Faolan came around a stand of birches and saw the two of them by the water, close together but not touching. Both had taken off their boots and were standing ankle deep, soaking weary feet. They had been talking, but they fell silent as he approached. He tried to minimize his limp.
“Look, Faolan,” Ana said, smiling, “along the lake, that way—there’s smoke rising. Drustan thinks there’s a little settlement there. We’ll be able to clean up your wounds and sleep under proper shelter. It’s been so long, I can hardly remember what that feels like. Are you all right? Does it hurt badly?”
He shook his head, observing with wonder the change in her. Though gaunt and weary, her face was suffused with happiness and her eyes had regained all their old serenity. Even her stance was different, her back straight, her shoulders held proudly. It was Drustan who had worked that magic; Drustan who now stood by her side, a flush in his cheeks and something of the same quiet radiance about his own bearing.
“Let’s rest here awhile,” Drustan said. “You should take the weight off that leg. I thought I saw some hazelnuts higher up; we could procure a meal of sorts.”
“As long as they are fit for men and not only for birds.”
“They are fit for men, Faolan. Would I try to poison you? You have been Ana’s friend, her guardian, her lifeline. But for you, she and I would not be together. I honor you as a brother.”
Faolan was wordless. The weight of Dubhán’s death, and Alpin’s, and a lifetime of might-have-beens hung in the air between them, stilling his tongue. He looked across at Ana, who had settled herself on the grass of the lakeshore, the scarlet-feathered crossbill perched on her hand. She was stroking its head with a finger and whistling softly. Her cropped hair, for all the lack of care, gleamed dark gold in the afternoon sunlight. She was cross-legged, her pale, bare feet showing below the long shirt Drustan had given her. There was a rosy color in her cheeks; her lashes screened her eyes as she turned her attention to the little bird.
Something shifted in Faolan. He recognized at that moment that the only thing that really mattered was her happiness. She loved Drustan; at least, she loved the man she thought he was. Hope of a bright future had restored her to herself: the brave, serene, lovely woman who had captured his own heart before ever they came to Briar Wood and found themselves embroiled in this strange tale of brother against brother. He had been on the point of challenging Drustan again, for the day was advanced, the sun was shining and they were close to shelter. The words had been on his lips, Tell her the truth now. He could not say them. He could not shatter her happiness. How could he bear to see that little smile fade, the rosy cheeks grow pale, the proud shoulders droop in despair?
“I’ll go in search of nuts,” said Drustan absently.
The hoodie flew to his shoulder as he headed off under the trees. Ana’s heart was in her eyes as she watched him walk away. For a little there was no sound but the calls of birds overhead and the distant roaring challenge of a stag, high on the hillside across the water. It was an unsettling reminder of how far advanced the season was; had they indeed walked away the remainder of the summer in these endless mountains?
“Faolan,” Ana said quietly, “he told me.”
He stared at her.
“He told me the truth. About the—the changes—how he’s been with us all the time, since the waterfall, and how he can go between forms. I already knew, really. The hawk had his eyes. The truth had been creeping up on me a while.” She looked at the little bird on her hand, frowning. “I can’t believe Alpin did what he did; that is so cruel and wicked. To lock his brother up for his own misdeed, to keep up the lie, to let Drustan believe himself guilty … Worst of all, to call such a god-given ability madness … I can’t understand that At home, it would surely be seen as something rare and wondrous, like the transformations druids spend years and years learning to do, but so much more powerful, and so natural … There were others in his family with similar talents, long ago; that’s what he says … Did you know Drustan first did this at only seven years old?”
“You accept this so easily? You’re not …” His words trailed off. It was quite evident she was neither shocked nor afraid. It was clear she cared not at all if her children were a strange blend of bird and human, as likely to fly off in search of fat mice to eat as to attend to their nurses and tutors. She would never cease to surprise him.
“Why are you smiling, Faolan?”
“There’s a song in this, that I can say with confidence.”
“Don’t put me in any songs until I have a comb and some hot water and something more than rags to dress in,” Ana said, grinning.
“You’re perfect just as you are,” he told her quietly. “But I won’t be making any songs; my barding days are behind me.” This song would be deep inside him, in the hidden recesses of the heart, both utmost joy and deepest pain. No one but he would ever hear its sweet words of love. No one but he would weep as it played out its tale of need and silence and loss. And that was just as it should be. “I wish you every happiness, Ana,” he said.
She said nothing, and in a little while Drustan returned bearing a broad leaf on which was piled a small harvest of nuts. It came to Faolan that the other man had left him and Ana together just so they could speak thus. He swallowed resentment that he must add tact to all Drustan’s other virtues.
“Why did you keep flying away?” This question had to be asked, now the secret was out in the open. “Why did you abandon us without any warning? And why did you take so long to reach us after we fled Briar Wood? Deord was out there all alone, fighting a whole hunting party.”
“Would he have prevailed had I been by his side?” Drustan asked, his tone somber.
Faolan was obliged to answer honestly. “In my opinion, no. You’d both have been killed. He wouldn’t have wanted any of us to be there. But I’d have thought you’d want to help him.”
“I could not help him. The changing is not always easy for me. I was distressed and confused, wanting to leave, afraid to leave, desperate to be with Ana, terrified of what I might do if I went free. In that other form, my mind is different. I do not see or hear or think quite as a man does. Sometimes I do not even remember. It was thus with Erisa’s death. I was in my other form. I saw them, but once I returned to myself, the memory was gone. Until yesterday. So, after you left, I made a choice: Ana over Deord. That’s what he would have wanted. In the end, I caused his death.”
“We all had a part in that,” said Faolan grimly. “And the other times?”
Drustan cleared his throat; he sounded nervous. Faolan found himself oddly in sympathy. “I cannot maintain one form or the other too long without … without becoming unsettled. Distressed. The need to change builds in me and must be released.”
“You become violent?”
“Faolan—” Ana protested.
“It’s all right, you need to know this,” Drustan said.
“You need to know all of it. Violent … Only if I am confined and prevented from doing what body and mind call me to do. Alpin’s barred enclosure was a particular form of torture for me; he knew how such restraint tormented me. Deord saved me. He understood the need to let me fly free. But there were long times when we could not go out. Deord shared his own skills with me; kept me occupied, kept me moving. Sometimes it was not enough.”
“Did you ever attack him? Or others?”
“I came close once or twice with my brother. Hence the shackles. If I am restrained at such times I hurt myself, nobody else.”
“What about before?” Ana’s tone was gentle. “Before Alpin imprisoned you?”
“At Dreaming Glen I came and went as I pleased. It is my own place; my people know me. I moved freely and easily from one form to the other. I taught myself to retain the understanding of human speech even when I walked in the other world. Some skills I lost in captivity, but I am regaining them. I was afraid to trust you with the truth, Ana.” He gave her a shy smile. “I misjudged you. So, when it was t
ime to be a man again, I flew off into hiding. There was no way to reassure you; to let you know I would return.”
Ana slipped a hand into Drustan’s. “I think we will need all the days from here to White Hill,” she said, “to choose the right words for presenting this tale at court.”
16
STRATEGISTS SAY THAT if no more than one in three fighting men is lost in securing an objective, the action can be considered a success. Between them, Bridei and Fokel lost less than this proportion in the final decisive battle for Galany’s Reach. The ancient banner of Galany was raised above the settlement, this time to fly in perpetuity; a ritual of thanks to the Flamekeeper was conducted on the conical hill where once a mighty carven stone had stood to mark this land for the Priteni. That night Bridei made his own prayers in silence, and the man who guarded his solitude was Elpin, formerly of Broichan’s household. Bridei had allowed Uven a time of rest, a time he knew this warrior of middle years would spend with the other men, working through the sights and sounds of today’s conflict, speaking of the friends lost, listening to the strange mix of grief and anger and bravado, of determination and courage and uncertainty that must attend such a gathering.
As for Breth, he would never stand guard by his king and friend again. One in three; it could be the turn of any man to fall to a swift arrow, a slashing sword, a final, insistent spear. Bridei had lost his keen-eyed archer somewhere in the midst of the bloody maelstrom before the palisade of Galany’s Reach, and found him sprawled limp and open-eyed amid the human wreckage strewn there after Bone Mother had swept the field, bearing the spirits of Fortriu’s fallen sons away. Bridei had first met Breth in an archery contest, when Bridei was still a child; that child had made a choice to lose, and thus allowed the warrior to salvage his pride before an audience of fighting men. One in three; a victory. It did not feel that way, not even with Galany safe in Fokel’s hands.
When he had said his prayers, Bridei sent Elpin off to rest and sat a while with Hargest, whom he had summoned some time before. He knew he must soon go back to the settlement, find words of strength and hope for his army and make decisions quickly: who would stay to keep the new-won territory secure, who would march on to the next objective. He must determine the best way to deal with the Gaelic captives, the women and children, the old men. He would do it. But not yet. Not just yet.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” Hargest said quietly. They sat together by the rowans atop the neat hill that had once housed the Mage Stone; by day, there would be a sweeping view of the valley, the settlement, the field still littered with Gaelic dead, the pale waters of King Lake not far off, spreading westward to the sea. “About Breth, I mean.”
“Mm.” Bridei thought about how young Hargest was, far younger than he himself had been when he had his first taste of war, here in this selfsame proving ground. “They tell me you acquitted yourself bravely today. Did more than your share.”
Hargest said nothing.
“It’s a grim business,” Bridei said.
“They are Gaels. They deserve to die. My heart beat more strongly with each one I slaughtered.”
Bridei regarded him quizzically. “We must do all we can to prevail, that much is true,” he said. “When you are older, I doubt if you will see it in terms so black and white.” It would be easier, no doubt, if one could think as this boy did; it would lessen the pain. He had never possessed such certainty himself. Questions of right and wrong, justice and fairness had plagued him since the day of his first engagement with the enemy. He did not doubt the rightness of his god-given mission to drive the Gaels from Priteni shores. It was the falling of each man, be he of Fortriu or Dalriada, the knowledge of each loss that weighed on him. Breth was a good man, loyal, honest, a true friend. But who was to say the death of this warrior who happened to be dear to himself was of any greater or lesser account than that young Gael with a spear in the belly, or that dark-bearded archer from Fokel’s company? Because a man did not love the ancient gods of the Priteni, because a man’s father happened to be born in some place other than Fortriu, did that make his death any less of a sacrifice? Bridei thought of Faolan, and knew in his heart that a good man was a good man, whatever his origins, whatever his convictions, whatever his occupation.
“My lord king?” Hargest was regarding him closely, a little frown on his broad brow. “What are you thinking? You seem … distracted.”
“Dangerous thoughts, Hargest. I must put them away until this campaign is done. What about you? Were you not troubled by the sights you saw today? It’s a big step from keeper of Umbrig’s horses to a warrior in the first line of advance.”
“Troubled? No, my lord. War’s war. Folk die.”
Bridei nodded. “I have something to say to you, and although it seems too soon, I’ll say it now before we go back down and are surrounded by men with questions. You’re a brave lad, and able. I’ve lost Breth; it’s a sorrow to me but, as you so bluntly put it, folk die. We’re headed for much bigger action now and the experienced men are going to want to be in the thick of it; they’re not going to take kindly to an assignment that requires them to put their king’s personal safety before their own chances of accounting for the enemy.”
Hargest sat silent, waiting.
“I can’t offer you Breth’s job,” Bridei said bluntly, for the bright anticipation in the boy’s eyes was unnerving. “You may have the skills, but you lack experience.” He did not add that it was still early days; too soon to trust a young man who had attached himself to the king of his own choice, and who was known among the warriors for his volatile temper. “I plan to share Breth’s duties among the Pitnochie men. We’ll need one more or they’ll be too short on sleep. I want you to join them. No solitary guard duty; they generally work in pairs, as you know. Your assistance will allow me to free them from time to time to concentrate on fighting without needing to keep a constant eye on me. Will you do it, Hargest?”
“Yes, my lord.” The youth’s grin was ferocious. One look at him and any would-be assassin must surely have second thoughts.
“Come,” said Bridei. “We’ve work to do tonight. There’s another march ahead of us, and another battle. You’ll be on first shift with Enfret.”
“Yes, my lord king.” Hargest’s voice was raw with feeling, not the doubt and fear and edgy excitement that were the expected aftermath of battle, but anticipation, determination, and a note of pride that was almost smug. “You won’t regret this, my lord.”
“We’ll see,” Bridei said. Fifteen. Was he being foolish, trusting the boy with such responsibility? Hargest was naïve, he was impetuous, he had a lot to learn about men and what drove them. But he was a good lad at heart. All he needed was someone to guide him; to watch over him until his childish judgment caught up with his manly physique. For all Hargest’s clumsy manners and insensitivity, Bridei liked the boy.
As they walked the spiral pathway back down the hill, Bridei thought again of Faolan, a man who was a great deal slighter than this burly youth, and who had so much more to offer; Faolan who could be told anything at all and knew whether to give his unique brand of blunt advice or simply to listen in silence. Faolan who was almost like a brother to him. Faolan who was a Gael. A puzzle; a quandary. He must set such considerations aside until the peace was won. Donal, his old friend and tutor, had told him once that a warrior could not afford to see the enemy as a man like himself, or he would never succeed in battle. At the moment of engagement one must be transformed into an efficient killing machine, cold and deadly. One must indeed convince oneself, at least until the war was over, that one in three was a good result. The gods forgive him for what must unfold; he did not think he could ever forgive himself.
TUALA HAD PLANNED to stay at Banmerren only as long as it took to assure herself that Broichan would not walk out the door before Fola and her women could so much as begin to help him. He made no secret of the fact that he doubted their ability to effect a cure; if he could not do this himself, how could they? Tual
a had needed to present arguments concerning both Derelei and Bridei before the druid conceded, with great reluctance, that he was prepared to try.
Ferada had made her visitors very welcome, housing them in the accommodation that stood ready for the autumn influx of students, plain, bright chambers that opened to the newly planted garden. Tuala knew, all the same, that Ferada was counting the days until she had the place to herself again. Garvan would be moving on soon, his work at Banmerren complete and a new assignment awaiting him in the south. Ferada said nothing, and neither did the stone carver, but Tuala could read their silences.
She told Garth and Elda to be ready to ride home in a day or two. It would be good to be back at White Hill, where she could watch over things in Bridei’s absence. Banmerren was full of memories, sweet ones, frightening ones, and the spreading canopy of its great oak seemed full of whispering voices. She hurried along the path, trying not to hear them.
Broichan and Fola were sitting in a chamber without windows, a place lit by lamps even now, when the sun was high. The walls were lined with stone shelves on which the materials and implements of Fola’s craft were arranged in orderly fashion. On a central table was an object concealed by a thick cloth of black-dyed wool. The ewer that stood nearby revealed to Tuala what it was and what they had been doing, and she took a step back.
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