Spirit of the Mist (31 page)

The late summer night was beautiful and warm and clear, the sea as calm as it ever got; and once they finished eating the little company sat together to talk for a time, instead of just dropping into an exhausted sleep as they most often did. Muriel sat with her back to the mainland to the east, knowing that soon the moon would rise.
 

She could not bring herself to look at it.
 

“So, I believe that tomorrow night the moon will be full, which means the first night of Lughnasa,” said Fallon. “Am I correct, my lady Muriel?”
 

She smiled, knowing that he would sense her expression even if he could not see it. “You are, King Fallon. Tomorrow is Lughnasa—though I am afraid there will not be much of a grain harvest or a feast to celebrate it or a bonfire to mark it, out here on this island.”
 

“Then we shall have to find another way to honor this time of year.” He stood up, keeping one hand against the cliff wall, and faced the soft wind blowing in from the mainland. “I propose that we do so by making a decision.
 

“Has the time come for us to return to the mainland? Have we been gone long enough for Odhran to believe that Brendan is dead or escaped, and will no longer hunt for him? Or should we wait as long as we can, to make certain that our terrible ordeal will not have been in—vain?”
 

The little group glanced from one to the other. “The druids said we would have to return by the Autumn Equinox,” said Killian. “If tomorrow night is Lughnasa, then we have at least two fortnights until then.”
 

“But the longer we stay here, the rougher the seas become,” said Darragh. “The Equinox might well be far too late—especially with nine people in just one curragh.”
 

“We might have to make more than one journey,” Muriel said, “though I dread to think of who would have to stay behind.”
 

Gill raised his head. “Brendan,” he said, “if the danger from Odhran were truly past, would not someone have tried to come out here and tell you it was safe to return?”
 

“That is likely,” Darragh said. “They would not have to land—we could see them well out at sea, from this height, but we have seen no one.”
 

“Yet they might not have come because they are afraid of leading Odhran’s men to us,” said Killian.
 

Fallon nodded. “It is a dilemma. Do we dare return and risk finding Odhran waiting when we do? Or do we dare stay here a little longer, and risk starvation and cold and shipwreck?”
 

All of them were silent. “Brendan, you should take pride in what you have accomplished,” Fallon continued. “You have kept those of us who followed you—your people—alive and safe in a place that offers almost nothing. And I have not failed to notice that your spirit has grown stronger in the process, no matter how thin your body or how ragged your cloak.”
 

“I thank you, King Fallon,” Brendan answered in a soft voice. “I, too, am happy that all of us are alive and here together. Yet it hurts me to see how thin you all have grown, how ragged your garments have become.”
 

Fallon nodded. “This island has been a place of retreat, but a harsh one. It was a refuge to preserve the life of a good and loyal man. But now, facing the first night of Lughnasa tomorrow, a decision must be made: will we stay here and try to survive the winter? Or will we return to the mainland?”
 

They all turned to glance at one another. Muriel saw the pale, gaunt faces around her, and it seemed that the warm evening breeze suddenly held a chill, as if in warning of what winter in this place would be like. She drew her worn blue cloak a little closer, and then she and Brendan looked at each other.
 

“We must go back,” he said. “I know very well that we must go back, and we must go soon—no matter the risk to me. We cannot stay here for the winter.”
 

Fallon made a noise of acknowledgment, still facing out toward the mainland. “I agree that it is difficult enough to survive here now, in the mildest weather. The winter would likely prove to be our undoing. Yet I believe that you must make the decision.”
 

The old king moved forward a few steps, keeping his hand on the rock face as he did. “What do your people think? It is important to know that… What will they do if we return?”
 

Glances flicked from one person to another. Darragh spoke first. “My home has always been at Dun Bochna,” he said. “I have served its king since I was old enough to lift a sword. And there is a woman there who waits for me.” He looked over at Brendan. “I will do all I can to help you, wherever you take us, though I will not deny that I wish it were home.”
 

Killian, sitting beside him, simply nodded. “Darragh speaks exactly as I would have.”
 

Gill sat between Duff and Cole. He looked first at Muriel, and then at his son. “Slaves never have a choice of where they go…but I am beginning to understand that my slavery is past. Of my own free will I will go with you and help you in any way that I can.” He spoke to the rest of the group. “And I would do that for him even if he were not my son.”
 

Duff and Cole glanced at each other. “Our lives, too, are with Brendan,” said the latter, and Duff nodded in agreement.
 

King Fallon turned to Muriel. She shook her head and said, “There should be no question of what I will do. I am with my husband, and I will stay with him no matter where he goes.”
 

All of them looked to Brendan. Silence descended, broken only by the ceaseless crashing of the sea and the warm crackling of the group’s little fire.
 

Brendan stood up and walked a few steps toward the rock face, placing one hand upon the stone and then leaning his forehead against it. “You are right, King Fallon,” he said into the deep shadow cast by the island’s towering peak. “The time has come for me to make a decision.”
 

“What are your choices?” asked the old sovereign.
 

Brendan took another few slow steps across the little campsite. “I can stay here and truly be a king. The king of nothing,” he said with a small and bitter laugh. “I can be the king of this terrible place, with trapped and suffering though willing subjects. We can stay here until we all perish from the boredom, or from starvation…or until a raiding party from Odhran’s kingdom finally learns where we are and comes to finish me off.” He turned back toward Fallon. “What would happen to all of you then?” he asked bitterly.
 

“I think you know what would happen,” said Fallon.
 

“I do. As do you. You would all be slaves, or you would be killed. I cannot let that happen.”
 

Fallon stared at him with unseeing eyes. “So. What are your other choices?”
 

Brendan sighed and placed his hands on his hips, studying the ground. “I could cross the sea to the mainland and return to the beach below Dun Bochna. Darragh and Killian could go back to their rightful king and to the women who wait for them.” He fell silent.
 

“They could,” Fallon agreed. “But that accounts for only two of those who have followed you so loyally. Gill, Duff, and Cole have all said that they wish only to remain in your service. Your wife has made it clear that she will not leave your side. Unless you intend to abandon them all, where will you go yourself, Brendan?”
 

Muriel could hear her husband breathe deeply of the night air. “I am no true-born king…but no true-born king ever had better friends than these, or a father as steadfast, or a wife to compare to Muriel, whose beauty is matched only by her loyalty. And so I will do the only thing I can even think of doing.” He sighed. “I will return Darragh and Killian safely to Dun Bochna. It is their home, though it can no longer be mine. There I will choose what next I will do, and there you all can decide whether to come with me.
 

“I would do whatever is best for all of you, even if that means leaving you to a new life at Dun Bochna and then going with my wife to Dun Farraige to serve as a craftsman or a herdsman for the rest of my days. Perhaps Odhran would not bother with me again, if he knew that I truly was no longer a king of any sort but merely another servant…a man who spends his life hammering out weapons instead of using them, or following the cows with a herding switch instead of taking them in bold and praiseworthy raids.” He laughed harshly. “In fact, I am sure he would find great amusement in leaving me alive so he could watch the arrogant, troublemaking prince reduced to such a station in life.”
 

“Yet a life it would be,” Fallon answered.
 

“And you could take satisfaction in knowing that you had improved the lives of many—including your own father. You would know that your wife is loved and cherished and protected, and that she never doubts that you will be with her always.”
 

Brendan nodded. After a moment he slowly walked over to where Muriel sat on the damp and mossy ground, and knelt down in front of her. “I must live the rest of my life without kingship,” he said. “If you remain with me, you will live the rest of your life without magic. Are you sure that that is your wish?”
 

She reached for his hands. “There are things other than power,” she said. “My decision was made before we came here.”
 

“But was it really your decision? Or are you…are you simply giving in, going the way of your sisters?”
 

She shook her head. “If anything can take the place of kingship and magic, it is love…and none can say that we do not have that.”
 

He pulled her close, and they embraced each other. The wind picked up, howling around them.
 

“In the morning, then,” King Fallon said. “In the morning all of you will return and begin your lives again.”
 

In the morning the departure was delayed. Queen Grania was dead.
 

When Muriel sat up in her makeshift bed, the first thing she saw was King Fallon sitting up against the rock face that stretched above them. Beside him, her head resting on his shoulder, was Grania.
 

Muriel got up and walked over to them. It seemed strange that they would be sitting so; usually they were the first ones awake, with Grania sorting through the food supplies and Fallon moving blindly along the mountain feeling for any grasses or plants that could be harvested for food or dried for tinder. But this time they were both very still.
 

As Muriel reached them, Fallon turned his head in her direction. “Good morning, Lady Muriel,” he whispered, and though his words were polite, as they always were, she could hear a tremor in them. “I am sorry to tell you that Queen Grania has died in the night.” Gently he stroked his wife’s long silvery hair and rested his cheek against her head.
 

Muriel crouched down in front of them. She could see that Fallon was right. The woman’s face was pale and still, her eyes closed, her hands lying limp on the mossy ground. “I am so sorry, King Fallon. She was so brave here in this terrible place, with so few of the comforts to which she must always have been accustomed. She thought only to help and comfort me, and all of us.” Muriel shook her head. “I knew her for such a short time, and yet I mourn her passing as though she had been with me far longer. I can only imagine how empty your own heart must be right now.”
 

Fallon lifted his hands, and Muriel reached out to take it. “Thank you for your kindness,” he said. “If you will tell the others—tell Brendan—so that we might prepare her…”
 

“Of course I will.” Briefly she covered his hand with her own, and then she stood up. Just as she turned to go, she saw Fallon kiss his wife one last time and bury his face in her neck. His shoulders trembled as he wept, but that was all; Muriel realized that with his ruined eyes he could not shed a tear for his beloved queen.
 

As best they could, the little group prepared Grania for her final journey. It was decided not to bury her in the shallow soil of the island, with its many scavengers. Once she had been laid out on her cloak, with her long silver hair combed out smooth and gathered over one shoulder, they pinned the heavy wool fabric tightly around Grania’s body, and then Brendan and Darragh lifted her up onto their shoulders. The two started down the path to the sea, with Killian, Duff, Gill, and Cole following close after them.
 

Muriel remained above with Fallon. Both stood quietly not far from the low wall at the cliff’s edge. “You will tell me when they have completed their task, won’t you, Lady Muriel?” the king asked, standing close beside her and holding her arm.
 

“I will tell you,” she answered. The winds picked up and whipped their cloaks around them. “And…I am so sorry we could not give her a proper interment.”
 

Gently he touched her arm. “Do not be sorry. She has always loved the sea. Now it will be her home forever.”
 

As she and Fallon stood waiting for the others to return, Muriel glanced over her shoulder and tried to think of other things. Above the peak of the island she could see the edges of clouds gathering. Another rainstorm was approaching. Well, if it came before they departed, it would provide them with a little more drinking water—and they should certainly fill the waterskins to their limit if they could. The men would have plenty of hard work ahead of them, paddling the curragh back to the mainland. They would need water, and if they should have trouble finding a safe place to land, the group would need all that it could carry.