The Well of Shades (48 page)

She had met the king. It had been necessary, intimidated as she was, for he had asked to see her quite soon after her
arrival. Bridei was not a physically formidable man like Garth; he was not strikingly handsome like Drustan. Nonetheless, he was unmistakably a king. Eile sensed his innate authority from the first moment she saw him, a square-shouldered, upright figure moving among his attendants and bestowing a grave smile here, a considered word there. When she was called to see him, alone save for Tuala, she
had taken a while to conquer her nerves, but she had found him courteous, direct, and perceptive. He had spoken to her as if she was an equal; she had liked that. She sensed he had questions about Faolan, questions he was not quite prepared to ask. She gave him the same account as she had given Tuala, brief, accurate, lacking in detail.

At the end of the meeting, after explaining the nature of
Faolan’s work and his frequent need to travel at short notice, Bridei had said something she almost missed, for her mind had been on Saraid, under Ana’s care and perhaps fretting for her.

“… oddly reluctant to go. I’ve never seen him hesitate before,” Bridei was saying.

“I’m sorry?” Eile snapped back to the here and now. “Could you say that again, my lord?”

“Faolan knows when a mission requires
his own particular skills. This was one such. He’s always ready to volunteer promptly and to depart quickly. He is the best man I have. This time was different. I sensed he had reservations; something he wanted to tell me, but could not find the words for. You know how he is, I imagine.”

Eile found herself smiling; ridiculous, he would think her a halfwit. She thanked the king and excused herself,
fleeing back to her little chamber with the words hugged to her, an unexpected and wondrous gift. Perhaps, after all, Faolan had not set her aside as unimportant. Perhaps he had not forgotten that little children expect promises to be kept. She did know how he was. He would have wanted to be here; would have wished, at least, to leave a message. He had tried to put it into words, perhaps, and
failed, knowing his first duty was to his king: a fine, good man deserving of loyalty. What that meant, she was not sure. She only knew it kept a tiny, fledgling warmth alive in her heart.

T
HE KING OF
Fortriu had never cared for hunting. He had the skills; they formed an essential part of any Priteni nobleman’s education, along with unarmed combat and horsemanship,
the ability to conduct a logical debate, and an acquaintance with music and poetry. Being druid-raised, Bridei had received a somewhat more extensive training in which knowledge of lore ran deep, and love of the ancient gods of his homeland still deeper. Along with that came the awareness that the life of the Glen and of the wider kingdom was like a great net, intricately interwoven and finely balanced.
Humankind, creatures, and the folk beyond the margins all played a vital part in it. To take a deer for food was one thing. The gods accepted the need for blood to be spilled as long as the huntsman performed the killing in the right spirit, with gratitude and respect. To chase and kill for sport was another matter and, where he could, Bridei avoided it.

There were times when one had to grit
one’s teeth and do what was required. He’d been neglecting Keother. The king of the Light Isles was a man of status and had
the capacity to become a significant ally or powerful enemy. Bridei could only leave his entertainment to Aniel and Tharan for so long before an insult might be construed in the king’s constant occupation with other matters. As for Breda, it had been indicated to Bridei that
she was a difficult girl, restless and awkward. While Dorica and the other senior women of the household would not say so, he had grown aware that their young guest was getting on everyone’s nerves. Seeing her sister after so long apart had done little to settle Breda. Tuala had told him Ana, in her turn, seemed saddened by the meeting and had not deviated from her fervent wish to be married and
away from White Hill as soon as that was possible.

Ged’s widow, Loura, and her son had arrived from Abertornie, bringing their local druid, a shy man called Amnost. Other guests trickled in from their more distant bases, among them the Caitt chieftain Umbrig, as huge and bearlike as ever. But not Carnach. There was no word from him and, as yet, none from Faolan, who had been gone twenty days.
The feast of Balance was long past and it was almost summer. They could wait no longer. Bridei set the handfasting of Ana and Drustan for full moon, in two days’ time; the victory feast would be held the following night. Then he took his royal visitors out hunting.

It was an expedition on horseback with hawks and dogs, appropriate to the rolling coastal lands between White Hill and the king’s
fortress at Caer Pridne. In these parts the likeliest quarry so early in the season would be small: rabbits and hares, a fox or two, and, closer to the sea, great flocks of marsh birds. The party was a large one, for most of the warrior chieftains had welcomed the opportunity to give their horses a good run and to escape the confines of court awhile. Seeing them ride forth laughing and joking, Bridei
remembered last autumn and the field of Dovarben where so many
good men had fallen under his banner. He saw among the healthy, smiling faces of his chieftains a ghostly interweaving of riders, those loyal men he had lost in the quest to regain Dalriada: his guard and friend Breth; flamboyant, cheerful Ged who had lain in his blood and breathed words of joy and pain; the men of Pitnochie whom Bridei
had known since he was four years old and sent away to be fostered by a druid. Others rode here too; the Priteni had sacrificed generations of men to win back their territory and their pride.
I will not think it
, Bridei told himself.
I will not ask myself the question
. But it was in his mind, always.
I paid a monstrous price for my victory. Was it worth it? If those who fell could speak now, perhaps
I would hear them say: You did not pursue the crown of Circinn; you wasted the advantage we won for you
.

There were few women in the party. Breda had brought three of her attendants. Some of the wives had accompanied their husbands; most had remained behind. Both Ana and Drustan had compelling reasons for not wishing to watch animals being flushed out and slaughtered. There had been no need to
issue them an invitation, only to warn Drustan of the hunt so he and his creatures would not inadvertently set themselves in peril.

Talorgen’s sons had both ridden out. They were handsome young men now. Bridei could not look at them without seeing Gartnait, their elder brother who had been his close friend. Long ago, Gartnait had been embroiled in his mother’s plot to kill Bridei and had paid
the price for that treachery with his own life. The past held many shadows, dark rememberings that hung over the sunniest days, the most joyful occasions. Good men turned to ill deeds; loyal friends rewarded by death. Doubts that threatened to paralyze the hand that must move decisively to rule. If he had no news of Carnach soon he must appoint another in his war leader’s place. If Faolan brought
word of an uprising, he must act
swiftly against a man who had been his staunch supporter since the very first day of his kingship. It felt wrong. Instinct urged him to hold back. But he could not wait long; they were all here, at court, and as soon as Faolan returned Bridei must make the decision. He was king. He must lead.

The hunt went well. A full and healthy mews was another essential part
of the trappings of a royal court. Guests were allocated a bird and local chieftains brought their own. Keother’s hawk took a fat hare, Talorgen’s a fox. Others, too, were successful. Aled, the young son of Ged, brought down a pigeon with the goshawk he’d carried from home. Bridei flew a bird, not wishing to draw attention by refusing to join in, but his hawk struck nothing; it was the gods’ will
that the king take no life today, and he thanked them for it.

Breda did not hunt. She rode well, holding herself straight, her figure shown to advantage by her plain-cut tunic and skirt of dark blue. Her abundant fair hair was caught back in a cunning sort of beaded net. She watched as one of her handmaids flew a small merlin, which took a smaller marsh hen. She watched as Talorgen’s elder son,
Bedo, congratulated the handmaid and dismounted to help her extricate the prey and put the hood back on her overexcited bird. She watched Uric, who was looking at her under his lashes. And she cast a number of glances in Bridei’s general direction, but he suspected it was not him, six-and-twenty years of age, married with children and of only middling looks, that she had her eye on. He’d brought
Dovran as his personal guard today and left Garth on duty with Tuala and the baby. Dovran was young and well built; he tended to draw the ladies’ glances in a way no previous bodyguard of Bridei’s had done. The discipline instilled by Garth meant Dovran was doing a creditable job of not noticing Breda was there. They had their own designated watchers, she and Keother; Bridei had made sure of that.
Dovran’s sole duty was to ensure the king’s safety. He
would not have kept his job long unless he had been good at it.

It happened out of the blue. The young lady’s bird was being troublesome, lifting its wings and trying to bate from her gauntlet; both of Talorgen’s sons were now occupied in helping the girl hood it securely. Others sat their horses, hawks quiet in hand, talking of this and
that; it was almost time to ride for home and a congenial supper. The sky was scattered with dimpled clouds, tinged gold by the afternoon sun; the voices of geese, disturbed by the hawks, babbled restlessly across the marshlands.

“My lord king,” said Keother, riding up alongside Bridei, “what do you think of—”

Breda screamed, a sudden piercing sound of utter fright. Her horse reared up, leaving
her clinging precariously with her feet out of the stirrups and her hands twisted in its mane. The creature’s front hooves came down hard amid a crowd of folk, and then it bolted.

There was no time to think. Even as Bridei glanced at Dovran, the two men urged their mounts after the panicked mare with its dangerously clinging rider. The terrain was undulating, grassland pocked with unexpected
holes and studded with great rough-surfaced stones. If Breda fell or was thrown, she could break her neck or smash her skull. The girl had got a knee over the saddle, but most of her weight still hung from the clutching hands. She could not last long. Shouts and screams behind them faded fast; there was only the thud of hooves, the honking of the birds, and the distant wash of the sea.

“Help!”
shrieked Breda, and the mare took fright anew, swerving abruptly to head for the wetlands. Bridei knew this place well. There was sucking bog close by; the marsh that would slow the panicked flight might as likely swallow horse and rider together.

He kicked Snowfire’s flanks; Dovran urged his own mount on, keeping pace on his left. These horses had seen battle after battle. They were as one with
their riders.
Long ago, a man called Donal had taught Bridei certain tricks of horsemanship, and he had passed them on to each of his guards in turn. The mare tossed her head as they came up on either side; the foam of her spittle flew. Breda’s hair had escaped its neat confinement and streamed out in the sea breeze, a golden banner. As the two men closed in, each spoke to his mount then slid
sideways in the saddle, leaning in toward mare and rider. Dovran stretched to snatch the mare’s bridle, maintaining momentum forward. Bridei grabbed the easiest part of Breda to lay hands on: her hair. “Ow!” she screamed. He edged Snowfire in closer as Dovran began to slow his horse’s pace, easing the terrified mare gradually back. Bridei leaned across the gap between Snowfire and the mare, the weight
of his upper body holding the gasping Breda safe from falling. The desperate flight became a gallop, a canter, a faltering, exhausted stumble. They halted.

What the rescue had lacked in dignity and comfort it had certainly made up in efficiency. Bridei disengaged himself and helped the girl to the ground while Dovran stood murmuring to the mare and checking her over for damage. Their ride had
carried them a long way. The rest of the hunting party could be seen only as a distant jumble of small figures moving about. Nobody had followed them, and that seemed rather odd. A sense of foreboding came over Bridei. The girl was shaken but unharmed, save for a few bruises. Dovran declared the mare sound of limb, though severely scratched by the bushes she had brushed on her headlong flight. But
something was wrong.

“You take Lady Breda with you,” Bridei told his guard. “I’ll lead the mare.”

Dovran obeyed, cupping his hands to help Breda to the saddle.

“Best for you to ride again straightaway,” Bridei told her. “It will help you regain your confidence.” He kept his tone brisk but watched Breda closely nonetheless. Although breathless, she was remarkably composed after
her adventure.
As Dovran vaulted to the saddle behind her, she turned her head to look at him admiringly, a becoming blush rising to her cheeks. Dovran set his gaze sternly ahead.

“Very well,” said Bridei, one hand holding the mare’s reins and the other on Snowfire’s neck. “Keep the pace steady; this creature’s had a severe fright.”