It so nearly hadn’t happened, her and Bridei. She’d been on the point of stepping, or flying, beyond the margin into a world without pain or sorrow. If she had not hesitated a moment, if Bridei had not called out to her, she would have traveled there and remained immortal. That was what they had told her, the Otherworld folk who had shadowed her steps and whispered in her ears all through the dark days and troubled nights of that difficult time. She would have lived forever. She would have left Bridei on his own. And there would have been no Derelei.
It was unthinkable now. In the event, Bridei had come for her, had saved her, and matters had taken their true, god-ordained course. The Shining One was content with their choices, Tuala thought. Derelei had made his arrival into the world on a night of full moon, which seemed entirely apt, since this goddess had taken a particular interest in Tuala’s life from the very start.
As for Bridei, he had made a strong beginning as king of Fortriu. Already, only five years into his reign, he was massing his forces against the Gaels. Who would have thought it would be so soon? The Flamekeeper, too, must be happy. As god of men, of courage, of virtuous struggle, he must indeed see his own earthly embodiment in this strong young leader whose bright eyes and forthright words kindled the spark of inspiration in every man’s heart.
For all that, a question remained unanswered for Tuala, worrying at her. She had never found out who she really was. Her Otherworld visitors had not enlightened her as to who, precisely, had decided to abandon her, as an infant, on Broichan’s doorstep at Pitnochie in the middle of winter. And she wanted to know. Certainly, she had made a decision not to employ her magical talents of scrying and transformation, of conversation with the creatures of the forest, of conjuring light and shadow. When such sources of information had provided answers in the past, they had often been cryptic, difficult ones, more like further questions. That did not mean she felt no urge to employ her arts; but she would not use them. She knew how perilous a path a woman of the Good Folk trod as queen of Fortriu. There would always be those who sought to undermine Bridei’s authority, and she was determined they would not employ her as a tool. That did not stop her from needing the truth, a truth her son, in his turn, would want to hear when he was grown.
Tuala did not speak of this, not even to Bridei. She whispered it in her prayers sometimes, thinking the Shining One might help her, for this goddess had ever looked on her with kindness. So far the Shining One had provided no revelations. As for the two strange beings who had teased and cajoled Tuala, bullied and tested her, the girl Gossamer with her fey eyes and floating garments and the youth Woodbine of the nut-brown skin and ivy-wreathing locks, they had never come back. As soon as Tuala had made her choice to be human, to live in this world, the two of them had vanished as if they had never been. At times, Tuala wondered if the whole strange sequence of events had been a kind of crazy dream.
It was early afternoon, and Derelei would be in the garden playing in the care of one of the young serving women. Instructions complete, Mara had more or less shooed Tuala away, as if she were five years old again and a queen only in her own imagination. Mara had changed little since the early days; she preferred to be in sole charge and did her job with dour efficiency. Mara was quite undaunted by the responsibility of a royal household many times bigger than the one she managed at Pitnochie. Already she had folk scampering in all directions to fetch fresh rushes, scour floors, brush down high cobwebs, and hang blankets to air.
Tuala walked through the hallways of White Hill, past the closed door of the room where Bridei was in consultation with his chieftains. They were preparing for the arrival of the delegation from the southern kingdom of Circinn, always a challenge and, under the current delicate circumstances, this time a particular test. She made her way out along a flagged path between patches of grass and beds of gray-leaved herbs, wormwood, chamomile, lavender. There were stone benches here, positioned to catch the afternoon sunshine, and little figures of gods and creatures were set about pools and in niches in the stone wall that surrounded the garden, sheltering it from the fierce northerly winds. It was a place of repose. Ana had liked it; she had spent many happy times here chatting to Tuala, playing with Derelei, doing her delicate embroidery. Tuala missed her. She wondered how far Ana had traveled on her journey by now, and what she was making of it. Perhaps they were already at Briar Wood. Maybe Alpin would be a kind man, a man like Bridei. Ana had wept when she said good-bye, despite her obvious efforts at control. For all her understanding of duty, she had been sad and frightened. Tuala knew how that felt. She wished with all her heart that it had not been necessary to do it so quickly; so cruelly. But it was necessary. It was vital. Alpin must be won over before Bridei’s forces went into action against the Gaels of Dalriada. And, contrary to the word that was being put about, that would not be happening next spring. The council would not be at Gathering, but at the feast of Rising, when spring turned to summer. The men of Fortriu would move in autumn, two seasons earlier than their enemies anticipated. They would surge westward in great numbers; by the time Gabhran of Dalriada received word of their advance, it would be too late for the Gaels to mount a strong counteraction, too late for Gabhran to summon his kinsmen from Ulaid and Tirconnell to back up his own armies. This time, the Gaels would be defeated. They would be driven out of Fortriu. Even if Circinn refused to aid him, Bridei would make it so.
They should have told Ana, Tuala thought. Not to do so was to act as if this royal bride were too foolish to keep her mouth shut on matters of strategic importance. Not only that, it made the decision to dispatch Ana to the lands of the Caitt seem cruel and unnecessary. What bride wants to confront her intended husband before he has agreed to wed her? That is to court humiliation. What young woman wishes to marry a man about whom she knows nothing beyond the fact that there is a question in his past? An arranged marriage was one thing; this went far beyond that.
Tuala came through the archway and halted. The serving girl was nowhere to be seen. Seated bolt upright on the grass, his infant hands waving in the air, was her son Derelei, engrossed in some kind of game. Opposite him, cross-legged in his dark robe, sat the king’s druid, Broichan. It was a mark of the power the man carried with him that, even in such an undignified pose, with a little child as his only companion, the druid looked remote, grave, and intimidating. Tuala had never lost her fear of him. She stood watching them, herself unseen. For once, Derelei had not sensed her approach. Both druid and infant were deep in concentration, and now she could see, as Broichan moved one hand before him, the fingers curving in a particular way, that her son was not, in fact, waving his arms about somewhat randomly as little children do when discovering how their bodies work. Derelei had his eyes fixed on Broichan’s, and he was copying the druid’s gesture. The tiny, plump-fingered hand formed itself into a shape graceful as a gull’s wing; mimicked Broichan’s long, bony fingers as they flattened, stretched, came up before his face. A bird flew down to settle on the wall beside them, ruffling its feathers. Another, smaller bird arrived an instant later, alighting alongside the first with a puzzled look. Derelei gurgled with pleasure.
Broichan bent his head, his long plaits falling forward, streaks of white hair among the black, colored threads woven through to bind the braids, and spoke softly to the child in his deep voice. Derelei did not reach and grab, as he usually did when something interesting came so close. He stayed where he was, looking up intently, and said something in his mysterious infant language. Thus far he had few recognizable words.
“Circle, thus …” Broichan was telling him, and using his fingers once more to demonstrate, making a subtle sign a handspan above the grass. Derelei copied him, small hand stretched just so, circling before him. The grass flattened obediently, making a neat little ring on the sward.
Tuala was shocked. She was angry. Her first instinct was to march forward and confront the druid. Who gave you permission to teach my son? How dare you? For all her terror of the man, she would have do
ne it. Derelei’s skills were no surprise to her; she had seen already what he could do, what her own blood had given him, and if she had wished to see his talents developed so early she would have taught him herself. For Broichan to interfere without her blessing or Bridei’s was not just unfair, it was alarming. This was their child, not his. He had done enough damage to Bridei. In his assiduous efforts to form his foster son into the perfect king, Broichan had created a young man who was, in essence, desperately alone. Of course, Bridei was unswerving in his devotion to the ancient gods of Fortriu, steeped in learning, strong in courage, and entirely equipped to lead his kingdom. In that, Broichan had done exactly what he had set out to do. He was unable to see that he had erred at all.
Tuala remained in place, mute, held by something she could not name. The two of them matched gesture for gesture. They turned flowers into glowing, mysterious insects; they made shadows creep across the grass and retreat again. A toad hopped onto Derelei’s knee, then vanished. A mouse ran up Broichan’s arm and disappeared into the hood of his robe. It was not the magic, the facility of it, that held Tuala spellbound. It was the uncanny resemblance, the exact echo of stance, posture, movement, expression, for all the stark contrast between tall, robed mage and short-legged, bulkily swathed infant. This was uncanny. It was unsettling. What she saw had a strange beauty, an odd symmetry; it was the stuff of an impossible tale or a disturbing dream. Tuala felt an eldritch prickling sensation in her spine, almost like the feeling she had experienced in the forest by the seeing pool, the Dark Mirror, when she first encountered the Good Folk.
“Mama,” Derelei said, turning to look at her, and the spell was broken. The birds flew off and Broichan rose to his feet, not quite as easily as he might once have done. Tuala found herself able to move forward, to kneel beside her son and speak to the druid in civil tones.
“Where is the serving woman, Orva?”
“Not far off; she’s sitting over there by the long pond. I gave her leave to go, but she won’t let him out of her sight.”
Derelei was tired now; he wilted in Tuala’s arms. Such concentrated practice of the craft was draining. It was too much for a little child. Tuala drew a breath to tell Broichan so; even now, it took all her courage to confront him.
“It’s as well,” Broichan said before she could speak, “that he cannot be a candidate for kingship. The child has a future, perhaps an exceptional one. He should be raised in the nemetons.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Tuala snapped, clutching her son so tightly he began to whimper in fright. “There, there,” she muttered, patting him. “It’s all right.”
“There’s time,” Broichan said. “He need not go until his sixth or seventh year; the training is arduous, and should wait until he is strong enough to endure it. You cannot deny his natural talent, Tuala.”
“I don’t,” she said. “But he’s only a baby, and he can be anything he wants, a scholar, a warrior, a traveler, a craftsman. A druid, if that’s the path he chooses.”
“Will he choose wisely at six years of age? Will it not rather be the path chosen for him by his elders?”
Tuala thought of the child Bridei and the choices he had not been given. “It will be up to his mother and father to guide him,” she said as firmly as she could. “I do not think Bridei would be happy to see his son sent away at so tender an age. Family is precious to him.”
Broichan did not answer for a moment. He was twisting his silver snake ring around and around on his finger and frowning. He would not meet her eyes. After a little, he said, “I would teach him. With Bridei’s permission. And yours. There would then be no need to send him away, at least not until he was old enough to make up his own mind.”
Tuala was startled, as much by his seeking of her sanction as by the proposal itself. There was no doubt in her mind that her son was destined for a future in which his particular talents would find a use. She did not, in fact, want him to become a warrior. She had seen the pitiful, ruined survivors who limped or were carried home from Fortriu’s encounters with its enemies, and she did not see how any mother could be content for her son to become a fighting man. A druid, a scholar, a craftsman, those were good occupations. There was only one problem. “He is the king’s son—” she began.
“Yes,” Broichan agreed gravely, “and he is your son, and we both know my opinion on that issue, although I do not express it publicly, having kept a promise I made to Bridei long ago. There is no reason why the king’s son cannot enter the service of the gods. There are precedents. And if his talent in such arts as the child has demonstrated here today is a little … Otherworldly, shall we say? … what better way to avoid drawing undue attention to your own origins than for you to pass responsibility for guiding the boy into my hands? I can ensure he learns to harness his power, to channel his abilities to right ends. I can teach him to control what he has and turn it to the good of Fortriu. In doing so, I will protect both your child and your own reputation.”
Tuala did not reply. He was taking over, as he always did; he would steal her son, make Derelei his own. His project; Bridei all over again.
“You don’t trust me. That is nothing new; the feeling is mutual. It has long been thus between us. Talk to your husband. Set terms for this if you will. It’s important, Tuala.”
“I want my son to be happy,” she told him. “I want him to grow up with his family around him; with brothers and sisters, if the goddess grants it. Children don’t just need education and guidance. They need love.”
There was a little silence. “I’m aware,” Broichan said stiffly, “of your opinion of my deficiencies as a foster father. I cannot take that seriously. Bridei is everything he should be.”
Tuala nodded. “Yes,” she said. “He’s grown adept at concealing how much it costs him. You robbed him of his own childhood. I won’t allow you to take away his son, as well.”
“Allow?” Broichan hissed, and Tuala flinched at the look in his eye. The air seemed to spark around him, and his shadow grew larger. Derelei began to cry.
“He’s tired; he needs his afternoon sleep,” she said, feeling a sudden weariness in her own body. The serving woman, Orva, came hurrying over now and made to take the infant, but Tuala dismissed her with more briskness than was her habit. “No, Orva, I don’t need you. Go on, I’m sure Mara can put you to work with the linen. I’m taking him inside now,” she added, frowning at Broichan.
“Baw-ta,” Derelei enunciated clearly, reaching out toward the druid. He had learned a new name. Tuala shivered as Broichan raised his own hand and placed it gently over the child’s head of fuzzy brown curls, not quite a caress, but as close as such a man could come to it.
“I do not request this because of a desire for power, Tuala,” the druid said quietly. “Please speak to Bridei.”
“Tell me,” Tuala said, “why did you approach me first, and not go to Bridei direct?”
“Because I know he will not agree to it if you are unwilling. You prefer that I do so?”
“No. He has enough to concern him right now. And so do I; he must ride to war soon enough. I share the common fears of all women at such a time.”
“Yes.” Broichan’s voice was like a shadow made sound; like a deep well of secrets. “Will you not be tempted to follow him, to seek reassurance in the scrying bowl? They will be gone a long time: a season or more. Surely this calls you strongly.”
“Not so strongly that I cannot resist,” Tuala said grimly. “Contrary to what you imagine, I never forget how lucky I am that these folk accept me as Bridei’s wife. I don’t plan to give them any cause to doubt my suitability for the job. My husband needs me. My first loyalty is to him and to what he must be.”
“Then you would be most wise to agree to my request. You cannot train the boy yourself unless you begin once more to exercise those secret arts. I, however, can do so without exciting any comment. Such practices are a druid’s daily bread.”
“There’s no hurry. He’s a baby.” She tur
ned to go.
“Tuala:” Broichan spoke very softly behind her. There was something new in his tone, something that made her halt where she stood.”I don’t have as much time for this as I would wish,” he said.”Let me give the child what I can.”
And, looking back at him over her shoulder, Tuala saw the pallor of his long face, the way the bones of nose and cheeks jutted under the skin, the lines that had not always cut such grooves between mouth and nose, nor bracketed his lips so severely. It seemed to her there was suppressed pain in the dark eyes, and that he leaned on his staff as a far older man might; that he used it, not so much as the major tool of his craft, but as a simple support.
“I—” she began, and fell silent at the look in his eyes.
“As you said,” his voice was only a whisper, “Bridei is much concerned with the forthcoming endeavor of war and with the assembly, which will be challenging. We will not burden him with other concerns at such a testing time. Speak to him only of his son; of what is best for Derelei.”
3
FAOLAN WAS FOLLOWING a map he had in his mind, constructed from what little he himself had observed of the territories north of the Great Glen, and from what several informants had told him. It was enhanced by his sensitivity to warning signs in weather and terrain. He could read the moisture in the slightest of breezes, could sense the portent behind a shifting shadow, a cooling of the air. At Abertornie, he and Ged had sat up late with one of the expert guides and discussed the path this expedition would need to take through the mountains. They talked about the narrow defiles, the precipitous slopes where riding was not possible, the places where the track was all too easy to lose. Thus far the preparation had served the travelers well.
Blade of Fortriu Page 6