Blade of Fortriu

by Juliet Marillier

  “It came on quite suddenly,” Ana said. “We had fine weather for our morning ride. That seems to be the way of it in these parts: smiles, then tears. I’d best go and change my things.”

  “Left your workbasket behind.” Orna’s tone had an edge to it now.

  “Oh—oh, dear, so I did, how silly—”

  “Don’t worry, my lady, I’ll send a lad up for it. There was a boy here a moment ago, you might have seen him? You go off and get out of those wet clothes. It wouldn’t do to catch a chill on the day before your wedding. You’ll need to be at your best; Alpin will be wanting that.”

  The rest of them gave knowing smiles, and Ana felt cold run through her, a deep, icy sensation that had nothing at all to do with the rain. “Thank you,” she managed, and fled.

  WHEN DRUSTAN’S BROTHER came to visit, the rules had to be seen to be in place. At other times it was unusual for Deord to shackle his charge. Today there was no choice. Deord was a Breakstone survivor, and that bound him to provide the report Faolan had asked for, though he could see nothing coming from it but trouble. On a good day, he could have left Drustan for as long as it took to eavesdrop on a private meeting and bring back the gist of it. Drustan, he suspected, had found a new way of amusing himself in the afternoons. Once or twice he had heard the sound of a whispered conversation hastily concluded as he approached; sometimes a thread of song had made its way down to their dark quarters. It seemed to Deord that, at such moments, Drustan was more than happy to be left alone.

  Not today. Deord had been delayed earlier, bringing back the rushes and their other supplies, by one of the men-at-arms wanting his opinion on a new bow, and when he’d got back Drustan had been working up to one of his wilder moods, thumping his fists bloody on the stones and shouting his need to change the way things were. It was garbled, but the name Ana was in it, and Deord cursed again the coming of this highborn bride and her Gaelic henchman to stir the captive’s forlorn hopes. The fact was, Drustan was his own worst enemy. After seven years it was of no matter to Deord whether his charge was guilty or innocent. He saw only that, if the incarceration lasted much longer, there would come a point when even his care, his controlled breaking of the rules to allow those short times of sunlight and exercise and the rarer opportunities for this strange creature to perform his transformations, would not be enough to hold Drustan back from the line between gifted oddity and complete madness. He should let him go. He should let him fly away and simply take the consequences, which would no doubt be dire, Alpin being the man he was.

  He’d calmed Drustan down as well as he could, but it wasn’t easy. There’d be no going out to use up some of that terrifying, pent-up energy in combat practice or in flight. There were visitors at Briar Wood and a wedding tomorrow; it was no time to risk attracting attention. Drustan was not beating his hands on the stone now, nor seeking to wrench the iron gate apart, but his eyes were bleak and his features pinched and lost-looking. There was a shivering in his body, rapid and constant, and a sheen of sweat on his skin. Deord had seen something of the same look in wild creatures trapped and anticipating death. He had never left Drustan alone before unless he was at least reasonably calm.

  He explained why he had to go out again, and Drustan submitted to the shackles without protest, holding out his wrist while looking in the opposite direction, as if it mattered little.

  “You did not believe, surely, that she could ever have been for you,” Deord said quietly. “That’s a thing that could never happen.” Drustan swung toward him with the speed of a striking predator, his eyes bright with sudden fury, the fingers of his free hand curled clawlike, striking toward Deord’s face. The hand halted just in front of his eyes; Drustan lowered his arm.

  “I’ve a modicum of common sense, if you haven’t, lad,” Deord said, summoning his customary calm. “I’m concerned for you.” He studied the length of chain by which Drustan’s iron bracelet was attached to the stone bench. “Unfortunately I’m bound to the task I must undertake now; what we share makes that bardic fellow a kind of blood brother, and I must honor his request. Those who came out of Breakstone are few enough; that place eats up men. We who survived it owe it to one another to help, if we can.”

  “Go then.” Drustan was pacing now, jerking rhythmically on the chain. “You think me not fit for her; you ridicule the very notion. You and most of the world, no doubt. She bids me hope; you bid me hope. In the same breath, both of you condemn me to despair. Go on, don’t be late.”

  “I’ll need to change this.” Deord moved to unlock the bracelet again. “I won’t leave you with the full chain, not for so long. Do you want to be inside or out? The rain’s getting heavier.”

  “I don’t care. Put it on if you must. You think I would slip this around my neck and somehow make an end of things?”

  “You’ve given me a few frights before,” Deord said grimly, attaching the shackles in a different way so that his charge was now held closer to the wall with the chain doubled up to reduce its length. Drustan could sit on the stone bench; he could see through the little window. He could not move far, nor could he loop the chain around his neck.

  “I’m sorry, lad.” He left Drustan standing with his back turned, staring at the wall. Doing this kind of thing had been no easier the fiftieth time than the first, nor the hundredth time than the fiftieth. But he could not take the risk of leaving his charge free in the enclosure, not when this mood was on him. The birds were in hiding, their huddled forms scarcely visible on their high ledge.

  Alpin’s meeting with his Gaelic visitor took longer than Deord had anticipated and left him with a crick in the neck and a feeling of impending disaster in his belly. This was trouble indeed: trouble for the bard, trouble for the lady, a trouble, he suspected, that would soon embroil everyone here at Briar Wood. The Breakstone code was hard. Once he brought this news to Faolan, the bard was sure to need another favor, one that would be a great deal more difficult to provide. Deord cursed silently as he made his soft-footed way back through the storehouses and along the sunken pathway to the enclosure. The bard was in danger. If Faolan didn’t play this right his life would be worth no more than a scrap of straw on the midden. Of course, if what that fellow had told Alpin today was true, Faolan probably deserved whatever he got. But Deord was bound to help him. The pity of it was, there was no way to warn him. If Alpin did as Deord anticipated he would, the bard would be under lock and key before suppertime.

  Drustan was still standing by the wall. The iron bracelet was bordered, now, by a broad, oozing welt where he had chafed and jerked at the restraint, flaying the skin from the underlying flesh. There was blood everywhere. Drustan’s eyes were red, his face stained with furious tears. The birds were perched on his shoulders, the little sounds they made eerie in the quiet shadows of the dim enclosure. Deord unlocked the restraints without comment.

  “I think I’m going to need your help,” he said. “I need you to be yourself, Drustan: calm, clearheaded, quickthinking. If I tell you the lady and her bard may both be in danger, I suspect that will make it easier for you to listen to what I have to say.”

  “Danger? Ana in danger? What?” Drustan gripped Deord’s arm then, wincing, let go.

  “Come inside, I’d better bandage that for you. You need to hear this story. I don’t know how we can warn him. But I do know the only place he’s going to be able to turn for help is here.”

  THE HARP WOULD probably do more work in the next couple of days than it had for years, Faolan thought as he sat in a corner of the yard working his way through the repertoire required for the festivities associated with a wedding: five or six ballads, ten or twelve drinking songs, an assortment of other narrative pieces, and a wide range of dances, though he suspected the instrument’s voice would hardly be heard in a hall full of Caitt warriors and their women making merry. Merry. It would hardly be so for Ana. Unless, on the very eve of the treaty’s signing, Deord brought him news he could use to declare it a sham, she would marry that ma
n tomorrow and he must spend the day making music for celebration, music for gladness, music for lovers. Poor harp, he thought as his fingers brushed across the strings, to tell such bitter lies when music should be for the deepest truths of all, the most profound of sorrows, the most inspiring acts of courage and goodness. Well, soon enough this instrument would fall silent once again, and he would be gone from this place.

  The easier way, of course, would be for Deord to come back with nothing of significance. Then the marriage and the treaty could be sealed forthwith and he would set off to take the news to White Hill. A success of sorts, if bitter on a personal level. The alternative was fraught with difficulties. If Deord uncovered treachery, how would he take the next step? This chieftain wanted his royal bride. The look in his eyes, his roaming hands showed simple lust was part of it, the respectability she would confer no doubt a bigger part. They were in his fortress, guarded by his men, surrounded by a wilderness of forest whose paths, if one could call them that, were treacherous and whose rivers would still be running high and fast. Beyond the wall there were neither horses nor supplies to be had. As he hummed his way through a repetitive drinking song, Faolan’s mind was working very quickly indeed. His concentration was intense; he did not see Alpin’s men-at-arms coming until they were right beside him and laying ungentle hands on his shoulders.

  “Whoa—” Faolan protested as the harp went over sideways; he managed by instinct to grab it and set it safely on the bench by him before he was hauled bodily to his feet. “What is this? There’s no need to bruise a man—”

  “Save your words, bard. Lord Alpin wants you. Now.”

  “But—” It seemed appropriate to continue protesting, as a mere musician might under the circumstances, while they hustled him into the house again and up the narrow steps to the family apartments. There could be only one explanation: Deord had been discovered listening and, when confronted, had implicated him. What else could this be?

  “What do you think you’re—” His words were stopped by a ringing blow across the mouth, delivered by a gauntleted fist. He tasted blood, and was silent. With his jaw on fire, he fought to prepare an explanation: insist that Deord was lying; no, he could not betray a Breakstone man, even if Deord had done so to him; give them the truth, perhaps, or something close to it, that Bridei had bid him ensure by every means possible that Alpin meant what he said. That Ana had not known he was more than a bard. Alpin wasn’t going to like that, but there was a chance he would believe it.

  There were four men in Alpin’s chamber: the chieftain himself, his adviser Dregard, a gray-clad druid, and another man, pale, unremarkable-looking, dressed in a hooded robe. Faolan could feel the hostility in the room. At a barked command from Alpin, the guards released their captive and retreated; by the inner door one man already stood guard, legs apart, sword and dagger in his belt.

  Faolan took a step toward the table where the four were seated. There was a parchment lying there, its corners held by stones. A jug and goblets stood ready on a tray, but nobody was drinking. All eyes were on Faolan. A chill spread through him; the look on these men’s faces did not bode well.

  “My lord,” he said coolly, clasping his hands lightly behind his back and doing his best to appear untroubled.

  “Don’t speak until you’re spoken to, bard,” snapped Alpin, whose broad features were flushed. “I want an accounting from you, and you’d better take care with it. I’ll have no more lies here.”

  “Lies, my lord?”

  “Shut your mouth. I don’t like your glib manner. I have a story to tell you and you’ll keep silent until you’ve heard all of it. But perhaps you can guess what it is.”

  Faolan said nothing. He had taken one glance only at the hooded man, a glance that had left him with the disquieting impression that he’d seen the fellow somewhere before. He would not look again.

  “Answer me!” Alpin demanded.

  “I cannot guess, my lord.”

  “Tell him what our guest here told us earlier, Dregard. I’ve no appetite for going over it again. Such duplicity sickens me.”

  Dregard cleared his throat. “We’ve reason to believe—” he began.

  “Just tell it, will you?” Alpin was impatient, his voice tight.

  “My lord has been informed that, far from being the lady’s household musician and ignorant in matters of policy and strategy, you are in fact very well versed in both and highly skilled in a number of other areas that have little to do with music,” Dregard said.

  “I have certain abilities.” Faolan kept his tone calm. “Lord Alpin knows already that I can sharpen knives and use them. I think I’ve demonstrated, also, that my talents as a musician are at least passable. I am a bard. The lady told the truth.”

  “Our friend here tells us you travel rather widely; perhaps more widely than any other member of Bridei’s court.”

  Now the chill was around his heart. He did not let his alarm show in his eyes. “It’s in the nature of a bard’s profession to do so,” he said. “I’ve worked for a number of patrons over the years, both within Fortriu and beyond.”

  “And now you work for the lady.” Alpin rose to his feet, folded his arms and fixed Faolan with a penetrating stare.

  “Yes, my lord. Of course, after the wedding, I will—”

  “Be silent! Let me tell you this tale. It concerns a young man who seemed to be one thing and was in fact quite another. A fellow whose bardic talents provided a convenient excuse for entry to the halls of kings and princes, chieftains and druids. A man who was handsomely paid by the patron he worked for, whether that was the young king of Fortriu or a lovely lady who liked music and was a hostage at White Hill.”

  Faolan stood silent. Not Deord, then; this had come from that hooded man, the same, he assumed, that Dovard had said was a Gael. A spy. A man like himself with a talent for being unobtrusive. Perhaps only one of his own kind had the ability to expose another. He calculated how to answer.

  “Is this the man you spoke of?” Alpin was looking at the hooded man now, his tone sharp. “Take a good look, and answer carefully. Much depends on it.”

  From under the hood, wary dark eyes scrutinized Faolan. The man nodded.

  “So, you are Gael, musician, and spy,” Alpin said, with no sign of surprise. “Bridei sends you here with a set of instructions. So far, so good. No harm done, you say, perhaps you lied a little, but the lady is here, the treaty is ready to be signed”—Alpin motioned to the parchment—“and then you can be on your way. You’ve done your job, I’ve got my bride, Bridei has his agreement, and no harm done at all.”

  There was a silence of anticipation in the chamber; Faolan cleared his throat but did not attempt to speak.

  “Perhaps you’ve gathered a little information while you’ve been enjoying my hospitality,” Alpin said. “Troops, armaments, plans … Any self-respecting informant could not fail to seize that opportunity.”

  Faolan maintained his bland expression; it was a skill he had perfected long ago.

  “However, there’s another part to this tale,” Alpin went on. There was a still intensity in his stance now that suggested a wildcat about to pounce. “You were seen at Dunadd, barely a season ago. I’d been thinking you reminded me of someone; it took my friend here to point out who it was. There’s a certain nobleman of the clan Uí Néill who bears more than a passing resemblance to yourself. This man,” nodding toward the hooded Gael, “observed the two of you in covert conference on more than one occasion. Close enough to be that of blood kin, the likeness is: cousins, maybe, or uncle and nephew. I would conclude you’ve been there more than a few times, and taken away some handsome payments for the information you brought them; information only a man close to King Bridei would be likely to have. Being kin to the Uí Néill makes you kin to the king of Dalriada, bard. It makes you Bridei’s sworn enemy. Taking silver from the lords of the Uí Néill makes you a traitor.”

  The word hung in the air like the sound of a whiplash. That it was
a lie made it hurt no less. Crazily, the thought uppermost in Faolan’s mind was that the hooded man deserved congratulations; he wouldn’t have believed the most able spy in the world could have discovered this. He had covered his tracks meticulously.

  “Ah,” said Alpin with a savage grin, “at last you have nothing to say for yourself.”

  “Not so, my lord.” From some deep reserve of strength came the courteous words, the cool tone. “I had already severed the bonds of kinship before I left my home shore, years ago. I possess no allegiances of blood. If this man has led you to believe otherwise he was mistaken.”

  “You deny that you were at the court of Dalriada in spring? My friend here is a reliable source of information. He has never played me false before.”

  “Then your lordship is indeed fortunate,” Faolan said. “Carrying false intelligence is part of any informant’s job. It’s how cleverly he uses it that marks his talent for the profession.”

  There was a little silence.

  “May I ask a question?” Faolan ventured.

  They looked at him.

  “Why is this man present?” He nodded toward the gray-clad druid, who was listening calmly, his head turning toward one or another speaker, his old eyes bright with interest.

  “As an impartial witness,” Dregard said. “You should be glad of his presence, bard, for it means a true account of this meeting can be conveyed elsewhere without any cause for one to accuse another of twisting the facts.”

  “Conveyed elsewhere. What do you mean by that?”

  “Where would we start?” Alpin spread his hands as if to take in the whole world. “With Bridei, perhaps?”

  Think, Faolan ordered himself. How to make this an opportunity; how to seize control so he had a chance of getting her away. How to find out exactly what this was all about, and employ it to his own end. This was like balancing on a wire. He must pick a course with delicacy; he must use all the expertise he had, for Alpin was enraged, his eyes were like a fighting boar’s; it was something else that had sparked this anger, surely, something they were not discussing here. “Of course,” Faolan said to the chieftain, “every leader worth his salt has a skilled informant at hand in these times of turmoil. Yours has me at a disadvantage, my lord. Interesting that he, too, is a Gael.”