The Well of Shades (66 page)

They covered the higher part before the sun was at its
midpoint. Ban worked busily but unearthed nothing beyond a scrap of cloth and a broken buckle with no sharp edges. Uric wasn’t saying much. Faolan observed the pallor, the tension in the young shoulders, the grim eyes. “This must have been difficult for you,” he said quietly.

“I need to prove this before our stepmother packs us off home,” the young man said. “If Bedo and I are right, there’s
a person at court who’s not just dangerous but completely mad. Someone who has no idea about right and wrong; someone who doesn’t understand what it means to kill. We can’t walk away and leave things like that.”

For a little Faolan made no comment. Then he said, “If that might be true, perhaps you should have come right out with your suspicions to the king.”

“Bedo did say something to Father,
and I think Father spoke to King Bridei, but all we had was a theory. I suppose it did sound mad. They didn’t take us seriously. There’s still no proof. And there are powerful folk involved, folk the king won’t be wanting to offend.”

“You’ve started to worry me, Uric. I think we’d better head down the hill toward the water. We need to be sure we’ve covered the whole area before dusk. Earlier,
if we
can manage that. I have my own pressing reasons for wanting to get back.”

“We have to find it,” Uric muttered as they set off again with Ban trotting ahead, alert and purposeful.

“Uric,” Faolan said, “even if we don’t, you should voice your suspicions to Bridei. He must know that, as Talorgen’s sons, you and your brother are unlikely to be given to wild suspicions and ill-founded theories.”

“You forget,” the young man said flatly. “We’re also our mother’s sons. They kept it quiet, but Bedo and I aren’t stupid. We know she was banished because she plotted to murder Bridei.”

“As the king’s protector, I am aware of that.”
And of more; I know the intended assassin was your eldest brother, Gartnait, and that he died not in a heroic attempt to save Bridei’s life but through an eldritch
intervention by the Good Folk.
Bridei had been able to conceal that cruelest element of Dreseida’s plot from Talorgen’s family. Ferada had been the only one of them who had come close to the full truth. Best that these young men never knew. They had more than enough to deal with. “I’m certain that makes no difference to the king’s opinion of you. It would not affect his response, should you explain
your suspicions to him. Bridei never judges a man on who his parents were or on what lies in his past. He looks at a man’s true merits and at what is possible for the future.”

“Was it like that for you?” The question was tentative; Faolan was well known at court as a man of whom one did not ask personal questions.

“If it had not been so, I would not now be in his employ and under his patronage,”
Faolan said. “If you wished to confide in him, he would listen without prejudice. Consider it, at least.”

They walked on. Ban seemed tireless, moving here and there behind rocks, under bushes, through deep furrows and over small rises. The sun moved across the sky. A flock of geese passed over, honking calls and responses
among themselves; down on the wetlands ducks floated and dived and long-legged
waders foraged. The buzzing of crickets made a counterpoint to the peeping and chirping of smaller birds in the grassland around the two men and the dog.

Ban was working hard. Once or twice he went off in a rush, raising the men’s hopes, then returned with nothing. Time passed, and Faolan found it increasingly difficult to keep his thoughts from Eile and what loomed tonight. If he had been the
kind of man who gave credence to gods or spirits, he would have prayed:
Let me get it right. Let this be the right time for her. Let me not lose the two of them over this.
But he knew it was up to him and to Eile, and to whether they might be strong enough, together, to overcome the shadows of the past. If he failed to carry out Eile’s mission perfectly, would she give him a second chance? Was
their friendship sufficient to allow him that, or would the damage wrought by initial failure be too devastating to mend?
By tomorrow
, he thought,
I will know if I have a future.
For it had become quite clear to him that, without her by his side, the future dwindled to a pointless nothingness. He could no longer form a picture of it at all.

“Faolan?” Uric was holding his voice quiet, but the
intensity of the tone alerted Faolan instantly. The dog was off, sniffing hard, ears pricked, his gait one of purposeful pursuit. The two men followed, striding fast, then running as the small, white form bobbed ahead of them through the long grass. After a time Ban halted, pawing at something, then raised his head to look at the approaching men as if to say,
Come on, then.

Faolan let Uric get
there first. The boy crouched to touch, then pick up what Ban had found. His eyes were fierce with some dark emotion: vindication?

“Look,” he said, holding the little item out on his palm.

It was a long, jeweled pin, ornate, silver, the decoration a twining tangle of limbs and tail and strange snout,
a red stone for the eye. The creature on it was recognizable as the sea beast, one of the ancient
kin tokens of the Light Isles. The ornament was the kind of thing a lady would use to skewer her plaits atop her head, so they’d sit high and elegant. Or to keep them out of the way while she was riding.

“You recognize this?” Faolan asked.

Uric shook his head. “I couldn’t swear I’ve seen a particular person wearing it. But there are others who would know. I can ask.” His voice held a dangerous
edge; it was clear he had scented vengeance.

Faolan crouched down to give Ban a congratulatory scratch behind the ears. “You should take this to Bridei now,” he said. “The nature of this jewel narrows its possible ownership considerably. I’m assuming Lady Ana did not take part in the hunt?”

“She was not there; nor was her betrothed.”

They began to walk back up to the horses. Faolan was unsettled
by the look on Uric’s face, though he understood it well.

“I know the temptation,” he told the young man mildly. “You have the clue, you’ve worked for it and suffered for it, and now you’re all afire to rush in and make the kill—so to speak—all by yourself. I advise caution. If my guess is correct, you face very powerful opponents here. A clever man, a devious man, would have no difficulty in
standing up before the king and making a mockery of your evidence. The presence of this item in the field where the hunt took place does not in itself equate to foul play. Folk drop things all the time.”

“I know what I heard,” Uric said. “Others heard it, too, but they chose to disregard it. And I saw. Half saw.”

“Tell me.”

“A flash of something metallic in a certain person’s hand; at the same
time, the scream. Then the horse rearing up and…”

“I see. You must tell Bridei about this, Uric. You should do so as soon as we get back to White Hill.”

“Not before I talk to Bedo. We agreed to do this together. He needs to know what I found. This is more his quest than mine. That girl, Cella: my brother liked her. He really liked her.”

“I understand brotherly loyalty, but you should talk to
Bedo straightaway. If you prefer, I will accompany you when you speak to Bridei. My instincts tell me this is no fanciful overreaction to the sudden loss of a friend.”

After a little, Uric said, “Thank you. I didn’t expect you to be so helpful. Or to believe me.”

“All in a day’s work,” said Faolan lightly, realizing the sun was descending into the west and that, remarkably, the difficult day
would soon be over. How had Eile filled in the long time of waiting? He supposed running around after two small children consumed a lot of energy and left little time for dreaming. He imagined her in the garden, sitting cross-legged on the grass in her blue gown; he thought of her up on the walkway, clutching the hands of her small charges to keep them safe, perhaps looking out over the wall toward
this very part of the shore, her hair streaming in the wind. He pictured her back in her chamber, brushing Saraid’s long brown locks, telling her daughter that he would be back again tonight and would be sure to sing the next installment of Sorry’s adventures. He tried not to think too far beyond that.

They were very quiet riding home. Uric had stowed the silver pin in the pouch at his waist,
well wrapped in the red cloth. Ban kept pace, a steady, short-legged warrior. Pines stretched long dark shadows across their way, like warnings of change. Faolan shivered. He had been afraid of tonight, possessed by an uncomfortable mixture of hope and dread. Now, he thought of the chamber with the green blanket as sanctuary; he imagined her arms as home. It would be all right. It must be.

By
the time they reached the approach to White Hill, along a thickly wooded way where undergrowth fringed the path and the tree-clad hillside ahead loomed dark
against the sky, daylight was fading. Shadows hung around the bushes and the canopy of trees was full of the evening cries of birds, harsh and unsettling.

Faolan was not sure what it was that made him halt, a little sound, a glimpse of something
not quite right. “Uric!” he called quietly. “Wait!” He dismounted and walked back a few paces, Ban at his heels.

“What is it?” Uric called.

“Wait there; no need to get down.”

Something; a hint of color where so bright a shade did not belong. Yes, there it was, a vivid blue, down under a bush by the track, a blue he had seen before not long ago. He crouched, peering in. From under the prickly
branches of a thorn, a pair of black, unwinking eyes stared back at him. The blue was a little gown, with a strip of delicate embroidered ribbon for a sash. It was Sorry.

Faolan’s heart seemed to flip over. Wrong; all wrong. Not here, so far beyond the safe walls of the king’s stronghold, and almost dark. What had happened? He reached in to take the doll by its limp cloth arm and draw it out.
He listened. Only the cries of the birds, the rustle of the foliage.

“Uric!” he called. “Get down and come here!” Then, keeping his voice soft, “Saraid? Eile? Are you there?” No reply. “Call out, Saraid! It’s Faolan. Where are you?” It was evident the doll had not been dropped by accident or cast aside, but placed there by loving hands, its pose one of watchfulness. Waiting. Waiting for what?
His heart was a fierce drum. In his head, one awful possibility after another played itself out.

“What is it?” Uric was beside him.

“Saraid’s doll. Here, in the bushes. They wouldn’t have been outside the walls. The child wouldn’t leave this behind. It’s like another self.”

“Maybe they went out walking. Maybe she just dropped it.” Uric was trying to be helpful.

“Eile was looking after the
king’s son. They wouldn’t come out. Saraid! Saraid, make a sound so we can find
you!” Gods, what a choice; stay here and search as it grew ever darker, or ride for the fortress and risk leaving the child on her own in the woods at night. Eile would never, ever have left her daughter alone out here.

“I heard something,” Uric whispered. “Listen.”

There it was; not a sob, exactly, but breathing,
the stifled, desperate breathing of a terrified child.

“Saraid?” Faolan was on his feet, moving through the undergrowth, going carefully despite his fear, for the child was only three; a crashing, dramatic rescue would only frighten her further. “Where are you, Squirrel?”

It was Ban who found her, running ahead, then announcing success with a single sharp bark. By the time Faolan reached the
spot, a little hollow at the foot of an oak, Saraid had her arms around the dog and her face pressed against his hairy coat.

Faolan crouched by her, Uric a pace behind him. “Saraid? It’s all right, Squirrel, we’ve come to take you home.” He reached to touch the bunched-up figure and felt her flinch. Her whole body was quivering with tension. “Saraid, look at me. It’s Faolan. I’ve got Sorry here;
she found me. Look up, sweetheart. That’s it. See, it’s me and my friend Uric.” She looked like a little pale ghost, eyes hollow, cheeks wet with tears. She made not a sound. “Here’s Sorry. She was worried about you.” Saraid reached for the doll. Ban turned his head to lick her face. A moment later she was in Faolan’s arms, clinging as if she would never let go. Silent sobs racked her body.

He stood up, holding her. “Saraid,” he said quietly, “where’s Eile? Where’s Mama? Is she here in the woods?”

There was no reply; the little face was pressed against his shoulder, the hands clutching his shirt. Sorry was wedged between his body and hers.

“Faolan,” murmured Uric, “it will be dark soon. She’s too scared to talk.”

It was plainly true. Faolan carried the child to his
horse and got
Uric to help him mount with Saraid in front of him. She wanted to keep holding on; to bury herself in him. Uric surprised him by talking to her quietly and calmly, explaining she needed to sit up like a proper horsewoman, and that Faolan would hold on to her and make sure she did not fall. She, in her turn, must hold on to Sorry. That way they would all be safe.

“Want me to go ahead and find
out what’s happened?” the young man asked diffidently.

“No, stay with me. We’ll go as quickly as we can. And if you believe in gods, pray that this is not as bad as it seems.”