Blade of Fortriu

by Juliet Marillier

  TWO DAYS LATER the main force moved on toward its final battle. The weather was fair and the signs were good. One of the swiftest of Fokel’s men had run back to inform them that the Gaelic army was moving up to position itself just where Talorgen had predicted, and that the Dalriadan numbers were considerably more substantial than Bridei and his chieftains had believed likely. Had intelligence somehow come to Gabhran early enough for the Gaelic king to summon aid from his Uf Néill kinsmen across the water? Bridei could have sworn Dalriada knew nothing of the timing of his advance until the first Priteni attack on a Gaelic settlement not so very long ago. Faolan had been expert in the spreading of false information at the court of Dunadd. How could they have known?

  It was too late to ponder this at length. The army of Fortriu was committed to battle, deep in enemy territory, with such great gains behind them that they must now dare all and finish this one way or another. The men were full of spirit, their eyes alight with the anticipation of triumph even as their faces betrayed the exhaustion of the long, hard campaign. They had rested well, camped for two nights in the shelter of birch woods. They were as ready as they’d ever be, and Bridei knew in his heart there was no choice but to go on.

  He rode surrounded by the Pitnochie men, Uven with his arm still strapped, Enfret and Cinioch watchful. At the rear, Hargest sat straight and proud. All of them, Bridei knew, could feel the presences of Breth and of Elpin like shadows riding beside them. The survivors wanted vengeance. They wanted Gaelic heads in payment for their slain comrades. At such a time, the place for a true son of Fortriu was out there in the thick of it, striking his blows for the Flamekeeper and the return of the ancestral lands. Bridei knew he should not deny them that opportunity in what might be the final conflict. He would let them fight alongside Carnach’s mounted men, each in turn. It would be foolish to take only Hargest into battle at his side, but the lad could surely share that duty with either Enfret or Cinioch. It was time to give him his chance.

  His instincts told him the lad would survive; if anyone was big and fierce enough to frighten off a Gael or two it was this formidable young warrior. Once they got through this, once they were back at White Hill, Bridei planned to put the boy’s training in Garth’s hands. Garth would add self-discipline to the strength and skill Hargest already possessed. He himself would try to educate Hargest in the art of considered debate and in the many shades of gray that existed between black and white. He’d ask his old tutor, Wid, to help with that.

  “You’ll ride with me tomorrow,” he said now as Hargest, mounted on one of Umbrig’s solidly built hill ponies, came up alongside him. “Enfret and Cinioch will be part of the mounted charge. We need their skills on horseback. After that they’ll take turns backing you up as my personal guard, depending on how the course of battle unfolds. You know your role: stay close, warn me of the unexpected, put my survival before the opportunity to take Gaelic heads yourself. We’ll both be part of the fighting, nonetheless. I’ve been through many battles with Breth and my two other personal guards, and we’ve accounted for a respectable number of opponents between us. I don’t stand back and let my men die in my place. Yours is not an easy job. You’ll be wanting to charge in and forget all about me. You can’t do that, however strong the urge. There’s a symbolic importance attached to the king’s survival.”

  “Yes, my lord king.” The look on Hargest’s broad face was arresting. His eyes, ever striking in their odd, light color, were now full of a strange exaltation that seemed out of proportion with the opportunity Bridei was offering him. What young warrior would not prefer to be let loose in the battle proper, to test himself fully against the Gaels as Cinioch and Enfret would be doing? Bridei was struck by those eyes, which seemed almost blind in their fervor; by the fierce determination in the set of mouth and jaw. The boy was not even of Fortriu itself, but of Caitt descent; his devotion was almost frightening.

  “Relax, Hargest,” Cinioch said. “Save that look for the Gaels, it’ll have them in screaming retreat before they get a chance to draw their swords.”

  “I’ll do what I’m called to do.” Hargest’s tone matched his look; he sounded as if he’d as likely take to Cinioch himself with his knife as he would a Gael. “Pay attention to your own mission and leave me to mine.”

  Bridei did not intervene. The men were keyed up, on edge. The Flamekeeper filled their veins not simply with surging blood, but with an excess of burning aggression that would carry them into battle with the name of Fortriu on their lips and in their hearts. Some would never leave the field of combat, save borne in the merciful embrace of Bone Mother. Others would limp away, broken shells of brave warriors, blinded wrecks of Fortriu’s finest sons. Some would live to take their stones back from the cairn and to march home in triumph.

  Triumph: it must be that. Had he not longed for such a day since the Dark Mirror first granted him its wrenching vision of cruelty and courage? Tomorrow Gabhran of Dalriada might kneel to him on the field of war and forfeit his territories in the west. Fix on that, Bridei told himself as Snowfire carried him steadily southward, and around him his longest-serving and most trusted men and his newest and youngest guard rode in stern-eyed formation. Triumph. Victory. The will of the gods. But what he saw was that cairn, and a silent line of warriors, bloodied and bruised, filing past, each to take one stone in his hand; men whose eyes were full of the memory of comrades lost, of desperate small struggles, a hundred moments of fear and horror and helplessness, a hundred blows to heart and mind and spirit. Their fingers reached to touch other stones: This was set here by my brother, this by my friend; the man who laid this down is never coming home. Bridei closed his eyes a moment, bringing Tuala into his mind, Tuala who had told him with grave calm that for himself, death would hover so close he would feel the beat of its dark wings. He heard her voice: Do not lose faith, dear one. The gods smile on you. Go on bravely and win your war for Fortriu. A candle burns for you at White Hill. When this is done come home, and weep your tears, and be comforted.

  IT WAS CLOSE to the festival of Measure when Ana and her companions walked into Abertornie, a trio of weary and disheveled wayfarers brown from the sun and worn to the bone with long journeying on scant supplies. They had obtained this and that along the way. Ana was clad in the serviceable homespun garments of a farmer’s wife. She had been relieved to discard the threadbare remnants of what had once been a delicately embroidered wedding gown. Ged’s household was shocked enough at her reappearance and the tale she had to tell. At least she need not make her entrance in rags.

  At Abertornie she borrowed a somewhat better gown at the insistence of Ged’s wife, Loura, and submitted to being thoroughly bathed by a pair of energetic maidservants. It felt odd to be clean again. Her hair had grown back to below shoulder length. After rinsing with chamomile water and strenuous, painful brushing, it turned to a wild nimbus of gold threads. She looked at her reflection in Loura’s bronze mirror and did not recognize the strange woman who looked back, skin tanned, figure so lean the gown hung in loose, folds around her, eyes wary and quizzical. This capable-looking person was not the bride who had ridden out from White Hill in springtime. Ana thanked the servants and went out into the garden. After so long living in the open, she felt uncomfortable to be long indoors.

  The household was subdued, for it had been necessary to break the news of the loss of her escort, the girl Creisa among them, and a family was in mourning. Ged himself was long gone, and his fighting men with him. Bridei’s army would be well into Dalriadan territory by now. If everything had gone to plan, the war would be all but won.

  Ana felt a certain reluctance to reach the journey’s ending, now they were so close. At White Hill she would have to explain what had happened in full. She would have to tell Broichan and Aniel and Tharan that the mission had failed and that there was no alliance with Alpin. She would have to face the strong possibility that the powerbrokers of Bridei’s court would hatch new plans for her, plans that would involve another chi
eftain, another marriage. Perhaps she had acquired some courage on the journey; perhaps she had learned to stand up for herself. All the same, the temptation to put off the day when she must tell them she would no longer do their bidding was strong. She longed to stay here a while and rest. She longed for time alone with Drustan.

  Ana walked under the shade of a double row of pear trees, the sward soft under her borrowed slippers. The day was warm, the sky cloudless; the song of birds filled the garden, and insects chirped and buzzed in every corner. A hoodie poked about in the roots of an ancient tree, fossicking for beetles. A scarlet-throated crossbill perched in the branches, watching Ana with its head to the side. The men had been shepherded away by an ancient servant when she was conveyed to her bath; they should be ready by now.

  Her thoughts went to Drustan and how difficult it would be for him at White Hill. They’d need to stay there until Bridei came home, at least. Longer, probably. Apart from obtaining the king’s consent to their marriage, they had other decisions to make. With Alpin dead, it would soon enough become imperative for Drustan to return to the north and establish a new order for Briar Wood and Dreaming Glen. She had thought of the possibility of going home, right home to the Light Isles. There, the two of them could settle among her kin and make a life for themselves free of the burden of Alpin’s crime, and free from the doubt and suspicion that must face them at Briar Wood. She did not suggest this to Drustan. Later, they would visit and she would see her sister at last. She knew Drustan must face his demons first, and lay them to rest. They would find Bela. They would prove Drustan’s innocence before all his people.

  He would find the court of Fortriu a challenge. He had spent the best part of seven years in close confinement, with only one other for companionship. To be placed in the midst of that circle of powerful men, of intrigue and gossip and maneuvering, would be quite a shock. She’d have to explain for him; to tell Tuala and probably Broichan about the changes, about the talent that made Drustan the exceptional man he was, and to explain that he needed to be free to move between worlds. She’d have to tell them a princess of the royal blood of Fortriu intended to marry a shape-shifter.

  “Ana?”

  She whirled around, startled out of her reverie. It was not Drustan standing there under the trees but Faolan, clean-shaven, his dark hair combed and tied back, his plain, borrowed garb revealing how thin he had become. The afternoon light deepened the lines of illness and exhaustion that marked his face. He had his expression under expert control, but Ana saw both sadness and concern there. He had a bag on his back and outdoor boots on his feet. She met his eyes without saying a word.

  His smile was crooked, self-mocking, as he took in the changes in her appearance. “This is not the image I will remember,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” She was filled suddenly with misgiving. “I’ll be at White Hill and so will you, Faolan.”

  He looked down at his hands, no longer prepared to meet her gaze. “If you’re there with him,” he said, “then I cannot stay at White Hill. I’m going ahead now. I’ll break the news of what’s happened to Broichan and to Tuala. You stay on here a while with Drustan. He needs to get used to being among folk again, and that will be easier here than at court. Come on when you’re both ready. I’ll make sure I’m gone by then.”

  She was dismayed. “But Faolan, what about Bridei? You can’t go, he needs you. I understand how awkward things are, but we’re still friends, aren’t we? We’ve made a long journey together, the three of us. You can’t leave White Hill”

  He was persistent in looking away. His features were forbiddingly closed; he wore the same mask as in early days, when she had believed him a man incapable of feeling. “You mean to marry the man, don’t you?” he asked her. “That’s if you can persuade Bridei it’s a good idea. You intend to stay at court until Drustan’s ready to go back west and reclaim his lands. That means I must leave, Ana. If it means quitting Bridei’s service, that’s what I’ll do. When it comes to it, I’m a sword for hire and can earn my keep anywhere. One master’s no different from another, as long as he pays in good silver.”

  There was a brief silence, then Ana took a step toward him and clasped his hands in hers. “We’ve done this, haven’t we?” she asked, as a bitter sense of loss filled her heart. “Drustan and I, we’ve driven you away. This is terrible, Faolan, cruel and wrong. I know what Bridei is to you. You mustn’t let what’s happened destroy that bond. Your own brother died, and in the manner of his death he took away a piece of your spirit. Don’t let your anger rob you of a friend who is as close as any brother could be. Perhaps you feel you have failed this mission. Bridei won’t agree with that. At least wait at White Hill until he has the chance to tell you so.”

  Faolan detached his hands gently from her grasp, hitched the pack higher on his back, and turned away. “Some things shouldn’t be put in words,” he said. “Sometimes it’s best to keep silent. I must go now. I feel an urgency to this, a need to get back to court quickly, even though Bridei will be away. That compels me even more than—”

  “Even more than your distaste at seeing me and Drustan together?” she asked him straight-out.

  “What pair of lovers welcomes a constant observer?” His tone was bitter. “I wish you well. Good-bye, Ana.” A few strides away under the trees and he was gone from sight before she could draw breath to form an answer, though indeed she did not know what that answer might be.

  She waited for Drustan, sitting on the grass with her hands around her knees, trying not to confront the growing conviction that, unless both Drustan and Faolan were somewhere close by, she would always be missing some essential part of herself. Her mind shied away from this: it couldn’t be right, it was out of tune with everything she had expected, an irregularity in a future path that should have unfolded exactly to pattern. She had never believed she would be fortunate enough to find a man she could love as she loved Drustan, with a heady, thrilling passion that drove all else from her mind. Almost all else. There was Faolan: her dearest friend, her constant, strong companion, her counterpart. He had held her steady when the path crumbled before her feet. His music had made her weep. His arms had kept back the dark. His eyes had told her … His eyes had told her he loved her as Fionnbharr loved Aoife, the fairy woman, with a deep and steadfast passion. She had known this since that day in the forest, when she had accused him of jealousy. It was the strength of her own feelings that seemed new and shocking. Something had crept up on her unawares, something whose full significance she had not realized until now, when he was gone. The goddess had played a trick. She had brought Ana not one, but two men to love. And, painful though it was to acknowledge it, it seemed to Ana that she needed both of them. Such a thing plainly could not be. Faolan was right. In this cruel game of three, one must be destined to walk on alone.

  “Ana?”

  This time it was Drustan coming along the way between the pear trees, clad in a borrowed tunic and trousers of fine wool dyed in the many-hued fashion of Ged’s household, his cascade of bright hair tied back, not altogether successfully, with a cord. His smile drove doubt from her heart in an instant; she jumped up and ran to him, and his arms closed around her, strong and warm. She felt the wild thudding of his heart against her, an echo of her own.

  “I missed you,” he whispered against her hair. “You smell like spring flowers, and your hair feels like thistledown.”

  “Mm,” Ana murmured, savoring the moment; they had been circumspect on the journey, respecting Faolan’s presence. To be as close as this was to set loose a feeling like a fire kindling, a heat in the body that would all too quickly grow so powerful there would be only one way to quench it. She lifted her face to his, and a moment later his lips met hers, hesitant at first, touching lightly, a feather-soft imprint. Then touching again, this time more deeply, his hand coming up to her neck, his lips parting as hers did, and the primal sensation of his tongue sliding against hers, sending a thrilling shiver through the depths of h
er body. Her limbs felt weak; her heart was doing its own crazy dance. Her hands moved against his broad back, pressing him closer.

  The hoodie cawed. Remembering, Ana drew her lips away and brought her hands around to place them over Drustan’s heart. “Drustan?”

  “Mm?” He took her right hand in his, bending his head to kiss her palm, to circle there with the tip of his tongue, making her tremble.

  “You’d better stop, I can’t think straight when you do that.”

  He was suddenly still. “What is it, Ana?”

  “Faolan. He’s gone ahead by himself.”

  Drustan said nothing.

  “And he told me he won’t stay at White Hill if we’re there. He would leave the life he’s made there, turn his back on Bridei, his patron and dear friend, go off and seek a living as a mercenary, a killer for hire. He mustn’t do that. Not now, not now he has sung his songs and told his story and begun to come alive again. It’s …” She stumbled to a halt. She could not put into words what a terrible waste that was, nor how desolate it made her feel.

  “You weep for him.” Drustan’s tone was as gentle as the finger he lifted to brush the tears from her cheek.

  Ana nodded, still unable to speak.

  “He loves you; his passion has grown so powerful he can no longer hide it from you. He tried his best to conceal this.”

  “You knew?”

  “Since I first met him; since I saw the look on his face as he spoke your name. Come, let me hold you. I, too, can exercise restraint when I must, though this flame that burns in me is a cruel delight. There, weep. What shall we do? I had hoped for some days here, a few at least. He left, I think, because he thought that we would … because he did not wish to be here when …” Abruptly, he too was lost for words.

  “You’re embarrassed,” Ana said, the spectacle of his blush sufficient to bring a smile through the tears. “It’s all right, Drustan, I’m not shocked. You must surely know the selfsame fire burns in me. Your every touch fuels it. True, I was once a girl who followed rules: obedient, dutiful, and correct in every way. That girl would never have considered anticipating her wedding night, especially before she had obtained the king’s consent to the match. She’d have been unable to make such a speech as this without turning as red as you are.”