Blade of Fortriu

by Juliet Marillier

  “It’s hard to explain. Yes, I feel terrible right now, as if my heart’s been shredded. But I could never wish I hadn’t met him. I couldn’t wish it had never happened. Even if those few whispered conversations were all we had, it was worth it.”

  Faolan said nothing.

  “Faolan? Are we still friends?”

  After a little, his hand came out and closed over hers, warm and strong. “Always,” he said. Above them in the tree, the hawk moved, lifting its tawny wings restlessly in the darkness.

  “Were you really a bard once?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “You surprised me.”

  “There won’t be any repeat performances. I did what I had to. But no more.”

  “Why?” she asked him. “Does it hurt so much to put your feelings on show? Your singing is so beautiful; and the harp, that was some of the loveliest playing I ever heard. It is sad not to share that with folk. Surely it is a better calling for a man than …”

  “Than spy and assassin?” His tone was bitter. “What I do suits me. It suits the man I am now.”

  “But you’ve shown me you are also that other man, the one who conjures magic with his fingers. The one whose voice makes hardened warriors weep.”

  “That man is gone. I played a part for a little, because it was necessary. I’ve no intention of doing it again. And yes, it hurts. It weakens me. I can’t afford that.”

  They sat in silence for a little, and then he said, “Ana, you should try to sleep a little. We need to press on at dawn and you’re exhausted.”

  “I don’t want to sleep. It’s cold and dark and … and I don’t want to dream.”

  “You had nightmares? The drug may still be affecting you—”

  “They were good dreams,” Ana said. “It’s the waking up I don’t like. Don’t worry about tomorrow. I’ll do what I have to. Just now I’d rather talk than rest. But I’m not being fair; you must be weary yourself. I don’t suppose you got much sleep last night.”

  “I’m used to doing without sleep, remember?” She sensed his smile in the darkness and was reassured by it. “Talk if you want. It helps the time pass.”

  “Deord told me once I should ask you about prisons.” Ana tried to settle more comfortably on the hard ground, tucking her legs up under her woefully shortened skirt. Any attempt at propriety was ludicrous. She was glad the shadows hid, for now, the length of calf that was on show above her boot top. “What did he mean?”

  “It’s not something I talk about He and I were both incarcerated in a place called Breakstone Hollow, back in Ulaid, though not at the same time. Let’s just say it’s highly unusual to get out of the Hollow in one piece, and that when two such survivors meet, the understanding is that they’ll provide each other with help if it’s required. Deord took that to an extreme. I did not ask him to die for me.” His tone was bleak.

  “Why were you imprisoned?”

  “I fell foul of a certain influential family. The two branches of that clan are in a state of more or less constant feud; I was caught in the middle. I refused to perform a certain task; as a result, I was sent where they believed I would no longer pose a threat to them.”

  Ana hesitated. “You told me once that something happened to you … something terrible that changed you forever. Was that what it was, being locked up in that place?”

  “No.” He shifted restlessly. Ana wished he would sit closer and put his arm around her shoulders, for it was cold and her clothing was still damp. She hugged the blanket tighter, Faolan had refused her offer to share it.

  “So there’s another story? Was it when you were a bard?”

  “It’s a part of my life I choose not to revisit,” Faolan said. “I hadn’t touched a harp since … since before. I will not do so again, and I’ll thank you if you don’t mention my musical abilities when we return to White Hill. Playing, singing … they awaken memories I can’t afford, not if I’m to go on with my wits intact.”

  “Will you tell me what happened? It can’t be good for you to keep it all locked away …”

  “I agreed to talk, not to have my darkest memories laid bare. This is not appropriate for your ears; it would sicken you. Your own life has been one of privilege and protection, for all your status as a hostage. This was … it was unspeakable.”

  “Privilege and protection,” she echoed. The words had stung; it was as if, now they had left Briar Wood, he had once again relegated her to the category of spoiled princess. She had thought he knew her better. “Maybe that’s true. I can’t help the fact that my mother bore the royal blood of Fortriu. Nor could I help it that both my parents were dead before I was five years old, nor that I was taken away from home before I was eleven. I haven’t seen my little sister for nine years. Breda could be married and a mother by now. She could be the next hostage. I was all she had, Faolan; I was mother and father to her. Then there’s this: Alpin, and what’s happened here … and D-Drustan …” Gods, she was going to cry again and show him just how weak she really was. “I don’t enjoy talking about those things. I could try to forget them, I suppose, because they make me sad and guilty and angry. But they’re part of me; they’ve made me who I am.”

  Faolan was silent a little. He was still holding her hand, which she took as an encouraging sign.

  “I—” He faltered, then tried again. “That night, the first night I played the harp; it all came back. All of it, every sound, every smell, every hideous moment of it. The men wanted to celebrate after you and Alpin had retired. They’d have had me playing all night. You want to know where I was?”

  Ana waited.

  “Curled up in a ball like a frightened child, hiding in the dark. Weeping myself into a sodden, gasping mess. A man who does the job I do can’t afford such weakness. It lays him wide open to his enemies.”

  “I’m not your enemy, Faolan. We’re alone in the forest with only birds and insects to hear what we say. Perhaps, if you do tell this, the memory will not weigh you down so heavily.”

  “It would … it would be unpalatable for a lady. Shocking … distressing … I can’t.”

  “Would a lady wear her skirt so short, not to speak of the hair? Think of me as your friend, a good friend who can be relied upon to keep confidences. Tell it as a tale, if that’s easier. As another man’s tale, the way you would if you made it into a song.”

  “This would be the most wretched of songs.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe you only need to tell the story once. You are a good man, Faolan, no matter what lies in your past. We’ve stood by each other in some frightening times. If you’re ever going to be free of this, the time to start is now. Come on, try.” She put her other hand on his knee; he started violently as she touched him. He was wound so tight tonight, Ana did not think she could move closer than this. Then, in a low voice, he began to tell the story.

  “There is … there is a powerful clan in my homeland known as the Uí Néill; you’ve probably heard of them. Both the high kings at Tara and the kings of the Gaels in this land come from that family. It has two branches, one in the northwest and one concentrated in the east. There are many chieftains and many feuds over land and dominance. The story concerns a … a subbranch of the family, closely related to a warlike chieftain by the name of Echen, but led by a man whose main desire was to keep his kin and community secure and peaceful. He didn’t want any part in the territorial wars, He was what we call a brithem, a practitioner of the law; an elder in his settlement and much respected. He had a large family: his wife, her elderly parents, two sons and … and three daughters. The family was quite prosperous. Their region had managed to avoid involvement in the Uí Néill disputes for long enough to become almost complacent. Children played out in the open; young women gathered berries and milked cows with no need for armed guards to watch over them. Young men learned crafts and trades other than war.”

  “Such as music?” Ana ventured softly.

  He glanced at her. “The brithem’s younger son had a talent fo
r it. When he reached a certain age his father found a master bard who needed a lad to train, and the boy went off to polish up his skills on the job, for, of course, it’s in the nature of a bard to travel. He was gone quite a few years. When he next came home to visit, he was not a boy but a young man. And things in the settlement had changed.”

  In the darkness, lit dimly by the moon hanging low beyond the trees, Ana saw his face as a pattern of shadow and bone, the eyes dark hollows. She tightened her grasp on his hand, but did not speak.

  “The—the father had made a judgment that went against Echen Uí Neill,” Faolan said. “One of the chieftain’s henchmen was found guilty of several crimes, their nature doesn’t matter, and as a result Echen believed he’d lost status in the region. The guilty man was exiled; that deprived Echen of a useful tool. The Uí Néill practice swift vengeance. Things began to happen; cruel things. A house was burned down. Cattle were stolen, sheep slaughtered and left lying in the fields. The lawman’s wife lost five of her prized breeding cows. Then the husband of the eldest daughter was found hanging in the barn. Some folk said he’d killed himself. But he wouldn’t have done that. She was expecting their first child. She lost the baby; the shock was too much for her.”

  “But … didn’t you say these people were Uí Néill’s own kin? How could he—?”

  “That only made it worse. Echen couldn’t believe my—the brithem would pass a judgment unfavorable to his own. Some men have no understanding of the principles of law; of honor and fairness. My—this brithem was scrupulous in such matters. That was what made it … that was …” He faltered.

  “Did the family take action against Echen after the acts of violence? Didn’t the community rally in support?” Ana asked, trying to help him.

  “Imagine Echen as a man like Alpin, one who uses fear as his primary tool. A man with complete control within his own territory. If Alpin encounters opposition, he simply cuts a man to pieces and hangs him up as a lesson to anyone else who might be foolish enough to challenge him. Echen was the same. But the territory he commanded was many times larger than Alpin’s. What chance has one local brithem against such power? Nonetheless, the family did not lie down and accept the inevitable. They took a stand.”

  “How?”

  “The—the—I don’t think I can go on with this.” He was shivering.

  Ana took off the blanket and laid it around his shoulders. “No,” protested Faolan. “You’ll get cold—”

  “Then share it with me. It’s only common sense.” He looked up then, toward the hawk still perched unblinking in the high branches of the tree. “You feel awkward, telling this in the presence of these birds?”

  Faolan’s mouth twisted. “Oddly enough, the only people who’ve ever heard me refer to what happened are Deord and Drustan. I must hope Drustan will not judge me, if he can hear.”

  “Tell me the rest of the story. What did this family do?”

  “By the time the younger son came home, the men of the district had already formed a ragtag force to guard their land, their possessions, and their loved ones. Their weapons were scythes and pitchforks. What fighting skills they had were those they’d picked up in friendly bouts of wrestling on fair day. The elder son of the brithem was their leader. He was clever, and he was angry. He’d seen the despair that was overtaking his father after the loss of what would have been the first grandchild. This young man, he—”

  “What was his name, Faolan?”

  “Dubhán.” He had to force this out; the word was harsh with pain. “He executed a coup. They heard Echen was to visit the district, to extract tenancy payments from the farmers who worked his land. While Echen was being entertained to supper by one of the wealthier local landholders, the young men stole ten fine riding horses from his encampment, as well as some weaponry. One guard was killed, the other trussed up and left for his master to find. Dubhán was his father’s son; in return for one life, that of his brother-in-law, he took one life. A subtlety lost on Echen, unfortunately. By the time the Uf Néill’s men came out searching, the horses had been spirited away out of the district. It was a triumph, audacious, clever, in keeping with what folk knew of Dubhán. He was always … he was …”

  “The younger brother looked up to him?”

  Faolan nodded, momentarily unable to speak.

  “I know this must end in tragedy, Faolan. Will you tell me the rest?”

  His voice had become a halting monotone. “Echen pulled in some of the young men of the community, those he suspected might have had a part in it. His methods were brutal. Eventually one of them broke and named Dubhán as the ringleader. That night … that night the family was gathered around the hearth, as was their habit, for singing and storytelling. Mother, father, brothers, sisters, old folk. Echen came with armed men, a great many men. They laid rough hands on the brithem and on his elder son. Accused of the offense, Dubhán did not deny responsibility. He stood tall and attempted to set out Echen’s own crimes against his father; to use logic against vengeful fury. His father, held by a pair of thugs, watched him with tears of pride in his eyes. The younger brother, whose hands were more apt to pluck harp strings than to use a sword, whose voice was sooner raised in song than in valiant defiance, longed at that moment to be Dubhán, for it was a demonstration of true courage. Then Echen’s men beat Dubhán in front of his family, his weeping mother, his younger sister screaming protest, his father tight-lipped and gray. The younger brother did not know which was strongest in him: fear, hate, or pride.”

  Ana squeezed his hand, not saying anything.

  “Dubhán would not grovel. Bruised and bloody, gasping for breath, he would not give Echen the apology he sought. It must have become evident to Echen that his tactic wasn’t working. So he began to threaten the others.”

  A chill ran through Ana.

  “Not what you might think,” Faolan said, “that he might hurt the father, or another of the family, if Dubhán did not apologize. Perhaps he saw, in all their eyes, the integrity that was the very backbone of the upbringing their father had given them, the core of what made this quiet family so strong. And perhaps he saw a … a weak link. Echen’s followers moved in. Suddenly, an armed man stood by each of them, the grandmother, the young widow, the little sister; knives were held across throats, daggers poised to enter hearts. There was no weapon aimed at Dubhán himself; he was kneeling in the center of the chamber, hands bound behind his back. There was no weapon trained on his younger brother, the one who had gone away to be a bard and come home to a nightmare. Then … then Echen stepped forward to address the musician. He put a knife in the young man’s hand. He … he offered him a choice. Dubhán, Echen said, was marked for death; an example needed to be made, so nobody else got it into his head to defy the Uí Néill, thinking he could get away with it. The question, therefore, was not whether the miscreant would die or not, but how many he would take with him. Echen’s eyes went around the chamber as he said this. The young bard followed the chieftain’s gaze, seeing his mother’s ashen face, his grandmother with her neat clothing rumpled and her white hair disheveled, a man’s big fist gripping her cruelly by the shoulder. His older sister had her hands over her face; a red-faced fellow was holding his younger sister, fourteen years old and quivering with rage and shame as the wretch’s hands groped her through her demure gown. The grandfather was trying to stand tall, his gaze on his distressed wife. The father’s jaw was set, his eyes dark with the premonition of horror. Perhaps he had seen before any of them what was coming.

  “‘It’s not my choice, lad,’ Echen said to the younger son, ‘but yours. Slit your brother’s throat and I’ll order my men to release every person in this chamber and do them no more harm, provided your family never meddles in my affairs again. Refuse and I’ll do the job for you. Then my men will make an end of all the others.’”

  “The mother gave a terrible cry, a moan from deep in the belly; the grandfather cursed, and was rewarded with a cracking blow to the jaw, which sent him
crumpling to his knees.

  “‘Perhaps not all,’ Echen added, his eyes on the younger sister, sweet and rosy as a new season’s apple.”We’ll take her to keep us company tonight; pity to waste such obvious promise. And we’ll spare you, of course.’ His gaze was on the young bard who stood trembling by his brother, the knife shaking so violently in his hand that he could scarcely have used it even if he’d had the will to. ‘Kill him, and you save their lives. Balk at it, and you’ll watch them die, one by one. You’ll live on to see it, over and over, every night in your dreams. Show us what you’re made of, pretty boy.’”

  “The bard looked wildly at his father, seeking guidance, but his father had closed his eyes. The wisest brithem in all the world could not make such a judgment. Tears were rolling down the lawman’s blanched cheeks. His lips moved in a prayer.

  “‘Don’t do it, Faolan!’ the young sister shouted. ‘Don’t give that scum the satisfaction!’ Then she, too, was silenced with a blow.

  “The bard looked down at the knife. He could not hold it still; it jerked and shuddered in his hand as a wave of nausea went through him.

  “Then his brother spoke. ‘Stand behind me. Set the point of the knife below my left ear. Draw it across in one steady stroke, and make sure you press hard. You’re strong, Faolan. You can do it.’

  “‘But—’ All the bard could manage was a strangled croak. His throat was tight, his head felt as if it were going to explode, his heart was hammering fit to split asunder. His palms were slick with sweat. His mind sought desperately for solutions: attack Echen instead, try to run for it, turn the knife on himself … It was evident none of these things would save his family. But this—this was Dubhán.

  “‘Hurry up,’ Echen said, and he gave a little nod toward one of his men. A moment later the grandmother slumped to the ground, a knife protruding from her ribs.

  “‘You’re a man, Faolan,” Dubhán whispered. ‘Do it now.’”

  Ana had her teeth clenched so tightly her head ached.

  “The bard … the bard looked into his brother’s eyes, bright with courage. Dubhán was his hero. He would have followed him into the gates of hell. What his brother asked of him, he had always done. So he tightened his tenuous grip on the knife and drew the blade across Dubhán’s throat. The blood spurted hot and red over his hands. He heard his sister’s scream; he heard the sound his mother made. His father was silent. The young man stood there in the center with his brother’s body by his feet, and waited for Echen and his men to go.