The Well of Shades

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

My thanks to all those who helped with the development of this book: my peer support group, Fiona, Satima, and Tom; my editors, Brianne Tunnicliffe of Pan Macmillan Australia, Stefanie Bierwerth of Tor UK, and Claire Eddy of Tor Books; my Australian copy editor, Julia Stiles; my agent, Russell Galen; and my family.

W
INTER WAS COMING.
Faolan saw its touch on the land as he traveled southward out of the province of Ulaid toward a place called Cloud Hill. In the mornings the grass was crisp with frost and a shroud of mist hung low over the hills, wrapping itself around barn and stable, cottage and byre. The fields held only stubble, among which crows made leisurely
paths, exchanging occasional sharp comments. The skies were uniformly gray. So long absent from his homeland, he had forgotten the rain; how it came every day without fail, gently insistent, penetrating cloak and hat and boots so a wayfarer could never be entirely dry.

He reached Cloud Hill in a fine, drenching drizzle. The tiny settlement huddled under the sudden rise of the hill, low stone
huts clustered in a scattering of leafless rowans, geese gathered in the shelter of an outhouse with only half a roof, a larger hall standing square, with smoke struggling up from the thatch and a skinny gray dog skulking in the doorway. The rain became a downpour; Faolan decided it was time to put aside secrecy, and made for the entry. The dog rumbled a warning as he approached, and a man twitched
aside the rough sacking that served as a door, peering out into the rain. The growl
became a snarl; the man aimed a kick at the creature and it cringed back into the shadows.

“What’s your business?” The tone was both surly and defensive.

“Shelter from the rain, no more.”

“Not from these parts, are you?” the man muttered as Faolan came in. “Hardly a day for traveling.”

There was a small crowd
within, gathered around a smoky hearth, ale cups in hand. The wet was an excuse, maybe, for a brief respite from the work of smithy or field. A circle of suspicious eyes greeted Faolan as he made his way toward the fire, his cloak dripping on the earthen floor. He could not tell if this was home or drinking hall; the atmosphere was hardly convivial.

“Where are you headed?” asked the man who had
let him in.

“That depends.” Faolan sat down on a bench. “What’s the name of this place?”

“What place are you looking for?”

He’d need to take this carefully. Deord’s kin might be among these wary-looking folk, and he would not come right out with his bad news in public. “I’m seeking a man named Deord,” he said. “Big fellow, broad shoulders; from over the water in Caitt territory. I’m told he
has kin in a region known as Cloud Hill.”

Muttering and whispers. A cup of ale was slid across the table in Faolan’s direction; he took it gratefully. It had been a long day’s walking.

“What’s Deord to such as you?” asked a tall, thin man with calloused hands.

“Such as I?” Faolan kept his tone light. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve a look of someone,” the first man said. “Can’t quite put my finger
on it.”

“I’ve been away. Years. Deord and I share a past; we were guests in a certain place of incarceration. You’ll know where I mean, perhaps. There’s a name associated with it, a name folk in these parts will be familiar with.”

Another silence, then, but with a new feeling to it. The cup of ale was joined by a hunk of bread and a bowl of watery soup brought in by a woman from another chamber
behind. She stopped to watch him drink it.

“You and Deord, hm?” the first man said. “He’s not here, hasn’t been these seven years or more. Not that there aren’t folk nearby would be wanting news of the man. By the Dagda’s bollocks, that fellow was a fighter and a half. Built like a prize boar, and light as a dancer on his feet. When did you last see him, then? What did you say your name was?”