Blade of Fortriu

by Juliet Marillier

  “Faolan,” Ana said, “please tell me, whatever it is. What does Lord Alpin mean, two-faced?” She had seen Faolan without defenses before, after the ford, but never quite like this. “Tell me,” she said again, fighting the growing fear.

  He looked up then, and the eyes that met hers were as of old: cool, detached, as if nothing much mattered to him. She heard him take two deep breaths before he spoke.

  “Lord Alpin received information,” Faolan said. Another careful breath. “A man saw me at the court of Dunadd last spring. What he saw led him to believe I’m in the pay of both Bridei of Fortriu and Gabhran of Dalriada.”

  Ana sat mute, waiting for more. A lie; this had to be one of Alpin’s tricks.

  “The deduction was that I work for Bridei only to the extent it suits me,” Faolan said levelly. “Being of Gaelic origins myself, I must, of course, owe some allegiance to Dalriada: to my own kind. Nonetheless, Lord Alpin is generously allowing me to return to White Hill with an account of our journey and its successful conclusion.” He glanced at Alpin. “Is this what you wished me to tell, my lord?”

  “It isn’t true.” Ana was shaking with anger. “This must be a mistake!” Faolan, who had been Bridei’s right-hand man, his trusted bodyguard and sounding board these five years—Faolan, a Dalriadan spy? It was nonsense. She knew he had been at Dunadd; where else could he have gathered the information that had brought her to Briar Wood? But Faolan in the pay of Gabhran—that was impossible, and it offended her to hear it. “I cannot believe it, my lord,” she said to Alpin, who had an amused smirk on his face. “Just because Faolan is of Gaelic origins, there is no need to leap to conclusions—”

  “It’s true, Ana.” Faolan’s tone was flat.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “What I said is true. I’ve been working for Gabhran since before I came to the court of Fortriu. I carry information both ways.” He looked her straight in the eye. She could have sworn he was telling the truth. “It pays well.”

  Ana struggled to find her voice. “It can’t be—Bridei—Bridei trusted you—I don’t understand …” In her mind were the things Faolan had said, at White Hill and on the terrible journey; his strength, his reluctant kindness, his capable handling of crisis after crisis. The way he spoke to Bridei and watched so tirelessly over both him and Tuala; his wretchedness at the ford, believing he had failed in his mission. This must be an act, part of some strategic plan on Faolan’s part, requiring him to lie thus for Alpin’s ears. Or … “Faolan,” she made herself ask, for all Alpin’s intimidating stare, “have you been beaten into saying this? Has this false confession been wrung from you by force?”

  “Would I indulge in such treatment of a guest in my home?” asked Alpin lightly. “After all those ballads? The information was freely given after the Gael knew he was cornered.”

  Ana’s jaw still ached from his blow; she could still see his fist squeezing, squeezing the last scrap of life from the tiny captive. “I don’t believe you,” she said, her heart hammering with fear.

  “No?” Alpin did not seem perturbed. “Then it’s just as well we have a witness. Berguist, please confirm for the lady that this fellow’s account of himself is accurate.”

  The druid was looking most uncomfortable. He had, after all, come to Briar Wood only to do a little scribing and call down the gods’ blessing on a marriage. “My lady,” he said quietly, “I regret to inform you that the Gael confessed to this quite readily once the informant’s tale was out in the open. Faolan here was not under duress. Although one cannot condone his past actions, it is to his credit that, at the end, he chose to tell the truth.”

  “That will be all,” Alpin said crisply, and Faolan inclined his head without so much as a glance at Ana then, flanked by the men-at-arms, turned and left the room. “What a shame,” Alpin went on, reaching for the mead jug. “Such a fine harpist, too. Once the word gets around, I imagine he’ll find it difficult to secure any kind of patronage.”

  “Excuse me.” Ana was not sure if her legs would carry her as far as the door. “I will retire now. Tomorrow is a busy day.”

  Alpin rose courteously to his feet. “Good night, my dear. You need your beauty sleep, of course. Will you require assistance undressing?” He curled his hand around the back of her neck and kissed her on the cheek, a lingering pressure of the lips. Ana recoiled; every part of her seemed to freeze.

  “Not a personal offer, much as I’d like that.” His tone had lost its affable quality. “But as your maid is indisposed, another servant, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.” Chin up … back straight … It had never been more difficult to remember who she was. She wanted to scream, to run, to hide, to be anywhere but here. “I wish you all good night. May the Shining One give you fair dreams.”

  “May the Flamekeeper light your waking.” The druid murmured the formal response. A little frown had appeared on his brow.

  BACK IN HER chamber with the door bolted, Ana changed into a night robe and lay down on her bed, staring up at the cobwebs on the ceiling. She felt hollow, empty. The future stretched ahead like an endless, shadowy path with not a single light to show the way, a future of bullying and blows and desperate lies. A future in which friends became foes and innocent lives were snuffed out on a whim. This was the man whose children she must bear. And Faolan, Faolan whom she had come to trust, in whose arms she had sheltered in the great darkness of the wild forest, Faolan whose songs were so full of heartbreak and yearning and hope that they brought tears to the eyes of hardened warriors—could he truly have betrayed Bridei so? How had her life turned into this wretched thing with not a scrap of truth left in it? She had wondered, in the past, how anyone could choose to make an end of themselves, for life was the gods’ precious gift to each man and woman; it fell to each to walk the path with courage and goodness, and to follow it for its allotted span, until Bone Mother gathered the weary traveler home. Tonight, in the darkness, the prospect of a sharp knife, a quick, bloody ending almost made sense.

  The pale, cool light of the summer night crept through the narrow window. The silver fingers of the Shining One brushed the stones and, as if carried here in the goddess’s gentle hand, two small forms appeared on the sill. With a whisper of wings they flew across to the chest by her bedside. Then, as Ana sat up, they moved one, two, to her shoulders, the crossbill on the left and on the right the heavier weight of the hoodie.

  She could not go. Drustan needed her. And she needed him, even if she could not see him, even if she never heard his voice again. She was bound to him as surely and completely as these creatures were, and if she left him, whether to journey in this world or another, she would be torn in two and broken beyond mending. This was a heart-deep truth; it shone with constancy in a web of shadows and deceits. While Drustan lived, she must stay at Briar Wood, no matter what she must endure. She would find the truth, however long it took. Somehow she would set him free.

  THE FLOOR OF the kennels made a hard bed, though Faolan had endured worse. In any event, his thoughts kept him awake. Knowing he could not afford distractions, he dragged his mind from the look in Ana’s eyes as she heard his confession—wounded, betrayed—and worked on his plan, such as it was. There was only one thing in his favor, and that was the tradition Caitt men observed of spending the best part of a wedding morning in uproarious celebration. Gerdic had told him about the copious flow of ale, the games and tests of strength and skill, the dog fights and boar-baiting and other activities that accompanied this event. When the games were over, which would be around midday, the handfasting would take place in the courtyard; druids preferred to conduct the ceremony outside, so the eyes of the Shining One and the Flamekeeper could look down on it directly and ensure the promises were made with good will.

  Faolan thought through each obstacle in turn. He must move when most of Briar Wood’s men were in the courtyard absorbed by the morning’s entertainment. His hands were not bound; that was a start. There was a bolted iron grille to g
et through, Dovard sleeping with his mongrel in the corner, the guard keeping watch by the small back entry to the fortress. It would be necessary to walk straight across this man’s line of vision at close quarters. Then he must get across the packed courtyard, pass more guards in the family quarters and face the possibility that, even if Ana were in her chamber, she might have her door locked. If Gerdic’s predictions were accurate she’d be getting dressed for the handfasting. There might be women in attendance: what to do with them? Felling an armed man was one thing. It was another to dispatch a hapless maidservant with a well-aimed tap to the skull. Judging by Ana’s reaction to his words earlier, she would probably be unsurprised to see him leave a trail of blood and death behind him, and that was only fair; certain missions in his past had required exactly that.

  So far, so good; in his mind, they reached Alpin’s quarters and the little locked door. He’d heard nothing from Deord. Possibly, the guard did not know where Faolan was. How much had Deord managed to hear, and just how far could the Breakstone code be stretched? Would it get them into the madman’s quarters and out beyond the wall? If not, they were in trouble. As for what he would do once they were out, think too carefully of that and he might be in danger of letting this chance go: this one chance. He could not do that. He would get her out and safely home if he died in the attempt. He would sooner chop off his own right hand than see her marry that wretch. The fact that Alpin was a cheat and a liar who had no intention of honoring Bridei’s treaty seemed almost secondary.

  Briefly, Faolan forced himself to rest. He’d be no use to anyone with his edge blunted by weariness. It was summer and dawn came early; with the first lightening of the sky the hounds awoke and began a restless pacing, eager to be let out. Their yipping and squabbling roused Dovard, who went out to splash his head under the pump before coming over to the grilled gate of the little cell reserved for dangerous dogs, the ones that went feral.

  “Hungry?” the kennel boy asked. “I’m making up feed for them, and I’ll put a pot of gruel on; you’re welcome to share. Sorry I can’t let you out. I’d be in trouble.” Already Dovard was fishing around in bins and sacks, finding the makings of a fire, giving a black-crusted pot a desultory wipe. The dogs’ clamor intensified.

  “Thank you,” Faolan said, eyeing the ring of keys that hung from a peg by the outer door and trying to work out which was the one he would need. “Seems I’m the one who’s in trouble right now.”

  Dovard was poking sticks and wisps of straw into the pile of wood he had laid on his central hearth. “What did you do?” he asked without great interest.

  “Got something wrong. Made Lord Alpin lose his temper. He’s letting me out again later; nobody else to sing and play for the festivities. If there’s breakfast going, I won’t say no.” Faolan rubbed his hands together, blowing on them for warmth. His wrists and ankles ached from last night’s bonds.

  “Got to take them out for a bit first,” Dovard said, and swung open the gate of the main enclosure. A river of hounds poured forth, shoving, pushing, falling over their own feet in their haste to stretch their legs and taste the sun. A bowl of water went flying. “I’ll be back soon; just a run around the courtyard. Best get it done before too many folk are stirring.”

  Silence fell on the kennels once again. Faolan stared at the keys. How to do this without hurting the boy or bringing down Alpin’s anger on him … no, that was stupid. He was thinking like a woman, all good deeds and sympathy. He could not afford scruples today, not with the stakes so high. The only thing that mattered was getting Ana safely away.

  When the bird flew in, it took him a moment to react. It alighted on the rail above the hounds’ enclosure, eyeing him, then flew with two neat flaps of its dark wings to perch on the peg that held the hanging keys. Faolan stared as the hoodie began, with delicate, controlled movements of its strong beak, to work one key off the ring. He reminded himself that this was the place where he had seen a bird become a man, though that, now, felt almost like a dream, something he had only imagined could be. The iron ring on which the keys hung had a small gap in it through which more could be added. The bird was working its chosen key around to this spot, a difficult task because of the weight of those others, which the hoodie must keep clear. Faolan found he was holding his breath as he willed the creature to get the job done before Dovard returned with his exuberant pack. Come on, come on, you’ve almost got it … A jangle as the keys dropped to the bottom of the ring. His heart sank; surely there wasn’t time to start again. Then a beat of wings, and the hoodie was at the grilled door of his cell, the prize borne proudly in its beak. Mute, Faolan put up his hand, and the bird placed the key on his palm. A moment later the crow was gone, and Faolan’s freedom was tucked away, invisible, in the pouch at his belt.

  He ate the gruel; Dovard’s cooking left something to be desired, but at least the watery brew was hot. Then came a wait that felt like days, enough time for his mind to fill with unwelcome thoughts: the risk he was taking, not so much for himself as for her; the others who might be drawn into peril by his decision, innocents like Dovard; Deord, whom he had compelled to help him; the inscrutable Drustan, not yet clearly identifiable as friend or foe. The future: a future in which, whatever happened, Ana would undoubtedly wed a man who was not himself. There was nothing more certain than that. What was he, a fool? He had the chance to go freely, to leave this benighted place behind and ride unhindered back to White Hill. In that, he had seen that for once Alpin meant what he said. He could be out, and be safe, and get on with his life, such as it was. What he was planning could get them all killed, and for no reward at all. If Faolan succeeded today and snatched Alpin’s bride away from under his nose, he’d be spending the rest of his life waiting for a knife in the back. He’d be seeing the fellow’s evil face every night in his dreams. He began to wish that Bridei had authorized him not just as emissary and spy, but also as assassin.

  At last, increasing sounds of activity from outside told Faolan the men were gathering in the courtyard for their morning’s fun. Dovard was evidently tempted, for he went to the door several times, but he did not go out.

  “The games are good, but I don’t like the dog-fighting,” he muttered. “That fellow Cradig, I won’t let him keep his creatures in here, not even in that corner you’re in. His animals are rubbish; he’s trained them to hate, and that’s something a dog doesn’t do, not naturally, they just don’t have it in them. If his beasts so much as stick a nose in here, it upsets the hounds; gives them nightmares.”

  “I bet.” Faolan was listening intently now, not to the kennel boy but to the noises from outside; he was waiting for his moment. There was still a stream of folk walking by the kennel doorway. He must not make his move until something held all their attention. Remembering a certain suppertime, he suspected it would be dog-fighting that did it.

  When the time came it was unmistakable, for the crowd began to scream and bay and hoot as if some madness had entered them. Dovard’s dogs, on the other hand, fell remarkably quiet. The kennel boy busied himself cleaning the pack’s hunt collars and murmuring quietly to his own hound, which sat at his feet, shivering as the noise from the courtyard came in waves; these men had the scent of blood in their nostrils, and it had released a hunger in them that must be satisfied.

  “There, now,” Dovard said in soothing tones, “there, girl, we’ll have a little walk on our own later, when it’s all over. Poxy Cradig,” he added, rubbing grease into the leather with some violence. A moment later he toppled from his stool, an expression of surprise crossing his face before he surrendered to unconsciousness. He had heard neither the key turning in the lock, nor Faolan coming up behind him with a length of firewood in his hand. The dog, distracted earlier by the noise from outside, belatedly began a frenzied barking, and the rest of the hounds chimed in. On an ordinary day the kennels would soon have been full of guards. Today, this hubbub was drowned in the roaring from out there.

  Faolan dragged the kennel boy in
to the small enclosure and locked him in. The dog bared her teeth at him, but when Faolan growled back at her she retreated, and when he went to the outer doorway she took up a station by the iron grille, watching her unconscious master anxiously and whining from time to time. Dovard would wake with no more than a bad headache. With luck he would not come to himself for a while.

  Faolan peered cautiously outside. The crowd was gathered in the center of the courtyard; the guards up on the ramparts had eyes only for the bloody spectacle below. Faolan looked the other way, toward the living quarters. The man who had been guarding the little back entrance, the one beside the kennels, had come out from his secluded post and was watching, craning his neck to see above the press of men. He was standing right where Faolan needed to go.

  There was no time to think. Faolan judged the distance, then left the kennels at a run, three strides before he launched himself at the fellow, sending him sprawling back into the narrow way through to the gate, out of sight. A brief but difficult struggle ensued. The guard had the advantage of greater height and weight, a pair of daggers, and a leather jerkin. Faolan had the element of surprise on his side, at least briefly. He had experience. And he had a harp string ready in his hand. He performed the killing quickly and, because of its nature, quietly. This man was harder to drag to concealment; Faolan folded him up as best he could and stowed him in a dark corner. He helped himself to the daggers and crept back to the courtyard.

  The dog fight was nearly over; the quality of the shouting had altered to a combination of victory cheers and catcalls. There were other dogs out there waiting, held at the end of taut ropes by sweating servants. There would be time, if he moved fast.

  Nobody in the vicinity of the living quarters; they were all intent on the fight. He sprinted across the open yard, from shadow to shadow. Now he was inside, traversing the passageway that led off to hall and kitchens on the right, and up to Alpin’s private apartments at the end by broad stone steps. A guard at the top. Faolan pressed himself back against the wall. A woman at the bottom, carrying a basin of some kind; she did not see him, but went off toward the kitchens. The guard turned, ready to pace the length of the upper hallway again. Bored, no doubt, and wishing he could go out and join the fun. Fun. By all the gods, who but the Caitt would choose such sport as this to celebrate a wedding day? Faolan palmed the stone he had concealed in his pouch and began a silent ascent of the stairs. He was in full view of anyone who might cross the lower hallway. Timing was everything here, that and an accurate hand.