The Well of Shades (23 page)

Eile nodded, knowing that if there were any chance the Widow had lied about Faolan, running away was not an option until Eile had ensured he was all right. This was not something she could explain to Maeve. “Thank you,” she said. “If you were my mother, I’d tell you to move away from here and find someone else to work for.”

Maeve sighed. “I’ve been with her a long time,” she said. “Since before
she wed Echen. She’s got her reasons for being the way she is. I couldn’t leave her now. All folk need love, Eile. Even the ones that don’t seem to want it. Off you go, then. Good-bye, poppet.” She bent to kiss Saraid’s cheek, and Eile thought she saw the glint of tears in the housekeeper’s eyes. Then the door swung to behind them, and they were on their own again.

Eile crouched to whisper. “It’s
an adventure, Squirrel. In the dark, with only the moon to light our way. We’re going to be as quiet as mice. Better take my hand; it might be a long walk. We’re going to Fiddler’s Crossing.”

O
N THE FIFTIETH
day, in the morning, the big guard came and let Faolan out with his ankles hobbled, so the best gait he could achieve was an old man’s shuffle. They searched him first, and he was glad he had not yet begun to put his escape plan into action, since its initial step would have been to take his smallest knife out of its concealment in
his cell.

“Where are we going?” he asked, and heard the hoarse croaking of his voice, as rough-edged as a weapon left too long idle.

“The lady sent for you.”

“I see.” Faolan was struggling to keep up with the other man’s walking pace. He had done his best to maintain his body’s fitness during the long, empty days, but the chamber where he had been confined was not spacious, and these leg restraints
did nothing to help. It came to him that only someone familiar with his life after he left his homeland would think it necessary to curb him thus. In the old days here in Laigin, he had been young and harmless, a bard in training, a second son who never lifted a weapon until the day he was forced to slit his brother’s throat. Even when Echen put him in Breakstone Hollow, it was not for fighting
or intrigue or treachery, but for simple defiance. He’d refused to work for a man he despised. It was enough to earn him a season in that hellhole. It was only on quitting his home shore that the young bard had begun to make his living with fists, weapons, and a newfound talent for duplicity.

There had been no music after the night Echen came to Fiddler’s Crossing. Faolan had not touched a harp
again until last summer, when circumstances had required him to play the part of a musician. How word could have
reached Blackthorn Rise that the unobtrusive traveler at the bridge was a spy for Fortriu, he could not imagine. Surely, if folk here recognized him, it would not be for that, but for his family’s dark tale. No doubt that had provided years of fodder for local storytellers; it was the
reason why people spoke the name of Fiddler’s Crossing in a special tone, a tone guaranteed to put folk off going there if they could avoid it. Echen had given the place its own special nightmare.

They halted outside a formidable oak door.

“What does she want?” Faolan ventured. “What am I supposed to have done?”

“I’m not the one you need to ask.” The big guard glanced at him with a certain
sympathy. “The Widow makes her own rules; often they’re beyond folk like you or me.” He rapped at the door, then opened it. “Go on, then.”

The Widow was seated in state, her grand chair placed on a dais. She was a small woman, but the position of her seat was one of authority. It was necessary for Faolan to perform his ungainly shuffle down the full length of the spacious chamber, between armed
guards, narrowing his eyes against the bright lamps that stood by the raised platform. He was dazzled; his cell had been a dim place even on winter’s rare sunny days. After so long confined, the broad space and the light were unsettling. He schooled his features and came up to the high seat.

His vision was disturbed by the lamps, and the Widow sat behind them. All he could discern was the pale
heart shape of her face, the dark swathing folds of her head scarf. He held himself still, waiting. Let her speak first. Let her tell him what in the name of mercy she was up to, and why, through the tiny window of his cell, he had heard Eile screaming out in the yard. Let her explain what she knew of him and then he would decide what to tell.

“Faolan,” said the lady.

He gave a nod.

“Was it
a long time to wait?”

She sounded young; young and chilly. He squinted and made out a pair of emotionless blue-gray eyes in the pale face.

“I cannot say, my lady. Until I know my misdemeanor, I cannot tell you if the penalty was appropriate.” He strove to match her cool tone, but his voice let him down; he could not disguise the rough edge.

“Was?” Her tone was light. “Oh, I’m not finished with
you yet, Faolan. That was just a taste. I can test your patience far more severely than that, and if I choose to, I will. I wonder what would be apt? A season? A year? Two, perhaps. You might be a little less facile in your comments after that.”

Faolan did his best to maintain a steady gaze. “When I play games,” he told her, “I prefer to know the rules in advance. It’s so much fairer. What am
I charged with? And what have you done with my companion, Aoife?”

“Companion. What a bland word. I thought you said she was your wife.”

“I heard her calling out, not so long ago. She sounded distressed. I heard a child scream. If you are the lady known locally as the Widow, it is your responsibility to ensure folk you shelter within your walls are fairly treated.”

“Twice you’ve spoken of fairness.
I should have thought you, of all people, would have learned that life is essentially lacking in that quality. Life is full of inequities, of cruelty and grief and abandonment. It abounds in folk who turn their backs when they should hold out their hands to help. Fairness exists only in the minds of those who have lived solely in the shelter of some haven where folk cling to notions of ideals.
There is no fairness. The only things that matter are survival and power. It amazes me that you have not learned this.”

A curious feeling was coming over Faolan; the sensation of familiarity, as if he had met this arrogant woman before, in very different circumstances. He breathed
deep; he blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus properly. “Do I know you?” he asked. “It seems you know something
of me, though perhaps less than you imagine.”

“I know you inside out,” the Widow said, her voice small and cold. “I know you better than you know yourself. I’m the voice that is never silent; the one you hear in your dreams. I’m the nightmare that never goes away. Or maybe not. Maybe you did forget. Perhaps you put it all behind you and moved on to a new life, one in which your past could be
reconstructed to be more pleasing, more palatable.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He found himself trembling, and clenched his fists to force his body still. “Tell me where the girl is, and the child. They were under my protection. I’m concerned for their well-being.”

“Answer a question. Why did you choose that name for her? Aoife?”

“It is her name.”

“Don’t lie to me! I know
who the girl Eile is, and what she did. Why the name?”

“It was the first one that came to mind,” he said lightly.

“For
her?”
He saw the Widow’s brows lift in scorn. His eyes were working better now, and he could make out the straight, short nose, the guarded mouth, the delicate contours of the face. The tight, implacable jaw. She was familiar; her features teased at him, stirring old memory.
“For that wretched little thing with her straggly hair and her stinking, abused body?” the lady went on. “You named her for a great beauty of the
daoine sidhe?
What kind of a man would do that?”

“A man who was once a bard,” Faolan said. “Eile has her own kind of beauty. Her father was the same. They’re a rare breed.”

“Really? Well, she’s gone now. You asked about some noise in the yard. Your
rare beauty attacked my son, who is barely nine years old. The child marked him with her
teeth. I ordered a beating. The two of them ran away rather than remain here within my walls and under my protection. The girl’s not only violent, she’s a fool.”

“When? Where did she go?”

“Ah; a spark of feeling at last. I don’t think I much care for that, Faolan. It disappoints me that you have become the
kind of man who attaches himself to vulnerable young girls for no good reason. Why so concerned? Are you upset that your newly acquired property has escaped you? What’s the matter, don’t you fancy a cold bed? Don’t look down your nose at me like that; you did say the girl was your wife. It doesn’t take much imagination to guess what you expected in return for your offer of protection.”

With an
effort, Faolan swallowed his anger. “I traveled to Cloud Hill to bring Eile some news. Her father died in the autumn. I was not instrumental in what happened after I left that house. I seek only to establish that she is safe and well provided for. That is the very least I owe Deord.”

“Oh, she’ll be back at Cloud Hill by now,” the Widow said casually. “She had charges to face. I can’t protect
her any longer; she hit my son.”

“What is this? Why are you doing this? You know who I am, that’s clear enough. Do you plan to carry on your husband’s feud with my family even now? Will you pursue his mindless drive to punish us until we’re all in our dotage? Why are you holding me prisoner? And how dare you beat Eile and expose her to that rabble from Cloud Hill? She’s not much more than a child
herself, and she’s been badly hurt by that wretched uncle of hers. Imagine how she feels—”

He fell abruptly silent. The Widow had risen to her feet and stepped forward. The lamplight shone on her face, and Faolan’s heart stopped. He waited to wake up, but the nightmare continued.

“Seamus, Conal,” the Widow said, “I wish to interrogate
this prisoner in private. Bind his hands, then leave us.
Wait outside the door.”

“My lady.” The guards obliged, the big one coming up with rope to tie Faolan’s wrists together behind his back. Briefly, Faolan considered putting up a fight, then abandoned the idea. What he needed were answers, not a beating and a prompt return to his lonely cell. Who knew how long this madwoman would leave him there next time?

“Very well, Faolan.” The Widow stepped
down from her dais and came to stand before him. She had to look up to meet his eyes. His breath caught in his throat; his heart hammered.

“You asked me how I think your Eile feels,” she said. “I know exactly how she feels. Abandoned; disillusioned; betrayed. The poor wretch made the error of trusting you, based, I imagine, on your tale of being the father’s friend. She expected rescue; she anticipated
that you would be there when she needed you. I told her that was foolish. I told her men do that, make women trust them, then simply vanish when they can’t cope with a challenge. I should have explained more clearly, since the girl isn’t educated. Eile, I should have said, if you wait for that man to come and rescue you, you’ll wait forever. You’ll wait and wait, and every day you’ll shed
one less tear, and your heart will grow just a little harder, and when ten years have passed, give or take a little, you’ll find there are no more tears to weep. You’ll discover your heart has turned to flint. You’ll realize there’s no need to wait any longer, because you’ve stopped caring. I know it’s the truth, Eile, I should have told her. I know because they did it to me: my father, and my
brother.”

Ten years had passed. Not Dáire, who would be over thirty by now; not Líobhan with her big brown eyes. His heart reeling, his head spinning, Faolan fought to guard his expression and failed. The Widow’s small features grew pinched with strain; her eyes narrowed.

“Why did you come back?” she asked him. “All that time, all that endless time of waiting, and now you come, and the only
gift you bring me is your contempt. If you can’t manage a show of relief that I am, after all, alive and well, you might at least try to conceal your disgust.”

The lights danced before his eyes. It was hard to draw breath. “You married him,” he whispered, the flood of horror drowning his ability to choose his words, to soften the blow. “Echen. The man who destroyed our family. You married him.
After he took you, after he…”

“I see you haven’t been home yet.” She began to pace, arms tightly folded, head down. The longer he watched her, the more he saw it: it was in the delicate hands, the shape of the brow, the way she held her head. It was Áine; Áine, his youngest sister, taken by Echen and his men on that terrible night. Áine, whom his father had believed beyond rescue.

“What do you
know of the story?” she asked him.

A torrent of words fought to spill, and he choked them back.
I would have come for you, I wanted to, but Father made me flee Laigin. He ordered me to go away and not return. If I had known… I was only seventeen…
There was no point in saying this; it was ten years too late. His beloved little sister, his sweet, lovely Áine, had become a hard-faced, cruel autocrat.
To his shame, he recognized that it had been easier to accept her death than this hideous reversal of what should be. Between them, all of them, it seemed they had turned her into another Echen.