been hostile to Bridei in the early days; he’d have preferred to see Carnach of Thorn Bend take the throne of Fortriu when the old king died. Perhaps he’d had a strategic change of heart; he was, after all, still here.

  Tharan found us quarters. There were beds with blankets and pillows. He apologized on behalf of the king White Hill was in disarray. Bridei’s son, a mere infant, had been missing since the previous day, along with his Gaelic nursemaid. Most of the men were out searching. The queen was indisposed, overwhelmed by fear for her child.

  Colm told Bridei’s councillor that we would pray for the boy. Tharan appeared less than impressed by the offer. Although the hospitality had improved since my last visit to the court of Fortriu, I suspected the attitudes of the king’s retainers would be no warmer than before.

  I thanked Tharan on Colm’s behalf. I am the only one of our group fluent in the Priteni tongue, and it falls to me to translate and to act as go-between. I reminded him that I was personally known to King Bridei. I asked him to arrange an audience for Colm at the king’s convenience, and I told him it was our preference that Broichan be present. Colm had requested this. He has never been one to seek the easy path, preferring to confront difficulties as if breasting a fearsome wave, full on. His flight from our homeland has been the only exception to this rule. And that, in its way, was far from an easy choice.

  Tharan said he would convey our requests to the king. He advised us which parts of the court we were welcome to visit. The place sprawls across the entire hilltop, an imposing construction surrounded by high walls, impressively fortified. The view, out over the pine-clad slopes to the sea, and the other way to the hills of the Great Glen, is most wondrous. Within the formidable barrier of stone are many chambers and all amenities as well as extensive gardens, both large and small. We were allocated not only our sleeping chamber but an adjoining room suitable for prayer, though, of course, nobody specified this. I well remember Broichan’s frozen horror at the sight of me conducting a Christian rite at Caer Pridne at the time of the last election. Tharan showed us a small patch of garden adjoining our quarters, where we might sit and enjoy the sun. Refreshments would be brought to us, he said, and water for washing. There was a privy close by, which we might use. Supper would be announced in due course. It would be served in the great hall.

  “We live a frugal existence,” Colm said after I translated this. “Our day is woven around prayer.” He glanced at me, indicating I should render his comment for Tharan.

  “Thank you,” I told the king’s councillor. “This is most generous. Apart from the official meetings with King Bridei and his spiritual adviser, it is likely we will keep ourselves to ourselves.”

  Tharan’s haughty features were fleetingly softened by a smile. “You forget, Brother Suibne,” he said. “You, at least, are already known to us. I do not think you are capable of visiting any court without wishing to put a finger in whatever pie is to hand.”

  “What is he saying?” asked Colm.

  “That he hopes we will avail ourselves of supper, at least,” I told him. “That way, King Bridei will be reminded of our presence, and of the need to offer us an audience. He suggests that this evening’s fare may include a pie.” Occasionally my tongue does run away with me a little. It is an inevitable consequence of working as a translator. Juggle languages enough, and one can become drunk with words.

  SUIBNE, MONK OF DERRY

  AFTER HIS NIGHT spent out in the
woods searching fruitlessly for Derelei, Bedo was unable to conceal from his stepmother that his arm was troubling him. Brethana ordered him to stay back in the morning when the others went out, his brother among them. For once Bedo obeyed her without question, though he chafed at the restriction. The physician had made it quite clear what would happen if he overtaxed the mending limb. The thought of little Derelei freezing to death or coming to some other harm filled him with the urge to help, to take action. Common sense told him there were many men searching, capable men; it told him that his own small contribution was of insufficient worth to justify risking his future as a warrior chieftain. He stayed behind and won his stepmother’s smile and words of praise.

  Then there was another tedious day to fill, a day which, like every other since the hunt, seemed endless and empty. He’d never been much of a scholar, though he’d worked hard enough at his learning while Ferada was bringing them up, him and Uric. He’d had to; his sister had been no easy taskmaster. After their mother went away, Ferada had applied herself to the job of overseer and tutor with all her formidable strength. As a result, he and Uric were competent in the branches of learning a young man of noble blood required. Still, it had been a relief when their father had wed Brethana and Ferada had gone off to Banmerren to start her experiment in the education of young women. Bedo had never really enjoyed cramming his head with history, geography, astrology, and languages. He was happier taking his horse over a difficult jump or wrestling with his brother. Until this arm mended, he would find his days hard to get through.

  Today was a little different. He did have a task to accomplish. The pin Uric had found was in Bedo’s pouch, well concealed. With Uric gone out again on the search, it fell to Bedo to discover whether their theory was correct, and to do so without arousing their quarry’s suspicion.

  Girls seemed to like to travel in packs. It was exceptionally difficult to separate one out without the others noticing and coming after their friend. Of course, today most of the men were absent from court, for the search area had widened, taking them well away from the wooded slopes of White Hill and out across the flat lands beyond, up toward the coast, down toward the dark, deep lake, over to the rising ground in the southwest that eventually became the Great Glen. Court was quiet. The arrival of the Christians created a small drama; Tharan handled it with his usual competence, shepherding them away to somewhere secluded. Another thing for the king to deal with.

  The absence of so many folk made Bedo’s quest more difficult. It made him more visible. The morning had been useless, the girls coming out only once and staying together the whole time. In the afternoon he hung about in the garden a while, exchanging desultory talk with Dovran. Later he found temporary occupation with Garvan the stone carver and his assistant. Garvan was touching up some of the small decorative carvings along the courtyard wall, little creatures mostly, cat, badger, squirrel, owl. With one arm in a sling Bedo couldn’t do much, but there were times when an extra hand to hold bracing timbers in place or reach for a particular chisel came in useful. Besides, Garvan seemed to welcome the company.

  Breda and her handmaids came past twice and Bedo watched them without being too obvious about it. They kept close together like a gaggle of geese, Breda a little in front, the others in her wake. Not a chance of singling one out. Not a hope. None of them was like Cella, who had stood out for her wit and independence, quiet girl as she was. He still found it hard to accept that Cella was dead, Cella with her soft brown hair and her shy smile. It was wrong that she should have been taken thus, and this heartless princess still walking about as if the world owed her humblest allegiance. These other girls seemed all too ready to give it; they clung as close to her as burrs in a dog’s coat.

  The day wore on and the light began to fade. Garvan packed up his tools, thanked Bedo and the assistant, and left. Curse it, Uric would be back soon and Bedo would have to report that he’d achieved absolutely nothing. There must be some way to do this. He went to the privy and sat awhile thinking, the jeweled pin like a leaden weight in his pouch. He thought about girls, and the way they always needed their friends with them for some reason. They probably even went to the privy in a group. Or did they? What about washing? Breda would be the kind of girl, like his sister Ferada, who could not attend supper without washing her face and hands, dressing her hair, and getting into a fresh gown even if the old one was perfectly clean. With that bevy of handmaids she wouldn’t have to lift a finger. They’d bring warm water and take the leftovers away again. He’d wager the ordinary household serving people of White Hill never set foot in Lady Breda’s private quarters.

  It was getting on for suppertime now, though the king would doubtless delay it until the search party returned. That there had as yet been no sign of them foreshadowed bad news; if they had found Derelei or Eile, a message would have come back swiftly. A plan suggested itself to Bedo. He must find a spot from which he could watch the entry to Breda’s apartments, but in which he could not be seen. Gods, to think that not so long ago he’d been practically panting for the opportunity to speak to her. It shamed him to recall it.

  Most of the guards were away. That made it easier for Bedo to conceal himself without drawing attention. It wasn’t the subtlest of hiding places, behind a pillar at the foot of some steps, but it did allow a clear view of what he needed. It was a test, he thought. A warrior’s test: keep silent, stay alert, be ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Strike being used figuratively, of course. I’m doing this for you, he told the shade of Cella. I hope you know how much I cared about you. Then he leaned against the wall, narrowed his eyes and waited.

  ELDA DECIDED SHE would have supper with the children. Saraid could not be left on her own, even with Gilder and Galen and the familiar maidservant. The child had barely moved all day. The twins, boisterous even at their quieter moments, had been tiptoeing around her, unnerved by her hunched silence.

  It wasn’t that Saraid had lost the power of speech. She had accepted the breakfast offered her on a tray with a whispered thank you, testimony to Eile’s rigorous training in good manners. She had murmured to Sorry on and off during the day, little songs and rhymes. Elda took the three children out to the garden in the afternoon, thinking it would not hurt Saraid to stretch her legs and breathe fresh air. The twins were more than ready for some exercise and ran off along the paths with their ball. Elda sat down on a bench, easing her back. It would not be long before her baby arrived. Gods, she hoped it was a girl.

  Saraid climbed onto the bench beside her. The little girl sat close, right up against Elda’s side, her doll pressed tightly to her chest. Elda could feel her shivering as if chilled to the bone. She put her arm around the child. Down the garden, Gilder and Galen were trying to skip stones across the pond, as they’d once seen Dovran doing. She kept a watchful eye on them, not wanting to deal with wet clothes.

  “Are you all right, Saraid?”

  “Mm.”

  “Sure?”

  “Mm.”

  “You know last night? When Faolan found you in the woods?”

  “Feeler find Sorry.”

  It was more than she’d offered all day.

  “That’s right, sweetheart. Faolan found Sorry under a bush. She was in her lovely blue dress, the one Eile made for her.”

  Elda felt the small body tense; looking down, she saw Saraid’s lips tighten. She knew the signs. This was a child holding back a secret, something she dared not tell.

  “Saraid, do you know where Eile went? And Derelei? Will you tell me?”

  The lips pressed together. There was the smallest shake of the head.

  “It might help your mama, Saraid, if you can tell us what you know. If Mama’s hurt or lost or…” It did not bear thinking about, the possibility that Eile—Eile—might be a traitor, a spy. “Or if Derelei went off somewhere and he’s cold and tired and wants to come home… You should tell me, Saraid. You could help Derelei come home.” Privately, Elda was holding out less and less hope of
that occurring as the time passed. Alongside her own sturdy boys, Derelei was like a single violet growing next to a pair of thorny rosebushes. A breath of wind might carry him away. How could such a waif survive even a single night out in the woods alone? “Saraid?”

  But Saraid’s lips remained firmly shut. They sat a while longer; Dovran came down to greet them and went away again on his patrol. He looked drained and weary. Then the twins began to argue about the ball, a frequent cause of disagreement, and it was time to go in again.

  On the way to her own quarters, Elda stopped by the chamber Eile shared with Saraid, for the little girl would need a nightrobe, clean smallclothes, her own comb and mirror, and there might be other familiar items she would find comforting.

  “Don’t touch Eile’s things,” Elda warned the twins. “Sit on the bed, the two of you, and wait until Saraid and I have what we need.” She opened the storage chest, looking through its meager contents, hoping Eile would not mind.