He passed the cup across. When his fingers touched hers, he felt a shiver run through his body. He breathed slowly, trying to keep his gaze on the fire. Whatever had happened to him, crossing the ford, it was not just unwelcome. It was intolerable.
“I’m sorry to be such a nuisance,” Ana said politely, sipping the drink. Her fingers were white-knuckled, one hand gripping the cup, the other clutching the shawl around her. Her hair was loose now, escaped entirely from its customary controls, a shimmering flow that gave her the appearance of something not quite real: a figure from a dream. He had been traveling in her company for the best part of a turning of the moon. He had seen her often enough at court over the years since he came to Fortriu, and had thought nothing particular of her. She’d been a hostage; a girl with fair hair; Tuala’s friend. Nothing more. No concern of his. Suddenly, now, he was finding it difficult not to look at her.
“You do a lot of apologizing.” This came out despite himself.
“What do you mean?” She did not sound affronted, merely weary. She held her voice low, as Faolan had, not to wake the men.
“It would have been perfectly reasonable to ask me to halt the party so you could rest, under the circumstances. But I didn’t know. A man can’t guess these things.”
Ana gazed at him. Her eyes seemed to him deep, secret, yet clear as a tidal pool in summer, full of mysteries. A man would be a fool to keep on looking; he risked drowning. “You think me foolish and pampered.” Ana said. “I’m well aware of that. You made it clear from the first, when you decided I needed riding lessons without asking me if I were already capable. I haven’t lived the life of a man. I have little understanding of the existence of a person like you, one who follows his own rules and makes his own choices. But I do possess some intelligence and a modicum of common sense. I know why we need to keep moving on. I smelled the rain coming two days ago. I’ve heard the sounds in the forest. To tell you I was … indisposed … would have been unreasonable. Selfish. It would have lost us valuable time.”
Faolan regarded her. “It will do so anyway,” he observed.
“I can ride on in the morning—” She broke off, wincing, set the cup down and put a hand to her belly.
“Nonsense,” Faolan said. “I won’t allow that. You’re plainly not up to it. You’ll need at least a day’s rest here, maybe two. You might as well have told me and saved yourself a day of discomfort.”
Ana did not speak for a little. “What did you mean,” she said eventually, “about apologizing? I’ve been taught good manners, something you’d do well to make more use of.”
Faolan felt his lips twitching with amusement. He made himself think ahead to Briar Wood; to Alpin of the Caitt. The urge to smile left him. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said. “It concerns me how readily you seem to accept your lot, no matter how inconvenient, how—distasteful. You dislike the path others choose for you, but you follow it meekly anyway. You express regret at slowing the journey, when any reasonable person would have demanded that I halt earlier today and make camp.”
“I’m a woman,” Ana said simply. “I’m of royal blood; a tradable commodity. I owe it to my kinsmen, to Bridei, to the future of Fortriu to do as I’m bid. I owe it to the gods.”
Faolan considered this answer a while. “What would you do,” he asked her, “if you were not constrained by those things? By birth, by duty? What choices would you make? What path would you follow?”
Ana was silent a long time. Faolan busied himself with the fire, setting on sufficient wood to keep it going without creating too much of a blaze. When he looked up he saw the glint of tears on her cheeks.
“I don’t know,” she said in a whisper. “Not this one.”
“But you don’t seek to change your direction.”
“I’ll do what is required of me.” She blinked a few times, scrubbing her cheeks, and squared her shoulders. The royal blood, Faolan thought, was never more evident than now; it shone through the tears, the drawn pallor of her face, the undressed hair and hastily donned shawl. “In my case, there is no choice,” Ana went on. “I imagine it’s different for you. You can determine your own future. You are answerable only to yourself.”
There was no possible response to this. He could not tell her the truth. To do so was not within the rules by which he survived, the strictures that allowed him to go on. This conversation should never have begun. He thought that he had crossed the river successfully. Now, it seemed that crossing had plunged him in over his head.
“What is it? What did I say?” She was quick. Even in the dark, she had seen something change in his face.
“You should try to sleep,” Faolan said. “There’s more of this brew; pass me the cup, I’ll refill it.”
They sat on a while in silence, save for faint snoring around them and, beyond the safe circle of firelight, the mysterious noises of the forest. Ana held the cup in her elegant, pale hands; even after the riding, the living rough, her nails were glossy, perfect ovals. His own were broken, filthy, gnawed to the quick. A killer’s hands. There was a time when it had not been so. Once, his hands had plied a different craft.
“Who was Fionnbharr?” Ana spoke after a long silence.
Her question took Faolan unguarded and he answered without thinking. “A traveler. He was enchanted by a woman of the daoine sidhe, a fairy woman, and journeyed out of this world for nine and ninety years.” Too late, he realized what question and answer had revealed.
“I see.” That was all she said. As women went, this one was remarkable in her restraint. For that he was deeply grateful.
“You know Gaelic?” he asked her, thinking that he must guard his tongue more carefully in future.
“A few words only. We spoke the Priteni tongue at home but there were Christian monks on our home island. They were of the same origins as yourself.”
“You should sleep,” he said again. “If you need to go into the woods before you retire, I’ll keep watch for you. No need to wake the girl.”
Ana nodded. “She sleeps soundly, doesn’t she? Thank you. When will you sleep?”
“That needn’t concern you.”
“I disagree. After all, you’re supposed to be leading this party; our safety depends on your being alert.”
After a moment he realized that she was teasing him; there was a little smile on her lips, a dimple at one corner of her mouth. Her face was still streaked with the marks of her tears. The sight was incongruous. It made him feel very odd. Possibly she was right. What but extreme weariness could play such havoc in his head?
“I’ll sleep when the last shift goes out. As we won’t be riding on for a day, there’s plenty of time.”
“You are human,” Ana said. “You should remember that sometimes.”
“Are you giving me orders?”
“Didn’t you call me meek? The meek don’t give orders. I merely point out what may be useful. You’re the one who is in charge here. Shall we go?”
They walked a certain distance into the forest. He waited while she disappeared to perform her private functions. At one point he flinched as a bird passed close by his face, its appearance so sudden he had not time to evade it. The creature alighted in a tree nearby, a blur of feather and shadow. Its beak was inimical, its strange, wild eye like that of a seer in trance.
When Ana came back she said, “Did you see it? The bird, a crow or something like that. It flew so close. This place is full of presences. And we’re not even at Briar Wood yet.”
“If a bird is the worst we encounter, I’ll be content enough.”
Back at the shelter, she thanked him in the courteous way she had and retired to lie on her blankets, while Faolan remained by the fire. He was reluctant to wake Kinet and Wrad, who had worked hard for him and were bone-weary.
“Good night,” he said quietly in the general direction of the shelter.
“Good night, Faolan.” Her voice was soft but clear. He liked the way she said his name. “May the Shining One gu
ard your dreams.”
He knew the right response. One did not live at Bridei’s court long without becoming aware of the full pattern of formal greetings and farewells, the conduct of ritual observance among the folk of Fortriu. The correct response was, May the Flamekeeper light your waking. But he did not believe in gods, neither those of Bridei’s people nor the arrogant, elusive deities of his homeland. Such blessings were not appropriate in his case. No god had the power to cleanse the dark visitations of his nights. They were with him forever, a hell of his own making. He should curse Ana, not bless her. She had awoken something within him that he did not want, a thread of memory he had spent long years crushing with all his strength. He did not need this. He could not allow it. All he wanted was the orders, the task, the flawless execution of it. Then the next orders.
“Sleep well,” he said despite himself, and saw her curl up under the blankets, her fair head pillowed on one hand. He waited until he knew she had fallen asleep. Then he woke the third shift and sent them out to watch. Above them, from the branch of a gnarled and twisted tree, a hooded crow, bright-eyed, watched every move.
NEXT DAY, ANA lay in the shelter listening to the pattering of rain on the oiled cloth and the sounds of the camp going about its orderly business around her. Not a moment of the unexpected respite was wasted. Game was caught, butchered, cooked. Weapons were sharpened. Waterskins were filled and horses tended to. Some of the men slept, but only after gaining Faolan’s permission. Ana herself drifted off to sleep from time to time; the acrid herbal draught that Faolan kept brewing had a decidedly soporific effect. In the dusk they cooked oats into a gruel for her, and she found she was hungry. The next morning they struck camp and rode on to the west.
Her cramps had subsided. She still felt faint and tired, but she could see the look in Faolan’s eye and did her best to appear confident and strong. The rain was not heavy; not yet. Not here, at least. But the river was still some way off, if Faolan’s estimate was correct, and in this increasingly grim high country many streams rushed down the valleys, tumbling over rocky shelves, gurgling through secret chasms, spreading here and there to sucking swamps that lay in wait for horse and rider. To the north, dark-bellied clouds massed. In the air above the riders rang out the alarm calls of many birds. So many birds; this place was full of them, those Ana knew well, kestrel, buzzard, skylark, and some that were quite new to her. From time to time she saw a bird like the one that had startled her in the woods by the ford, something akin to a hooded crow, but not quite as it should be, for there was a singular look to the eyes. They were wary, knowing. By the time the travelers moved out of the denser regions of the forest and onto a narrow track across steep bare fells, she had sighted a bird of this kind three times, and was beginning to wonder if it were but one bird, the same bird, that followed them, here winging high above, there perched on a great stone by the wayside, observing the travelers with its piercing eyes as they passed. One of the men took out a slingshot, palmed a stone.
“No,” Faolan told him. “We’ve meat enough for a supper or two. Leave it.”
THEY HEARD THE river before it came into view. At first it was a whispering, then a murmuring, then an insistent drumming that sought to drown their voices. Ana’s skin grew clammy with trepidation.
“Don’t be alarmed.” Faolan had ridden up beside her. “If the water is too high we’ll camp somewhere on this side and wait. I won’t attempt a crossing unless I’m certain we can do it safely. It’s not worth risking our lives for the sake of getting there on time.”
“Isn’t it critical that we do just that?” Ana asked.
“Let me be the judge of what is critical,” Faolan said. He had the old guard back on his expression now; she could not tell what was in his mind. That strange conversation, the two of them alone in the dark, seemed increasingly like something from a dream. “According to Ged’s man, this is traversable as long as appropriate safeguards are put in place. Trust me.” Without waiting for a response he rode away to the head of the line.
“I’ve a word for men like that,” Creisa observed from her place behind Ana. “But you would frown on it, my lady, so I’ll keep it to myself.”
“He knows what he’s doing,” Ana said. “If we go on, it will be because that is the best choice, after all considerations are taken into account.”
“Yes, my lady.” The tone suggested Creisa was far from convinced. She had hitched her skirt up somewhat higher than was strictly essential for riding astride. The men who rode nearby had their eyes on the interesting length of shapely stocking-clad leg that was thus revealed; if their horses kept sure footing on a path that was stony, narrow, and increasingly steep, it was little thanks to their riders. Ana felt a deep longing for all this to be over. Her back was hurting and she felt dizzy and sick. Her mind was on a warm bath, clean hair, fresh clothes, and a comfortable bed in which she could sleep out of the weather. Alone. Once she got safely to Briar Wood, she would never take those simple things for granted again. A little voice whispered inside her that, once she was married to Alpin, sleeping alone wouldn’t be an option. She closed her mind to that. It did not bear thinking about.
The track wound around the flank of a valley; here the countryside was wooded again, dark pines on the upper reaches, a mixed clustering of smaller trees down near the river, screening it from sight. Its voice was insistent; somewhere down there, there must be rapids. Ana heard Faolan shouting an order and, behind and before her, the men picked up the pace. Her own pony surged forward, taking its lead from the larger animals.
“Black Crow save us,” Creisa exclaimed, “I’m going to have bruises in places I’ve never even thought about!”
Then Faolan yelled again, sharply, and there was no breath left to spare for complaints; keeping up on the narrow track took all their energy. Ana’s head swam. She clenched her teeth and made her back straight. Now was no time for weakness.
A final corner, a sharp, sliding descent down a perilous, gravelly incline, and the ford came in sight, fringed by willows. Birds darted across the water, their paths crossing and recrossing in an elaborate dance. There was a single broad channel here, unbroken by visible rocks. The water’s surface was smooth; the flow did not seem unduly swift. Ana thought it seemed safer than the shingly, treacherous waterway of their first crossing. Rain was falling, gentle but persistent. If they wanted to go over, now was probably the time.
Kinet dismounted, took staff in hand, and, at Faolan’s nod, waded carefully in. It was immediately evident that the current here was stronger than appearances suggested. He staggered, thrust the staff in hard and regained his footing. The water came to his thighs.
“Keep going,” Faolan called over the noise of the flow. “Test it right across, if you can.”
It was difficult. Three times Kinet came close to falling, and he was a big man. Creisa was biting her knuckles. At length Kinet staggered out on the far side, wet almost to the waist. Faolan gestured him back.
The men conferred in low voices while the women waited. On a bending branch, half concealed behind the delicate foliage of a willow, a bird sat, bright-eyed and uncannily still amid the forest shadows. Ana stared back; she was becoming sure it was the same creature following them, tracking them. If she had had Tuala’s abilities, she might have been able to tell what it was thinking; to interpret its cries. She remembered what the girls at Banmerren had said of their Otherworldly fellow student, how Tuala had taught them to listen for the voices of marten, eel, beetle, and dunnock; how to understand the deep, slow thoughts of an oak. Ana had no such skills. The bird was bothering her. “What do you want?” she found herself whispering. “What are you, some kind of spy?” The gaze remained on her, intense, unblinking. It was disturbing.
She saw Faolan beckon, and rode over to the men, Creisa behind her.
“Very well,” Faolan said, his expression stern. “We—”
Ana never found out which he had decided, to go on or to wait. There was a whirr and a thump,
and Kinet, who had just waded out of the river once more, toppled to the ground, his eyes bulging and a blue-fletched arrow protruding from his neck. Creisa screamed. The men moved in a flash, forming a protective circle around the women while two of their number dismounted to crouch by the fallen man. Ana heard Wrad say, “He’s dead,” and Creisa utter a stifled sob. A moment later another arrow came, from the opposite direction, and lodged itself with a thud in Faolan’s upper arm. He glanced at it and, with a coldblooded detachment that impressed Ana even through her terror, gripped the shaft in his hand and wrenched it out. The tip glistened scarlet. The men held their circle, weapons pointed outward. There was a sound of movement in the woods around them now, twigs cracking, bushes rustling, footsteps; a force of some considerable size was closing in from many directions, unseen, deadly. There was only one way out.
“Over!” Faolan snapped. “Wrad, take Creisa behind you. Ana, with me. Move!”
Someone had thrown him a length of cloth and he was winding it around his arm even as he spoke. In a matter of moments Ana was on Faolan’s horse once more, this time behind him as he guided the animal one-handed. They moved into the river. As if to mock their decision, the dark clouds rolled over them and the rain turned from a persistent drizzle to a deluge.
“Hold on tightly.” Ana could just hear Faolan’s words above the voice of the river and the drumming of the downpour. “The bottom’s uneven and the water’s rising.”
Ana glanced over her shoulder. Behind them, some way back, Wrad had ridden into the ford with Creisa clinging on behind him. Benard led the pack pony; another man walked beside a horse across which the limp form of Kinet had been hastily laid. The others were still on the bank, weapons at the ready, scanning the expanses of the forest. The attackers had not yet appeared. She looked ahead again, through the curtain of rain to the shadowy darkness that was the rise on the western side. Might not more men be waiting there to pick them off one by one as they rode out of the ford? She hoped Faolan had thought of that. Shivering, she hummed under her breath, hardly aware of what the song was, just hoping it might help her be brave. One two three four, chickens pecking at the door. Five six seven eight, corbies perching on the gate … It had been useful when she was little and lying alone in the dark, waiting for sleep to come.
Blade of Fortriu Page 8