The Well of Shades (61 page)

Tuala considered this. There were images in her mind, memories of those things the seer’s craft had granted her over the long season of the druid’s absence. “If he returns,” she said, “I believe he will have recognized that error. I have forgiven him that.” It was only as she said this that she realized its truth. The feeling of kinship had crept up on her, even though the bond was not proven.
Now, when she thought of Broichan, she no longer thought,
Bridei’s foster father
, or
king’s druid
, but
my
father
. “Yes,” she mused, “and I’ve surprised myself. Maybe he got things wrong, horribly wrong on occasion, but he believed he was serving the goddess in the way she required. If my vision did represent truth, discovering he had offended her must have been hard for him. He always held obedience
so high.”

There was a lengthy silence. Then Bridei said, “If you did it, what form would you choose? When you were a little girl you told me once you dreamed you were an owl. Is that what you would do, take a bird form as Drustan does? I suppose that would allow the best capacity for a search.”

Tuala leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I know how much you hate this. I hear it in your voice.
I see it in your eyes. Thank you for being prepared to talk about it, at least. No, not a bird; even I think that is too dangerous. I would choose something closer and more familiar, I think. It’s probably best that I don’t tell you. Your imagination will conjure up more dangers to whatever creature I become than the real world could possibly hold.”

“When—?”

Tuala shivered. “I don’t know. I
will be honest with you, the prospect frightens me. I haven’t forgotten that Anfreda is dependent on me. This is not something I can do between dinner and suppertime. We’d need to find a wet-nurse for however long it takes. And we cannot do that without drawing attention to my absence. I know how perilous this is. I would not complicate matters by having half of White Hill know your Otherworldly queen
plans to make a very personal use of deep magic. The whole thing requires a great deal of thought. And calm. It is so hard to be calm when Derelei…” She faltered, then drew a deep breath. “Perhaps we’ll wait a little longer. Maybe you were right earlier. Maybe Derelei can come out of this by himself.”

“I would welcome that delay. Each day a few more of our visitors leave, and that reduces the
risk of unfortunate
gossip. If we could wait until Keother was gone, I’d be happier. He seems in no hurry to move on.”

“Very well, then, let’s at least wait a few days. With Eile here, I do have one reliable source of support for Derelei. That young woman has quite a gift. Saraid is a sweet child; I can see she’s been brought up with love. I often wonder what Eile’s background is. She’s very
reticent on everything that happened before she reached White Hill.”

“It’s Faolan who interests me,” said Bridei. “I don’t think I can send him out again; not for some time. Underneath that cool exterior he’s a bundle of nerves.”

Tuala smiled. “Let us hope Eile’s sure touch can be extended to your right-hand man. I’d like to see Faolan happy at last. I wonder what happened when he went home?”

“I don’t suppose he’ll ever tell us,” Bridei said.

There was a discreet tap on the door; both Tuala and Bridei started. Ban was instantly alert, ears pricked, body tense. Since Dovran was on guard outside, the visitor must be one of the familiar, trusted circle. Nonetheless, Tuala gathered up Derelei and retreated to the sleeping quarters while Bridei called, “Who is it?”

“Ferada. I have some
news I think will interest you.”

When Tuala had returned from putting Derelei to bed, and more mead had been poured, Talorgen’s daughter gave her account to the two of them. The news was startling. A man had come in a short time ago, after ferrying a load of wood up Serpent Lake from beyond Pitnochie. A boat was on its way, and in it a group of Christian monks, nine or ten in number. There was
talk of them all the way down the Glen. That much Bridei had expected, if not quite so soon. But there was more to come. The party had put in at a settlement on the shores of Maiden Lake where a young man lay on the point of death. Accounts varied as to the cause of his illness: the flux, an ague, a scythe wound turned foul. At any rate, a visit by the local healer had achieved nothing, another
by one of
the forest druids had proved fruitless, and the victim’s kinsfolk had resigned themselves to lighting candles and waiting for Bone Mother’s arrival. In such a state of despair, they’d probably decided it didn’t matter one way or another if they let the Christians in, Ferada commented, since things could hardly get any worse.

“And then,” she said, “apparently the leader of these monks,
none other than this Colm we’ve heard mention of, laid his hand on the dying man’s brow and spoke a powerful prayer to his own deity, whereupon the fellow opened his eyes, sat up, and greeted his family. He was completely cured; a bit shaky on his feet, but in good health. The father and mother, the sister and brother fell to their knees, but Colm raised them up and bid them turn their hearts to
the new faith, the power of which they had just witnessed with their own eyes. It sounds a fanciful tale, I know, but the man who brought it here said he heard versions of it, and stories of other such miraculous feats performed by this cleric, in several different settlements along the lakes. There’s a lot of talk, and it centers on this Colm’s power and influence. It seems to me it hardly matters
if the substance of the tale is true or not. What’s important is that folk believe it. I thought you’d want to know promptly.”

“If he’s already come beyond Maiden Lake,” Bridei said, “his party could be here in a matter of days. Do they go under sail or oars?”

“That I can’t tell you. I did hear that your old friend Brother Suibne is among them. It was his task to translate his leader’s words
for the local populace. It seems folk’s initial distrust melts away like snow in summer when they hear these wonder tales.”

“I see. I will speak to this boatman myself after supper. Have you mentioned this to Fola?”

“I haven’t seen her since this morning. I’ve been packing up to return to Banmerren tomorrow; it’s past time that I paid my students some personal attention. Fola was thinking of
traveling with me.”

“It seems we may need her here a little longer,” Bridei said. He was pale; Tuala saw the signs of an approaching headache of severe proportions. Her husband was plagued by these at times of great pressure.

Ferada nodded. “It’s evident the court of Fortriu will not be able to call on its powerful druid at this critical time,” she said. “I wonder how Colm and his brethren will
react to a woman as the king’s chief spiritual adviser.”

“Fola can be formidable,” Tuala said, “for all her diminutive size. She will do a better job of standing up to this visitor than, say, Amnost of Abertornie would. We’d have been obliged to ask him to stand in for Broichan if he hadn’t already left for home. A shy sort of man; he was most uncomfortable in the confines of White Hill.”

“Fola
doesn’t like it, either,” Ferada said. “She’d much rather be outdoors with oaks as her walls and the sky as her roof. Bridei, I have another reason for coming here. I have a request from my brother.”

“Bedo?”

“No, it’s from Uric. Since the boys are not permitted in the royal quarters anymore, and since this is apparently deeply private, he’s made use of his elder sister as go-between.”

“Deeply
private?” queried Tuala. “Should I absent myself?”

Ferada smiled. “That shouldn’t be necessary. Uric wants to borrow Ban for the day tomorrow.”

Bridei stared at her. “Borrow my dog? Now that I didn’t expect. May I ask for what purpose?”

Ferada was abruptly serious again. Tuala, who knew her friend very well, could see the reddish tinge around her eyes and the pallor of her cheeks. Garvan had
commissions at White Hill. If Ferada was leaving, that meant a difficult farewell. “Father has told you, I think, that Uric and Bedo are on some kind of quest. Uric has been spending a lot of time out riding. He wants to take Ban with him next time. I assume he thinks this particular dog can sniff out whatever it is they’re looking for. They’re
being quite mysterious about it all.” She eyed Ban
skeptically.

“We have hunting hounds in the kennels. They are trained to track by scent. Ban is just… a dog.”

“Whatever he is,” Tuala said, looking down at the small white creature who sat at Bridei’s feet, “Ban cannot be described as
just
anything. He’s a being with a complicated and very long history.”

“Even so,” Bridei said, “what Talorgen told me suggested this particular scent has long
gone cold.”

“It can do no harm,” said Tuala. “As long as Ban is prepared to go.”

Ban was a one-man dog. Since the day when he had first appeared by the scrying pool at Pitnochie, a creature from a vision made suddenly flesh and blood, he had shadowed his master with a loyalty that was as complete and absolute as a dog’s can be. Left behind when Bridei rode to war with the Gaels, Ban had been
the saddest being at White Hill; on Bridei’s return, the most joyous.

“Tell Uric I’ll meet him at the stables in the morning,” Bridei said. “A run won’t hurt Ban. I may well make my permission contingent on your brothers’ agreeing to limit their activities to this one last venture before returning home with their stepmother. My belief is that the episode they’re concerned about is best forgotten.
As for Ban himself, if I bid him go, he’ll go. I hope he’s not too much of a disappointment to Uric. Rabbits, he’s got a talent for flushing out. But I doubt very much that that’s what your brothers are looking for.”

EI
LE DIDN’T KNOW
quite what she felt. After taking Derelei back to his nursemaid, she went to her quarters with Saraid and found herself straightening
the blankets for a third time and taking one gown then another out of her storage chest and putting them away again. Both she and Saraid were far better clothed now, for the kindly
Queen Rhian had sent them garments from a household store of good, plain wear, and Tuala had made a gift of several of her own old gowns. As Eile’s hands worked automatically, folding and smoothing the clothes, feelings
were churning away inside her, a monstrous jumble of feelings she could make little sense of.

“Mama sad?” inquired Saraid, who was seated on the green mat doing up the fastenings of Sorry’s gown. At Cloud Hill, she had been trained to call her mother Eile, so as not to draw attention to the irregularity of her parentage. Here, where the twins and Derelei all used Mama and Papa, Saraid had fallen
into the same habit. It made Eile smile.

“No, I’m not sad. I’m happy that Faolan’s back.” That was true, but much too simple. She was more than happy, she was joyful. She was also confused and afraid. When she’d asked him to put in words the message he should have left them, she’d expected a simple apology. Not a declaration. She tried to make sense of it. What had he meant, exactly? The words
had been almost… tender. But a father could speak thus to a daughter, or a brother to a sister. Had he really dreamed of her and Saraid every night? What kind of dreams?

That was not something she could ask him. By speaking thus, by looking at her the way he had, by showing his jealousy of Dovran so plainly, he had changed things between them. He had indeed made this complicated. And now she
was so mixed up she wasn’t even sure she would be able to go to supper in the hall, with many eyes on her, if Faolan was there. As for afterward and talking to him alone, here in her bedchamber, she feared it and longed for it. One glimpse of him had brought their journey vividly back, the nights in makeshift shelter, the easiness of their talk as they grew accustomed to each other, the memory of
how wonderful it had felt to have a true friend at last and to know he would keep them safe. The fact that she had found a haven at White Hill and now had new friends did nothing to weaken that bond.

She got out the plain blue gown again, the one Líobhan had given her. “Maybe I should have supper with you, Saraid,” she muttered. The White Hill children usually had their meals in a small area
off the kitchens, under the supervision of a senior maidservant. “I think I’m too much of a coward for this.” Nonetheless, she fetched water, stripped and washed first Saraid then herself, trying very hard not to think of Dalach.
Clean yourself up. I don’t want your stink on me
.

Saraid sat quietly, clad in a little skirt and blouse of dove gray, while Eile put on the blue gown and brushed her
hair with such vigor that the fiery strands crackled. She put on her stockings and the good indoor shoes she’d been given at Blackthorn Rise. That seemed so long ago; so far away. They had come a great distance, a distance that could not be measured simply in miles.

Eile paced nervously. Saraid watched her. After what seemed an impossibly long time, the sound of a metal plate being struck with
a wooden spoon out in the courtyard indicated supper was imminent.

“Here we go,” Eile said.

When Saraid was settled with Gilder and Galen and a small clutch of other children deemed old enough to sit up at a table to eat, but not yet ready for the adult meal, Eile wavered a moment. She could make do with a bowl of the soup the maidservant was giving the little ones, then go quietly back to her
chamber. Then, if he decided to come, she’d deal with it.