The Well of Shades (45 page)

God requires of me truthfulness; openness. That is what I have given. Perhaps, in the end, these two powerful men, each staunchly adherent to his own beliefs, may prove to be opposing forces of equal weight. How, then, can either prevail?

I think this journal must at some point be burned, or shredded and fed
to goats, or cut into pieces and tossed out into the waves west of Ioua to travel where it will. On occasion my musings disturb even myself. I have a theory about Gateway. I do not believe in Bridei’s Nameless God. The well, I believe, represents our past. The shadows it contains are those of our own misdeeds, and those of our ancestors since a time before memory. For a man who knows not the Lord
God, the burden of his failures, his omissions, his errors and blunders can in time become intolerable. A man’s heart can break under the weight of it. So the sacrifice. The dark deity accepts; the burden is lifted for another turning of the wheel. I think there is some truth in it, a bleak sort of truth. Even without the well, and the god, and the ritual, a man can become a slave to his own past.
Its entanglements can be a net holding him fast. If he does not break free, he will drag it along with him all his life. That is like walking in fetters, and blindfolded. When we go to White Hill, and the look in Colm’s eye tells me that will be soon, I must discuss this with Bridei. If he will
.

Enough of that. I am in danger of overreaching myself once again. I think I will entreat Colm for
a little scriptorium on the island; a meager hut will suffice. There I will be still and quiet. I will copy those passages of scripture
I most love, or, better still, those likeliest to lull to sleep all perilous thoughts and dangerous philosophies. On the other hand, it has always been plain to me that a man’s faith must grow stronger when put fully to the test
.

S
UIBNE, MONK OF
D
ERRY

E
ILE WAS IN
the garden waiting. Saraid crouched to look in the pond, then stood by the lavender bushes, showing Sorry the feathery gray-green leaves, the spikes of fragrant flower heads. It was a good place, sheltered by high stone walls and warmed by the afternoon sun. They’d not long arrived at White Hill. In the courtyard a confusion of Priteni folk had greeted them, people who seemed to know
Ana well, people whose glances touched Eile and Saraid without much curiosity. Perhaps it was only when she opened her mouth that they would know she was a Gael. Eile reminded herself that there had been a war not long ago, and that the Gaels had been the enemy. She had not anticipated this would be a difficulty. In all her imaginings of White Hill, Faolan had been somewhere close at hand. He
was a Gael, and he was the king’s trusted guard; at least, that was what he had told her. Thus far there had been no sign of him.

Down at the far end of the garden, Drustan was talking to a broad-shouldered man with a sword and two knives at his belt. Ana had gone to see the queen, who was apparently an old friend. Old friends were the only ones allowed in, since Queen Tuala had a very new baby.
Eile wondered how Ana would feel about that. Sad, of course; but maybe comforted as well, if the two women were close. An infant was an assurance that, despite all, life went on. In time, Ana and Drustan would surely have another child.

“Bee,” observed Saraid, pointing. “Bzz.”

“Mm.” Eile was glad that Ana had left them to wait here, not in the parts of the house that were swarming
with alarmingly
grand-looking folk. It was surely only a matter of time before she said something wrong, offended someone, got in trouble as she had at Blackthorn Rise. Where was Faolan? Busy, she supposed. Occupied with his mysterious duties, plotting and planning. She’d thought he would be here to greet them. That was unrealistic, of course. Still, she’d hoped.

Time passed. Drustan and the other fellow were
still down there, out of earshot, deep in serious conversation. What would Ana say to the queen about her? Would she even mention her?
There’s this girl Faolan picked up on the road; he doesn’t know what to do with her…
No, not that; Ana was kind. She wanted Eile to stay at White Hill. At moments like this, the thought of volunteering to be Ana’s maidservant and travel north with them after all
had strong appeal. She’d probably been stupid to say she wouldn’t go.

“Look, a lady,” said Saraid, pointing to a half-concealed bench at one side of the herb patch, by the wall. “And a cat.”

There was a cat, a little stone one in a niche, with a smug expression on its carven face and one paw raised for washing. Eile looked again. There was also indeed a lady; a real one. She was so like Ana
that she could only be the long-lost sister the princess of the Light Isles was to meet at last on this visit to court. If the girl had noticed Eile and Saraid, she showed not a sign of it. She was standing by the bench, as still as a hunting creature sizing up its prey. Her sharp blue eyes were trained down the garden toward the tall, flame-haired figure of Drustan. The expression on her face took
Eile aback. She looked hungry.

“He’s taken,” Eile said before she could stop herself.

The fair-haired girl started; clearly, she’d been unaware she had company. She snapped out a challenge, both guilt and offense in her tone.

“I only speak Gaelic.” Eile had memorized this statement in the Priteni tongue. She’d worked hard at Pitnochie
under Drustan’s tutelage, suddenly desperate to keep afloat
once she reached this place full of alien speech.

“Really? Who are you?” The girl’s Gaelic was almost flawless. Her eyes traveled from Eile’s head of dark red hair across to Drustan’s tawny locks. “His sister?” She glanced at Saraid, who was looking on solemnly. “No, I suppose you’re a nursemaid. Or a slave? You are a Gael, I see it now. Something in the eyes.”

Eile swallowed her irritation.
She’d endured worse insults before. Besides, if the
éraic
was taken into account, she was a kind of slave. “I’m…” What could she say? Ana’s friend? Perhaps Ana would have it thus, but to say so felt presumptuous. A traveler? True, but insufficient here, under this girl’s probing gaze. “I’m a friend of Faolan’s,” she said. “I traveled here with Ana and Drustan. I think you must be Ana’s sister.
You’re very like her.” She was pleased with the confident sound of this.

“Faolan?” The girl lifted her brows. “Who’s he?”

“The king’s bodyguard. Like me, a Gael.”

“Bodyguard? I thought Bridei only had the two, Garth there and a handsomer one, Dovran. I’ve never seen a third. Is this Faolan young?”

“He should be here,” Eile said, a chill coming over her. “You should have seen him, I think.
He’s…” Words fled. There was a perfect image of Faolan in her mind, correct in every detail: his strength, his kindness, his courage. His reticence; his wariness. Those things were the essence of the man. But they were not what this girl wanted. “Dark hair,” Eile went on. “Medium build, rather a forbidding look about him. About Drustan’s age, but he looks older. He should have been here several days.
But then, it seems rather a busy place.”

“Maybe I overlooked him,” said the girl lightly. “Who’s this little thing? Not Ana’s, I assume, since my sister apparently isn’t wed yet. I gather Ana’s been living with her betrothed all winter. Strange; she was always so prim and proper, even as a child.” She looked over at the
two men again and her eyes narrowed. “Wait a bit. You’re telling me that’s
him? My stuffy sister is marrying that splendid specimen?”

Eile wondered greatly at the girl’s manner of speech. Surely this was not the usual way of things at court. Perhaps it was the opportunity to speak in Gaelic, a language it was likely few here understood, that had loosened this young woman’s tongue so alarmingly.

“This is my daughter, Saraid,” Eile said. “And yes, the red-haired man
is Drustan. We all traveled here together. My name is Eile.”

“I’m Breda.” The girl looked from Saraid to Eile. “I see my sister’s not the only one to flout convention. You got busy early, didn’t you? How old are you, exactly?”

It seemed princesses were not always taught good manners. “About the same age as you, I imagine. My lady.”

Breda grinned. “No need for formality. It’s just the two of
us, after all. None of the other girls speaks Gaelic. That could be fun. A secret language.”

Eile wondered if this girl was younger than she looked. “How did you learn to speak it so well? Ana has only a few words.”

“We have a bunch of Christians in the islands, countrymen of yours. They wander about telling stories and trying to convert us. We have slaves, too, not all of them wretched and
ignorant. But mostly I learned from my Gaelic bard.” An odd little smile. “He’s very talented; magic fingers. He’s taught me all manner of things. It can be quite tedious there. One has to fill in the time somehow.”

“I see.” Alien indeed, for all the common tongue. Eile thought of Dalach’s house and the aching, wrenching labors that had begun at sunup and ceased only when she was beyond exhaustion.

“You’re judging me. I see it in your eyes.” Breda was suddenly severe.

Eile bit back an automatic denial. She would not tell lies just to be polite.

A peal of laughter rang out, causing the heads of the two men to turn in Breda’s direction. “You should see yourself!” Ana’s sister spluttered. “What an expression! Oh.” Her tone changed abruptly; her eyes darkened. “Garth’s noticed we’re here.
Look, he’s stamping across to order us out of the queen’s private garden. That’s so annoying. It’s a stupid rule, and making someone of my status comply with it is downright offensive. There’s so much here that just isn’t
right
. Someone needs to fix it.”

The large, well-armed Garth strode up, Drustan a pace or two behind with his birds on his shoulders. The bodyguard spoke briefly and firmly.
Nobody offered Eile a translation. Breda scowled at Garth, offered Drustan a lopsided smile and a flutter of her lashes, and was gone. Eile took Saraid’s hand, intending to follow. If this garden was forbidden to a princess, Ana must surely have made an error in suggesting Eile wait here.

Garth spoke again, putting out a hand. Eile stepped back before he could touch her.

“Not you, Eile,” Drustan
said. “You and I can stay here until the queen is ready. Was that Ana’s sister? Silly question; the resemblance is clear.”

“Drustan?”

“What is it, Eile?”

“Could you ask this man… He is one of the king’s guards, isn’t he?… Could you ask him… No, never mind.”

“I have asked,” said Drustan gravely. “Faolan has left White Hill, Eile. Garth is not at liberty to tell me where he’s gone. He’s been
away five or six days.”

“Oh.” Another promise broken. Thank the gods she had decided not to pass Faolan’s message on to Saraid. There was no way she would have her daughter clinging to false hope and continually disappointed. If you set your expectations low, there was less hurt in having them shattered.

She had questions. Most of them could not be asked. Faolan’s business was not her business.
That had never
been clearer than now. He would have left no message. He thought he’d tidied her away; that Ana and Drustan would take up where he’d left off.

“I don’t suppose anyone knows when he’s coming back?” she ventured.

A door opened at the far end of the walled garden and an elegant, auburn-haired woman of perhaps three-and-twenty came out. She spoke briskly; Garth retreated to his earlier
post and the woman motioned Eile and Saraid toward the doorway.

“This lady is the queen’s friend Ferada,” Drustan said. “The queen wants to meet you. I’ll wait here for now. The only male admitted to Tuala’s quarters, apart from her son, is King Bridei. That rule applies until the baby is old enough to be out in company.”

“But—”

“Tuala has some Gaelic,” Drustan said. “Don’t look like that,
Eile. You can do this. Use the words we practiced.” He headed away toward the steps that rose to the high walkway where guards patrolled. Eile saw him go up in three long strides, as if near-weightless, his bright hair a flash of flame; she remembered his oddity, his wondrous talent. Hoodie and crossbill arose from his shoulders as he went, winging up, then settled again on the rampart by his side.

“Come,” said Ferada in Gaelic, and Eile followed her in.

She had expected someone grand, someone like the intimidating Áine, but taller, older, and more richly dressed. Queen Tuala was not like that at all. She was little and pale, with pretty, untidy dark hair and huge eyes. She seemed not much older than Eile herself, and her smile was warm, if guarded. Apart from the friend, Ferada, who had
an alarmingly severe look to her, the only other people present were Ana and a tiny boy, smaller than Saraid. And a baby. The boy was standing by a cradle, but when he saw them come in he walked straight over to Saraid and reached out to grasp onto her shawl.
Saraid used Sorry to hit him on the hand, and he let go. It did not seem an auspicious start.

“I only speak Gaelic, my lady,” Eile said,
curtsying to the queen and remembering the last time Saraid had attacked a nobleman’s son. “I’m sorry; my daughter gets frightened. We’ve seen so many changes…” She fell silent as Saraid released her grip on her mother’s skirt and followed the small boy over to the cradle. The boy said something like
Fayda
, and the two of them peered into the little bed together. Saraid’s features were suddenly
illuminated by a brilliant smile. “Baby,” she said, reaching a gentle finger to touch.