The Well of Shades (82 page)

The hardest part of the plan to work out had not been how to deal with Saraid who, after all, was only little and not very strong. The real challenge had been how to get out of her poky chamber long enough to do the deed. The place was like a prison. It was so unfair; she hadn’t even done anything wrong. Indeed, she had done her best to put things right;
to make them the way they should be. She did not deserve punishment, but a reward. In time, people would come to see that.

She’d been working on the hag ever since they made her stay in here, after that horrible supper with everyone making cruel accusations. Breda hadn’t been honey-sweet, for overdoing things would only make the woman suspect she was up to something. Instead, she’d done her best
to seem calm, friendly, and cooperative, while forcing down her fury at the way she’d been treated and her disgust at the crone’s double chin and wrinkles. Breda promised herself she would not grow old. Not ever.

She’d pretended so successfully the woman was getting quite trusting now. Even Dorica, who had come in for a bit in the morning, had made some comment about how helpful Breda was being.
Once Dorica was gone, Breda had tested the water by asking politely if she could visit the privy on her own, as long as she came straight back. The minder had allowed it, but she’d come out of the chamber and hung about within sight of the privy door. There was a guard within shouting distance. Not good enough. This must be done tonight, before Saraid decided to talk.

Fortunately, one of Breda’s
talents was her ability to seize opportunities when they presented themselves. The gods had sent her one on her way back from the privy, in
the form of the man on duty, who came right past her on his patrol up and down the walkway outside her chamber. After yesterday’s search, the king must have been desperate for guards that weren’t going to fall asleep on the job; Breda knew this man, knew him
very well indeed, and he was a few straws short of the full haystack, but had other qualities that compensated for it. The fellow’s eyes had lit up when he saw her; Breda had glanced and smiled and murmured a very specific set of instructions she made sure the old woman could not hear. She’d yet to meet a man who was prepared to refuse what she had to offer.

It worked. Her invitation had allowed
enough time for the guard to get his reward; Breda was feeling a certain itch herself, one she wanted satisfied before the real business of the evening took place. The fellow knocked on the door a bit before suppertime, and when the crone opened it he stammered out a version of what Breda had instructed him to say, something incoherent that included Dorica and stables and supervision.

“Oh, thank
you!” Breda made her voice suitably girlish. “My sister asked me especially to go every day to visit her pony, the one she couldn’t take with her. I’ve been feeling so sad and guilty; I really want to spend some time with Jewel and give her a treat. This is so kind of Dorica. And I’m sure you could do with a little rest.” She turned a winsome smile on her keeper, hoping very much the woman would
not seize the opportunity to go and talk to Dorica. “It should be fine, shouldn’t it, as long as this man escorts me all the way there and back?” Before the woman had too much time to think, Breda swept out of the chamber and off to the stables, her guard behind her.

In a little alcove with various harnesses of polished leather and shiny silver hanging on the wall, she gave the fellow his reward.
He took her the way she liked it, with rough vigor and minimal conversation. Breda shifted slightly, putting out her tongue to lick the sweat trickling down the man’s chest. She wished he wouldn’t grunt so;
it made the whole thing a little like rutting a boar. She let her mind drift onto that for a few moments, then brought her attention sharply back as a wave of pleasure spread through her body,
making her dig her nails into the man’s shoulders. She arched her back, clenched her teeth, attained her climax in silence as her partner thrust once, twice, thrice and emptied himself inside her. Messy. She’d need to bathe again, then take the herbal potion just in case. If there was one thing she never, ever wanted in her life, it was a child.

“You can go,” she told the guard, who had withdrawn
his now flaccid manhood and was endeavoring to refasten his trousers. His performance had been a little perfunctory. The fact was, Evard had spoiled her for other men. She couldn’t wait to get home. “Keep your mouth shut or there’ll be no repeat performances. If that old woman asks where I am, say I’m still at the stables and another guard is watching me.” He gave her a look; she glared back.
“Go!” she snapped. “I mean it. Do as I say or I’ll tell the king you walked off the job. Go on!”

When he was gone, Breda sought for a clean rag on which to dry herself and found nothing but old cloths impregnated with oil; no wonder the harness was gleaming. Sighing, she used a fold of her shift. That old witch had better provide a decent supply of hot water tonight; she could swear there’d been
a sly, self-satisfied look on the crone’s face last night when a pitiful three tepid buckets had arrived. How on earth did Keother think she could manage without her handmaids? She could hardly be expected to do everything herself.

Breda emerged from the stables into semidusk, hoping the hag was still unaware she’d been given the slip. There would be a certain satisfaction in turning up in her
quarters once the deed was done, smiling sweetly and telling a tale of becoming lost in memories of home and her sister so that she’d quite forgotten how late it was.

The place was deserted. There wasn’t a guard in sight, except the ones on the walls, who were busy staring out
over the forest. No sign of the old woman. Lights blazing from the hall indicated supper was in progress, but it was
uncannily quiet. Perhaps the king was making one of his boring speeches. Even that did not generally create this kind of hush. The only voices she could hear were coming from the small room off the kitchen, the one where the children had their supper. Children never ate quietly.

It was time. If she didn’t do it now, it would be too late. Quite apart from the likelihood the little girl would talk,
King Bridei was on the track of something, and Keother, who was Breda’s own flesh and blood, was treating her as if she were some kind of miscreant. As for the Gael, Faolan, he’d looked as if he’d wanted to throttle her then and there. In another man, that would have excited her. In him it was plain scary.

She moved across the courtyard quietly, her kidskin slippers noiseless on the flagstones.
This must be quick. She knew how Eile watched over her daughter like a hen with a lone chick. If folk began to spill out of the hall before Breda was done, and someone saw her, it could lead to disaster. Breda shivered. Her heart raced. Her blood pumped. This was thrilling. It made her feel like a goddess, with life and death in her hands. It made up for all the years of her growing up, the years
of cruelty, the years of loss, the years of loneliness.

All that could be set aside. She, Breda, was in control now. She was strongest of all. Wherever she went, she would order things to her satisfaction. The king’s son was almost certainly dead. A freak like him did not deserve to live; most certainly did not merit the privileges he had enjoyed. Eile’s daughter must be next because of what
she had seen. Breda would ensure Saraid’s silence.

“A
ND SO
,” F
AOLAN
was saying, “we came to White Hill; I first, Eile and Saraid soon after. It was almost the last step on a very long journey.”

The household had sat spellbound throughout the lengthy tale. Now the story was all out. Everyone knew about Dalach, and that Eile had knifed a man who was her kin by marriage.
Everyone knew she’d packed up and walked away from that. They knew about the
éraic:
that she was Faolan’s bond-slave. It was odd; that had once loomed so large in her mind, the unwelcome feeling of obligation, the humiliation of belonging to someone else, the crushing debt. Now it seemed of little consequence. That was how much things had changed between them. So she had got her story out, and
now she felt as if she’d been wrung dry, yet at the same time she felt light, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had known how hard this would be, like stripping her own flesh bit by bit from her body and standing exposed to the elements. What she had not understood was that Faolan would take a full share of the burden. She had not expected him to identify himself as of the Uí
Néill, and kin not only to the high king in Tara, but also to the deposed king of Dalriada, Bridei’s opponent in last autumn’s war. That had seemed a dangerous truth to make known. But his story had shown why, though he was of the same family as the powerful chieftains of Ulaid and Tirconnell, he would be the last man ever to aid them against Fortriu or any other foe. He had told the tale of Fiddler’s
Crossing. The household knew Faolan had killed his own brother when he was only seventeen and had been paying for it ever since. They knew it was an Uí Néill chieftain who had engineered that. They knew Faolan’s own sister had held him prisoner. They knew, as well, that Eile had saved his life. He had told that with quiet satisfaction. At the end, although he still stood tall before the king,
Faolan’s voice was shaking. Eile sat by his side, holding his hand. The hall was so quiet, she could hear the faint sound of the children’s voices as they played in the supper room, awaiting the arrival of parent or nursemaid to take them off to bed.

Bridei afforded the narrators a few moments’ silence; it was clear to Eile that this was a gesture of deep respect for their honesty and courage.
Then the king rose to his feet. “I am full of amazement,” he said quietly, “as, I believe, are all who have heard this tale tonight. We expected, perhaps, a story of intrigue and adventure, of hardship and struggle. Some may have anticipated revelations of a political nature. And indeed, many of those elements were contained in this extraordinary account. But I think, above all, that what we have
just heard was a stirring and revelatory tale of love. Faolan, you said coming here to White Hill was almost the last step in the journey. May I ask you what is the last?”

Faolan met the king’s eyes. His own face was pale; his hand was tightly clasped in Eile’s. “I cannot tell,” he said. “That is yet to be determined by Eile and me. Perhaps also by you, my lord king. I hope… I very much hope
that this account has cleared the air for those folk who distrusted the two of us. My loyalty lies with you and, through you, with Fortriu. Eile wants only to enjoy peace, to provide a safe home for her daughter, to work and live as other folk do, without constant fear. It is a simple enough request.”

Before Bridei could respond there was a disturbance at the side door of the Great Hall. A serving
woman came hurrying in, her face tight with anxiety, and made her way along the tables to Elda. Words were exchanged. Elda went suddenly white. Dovran got up, heading for the door at a sprint, careless of whom his elbows knocked on the way.

“What is this?” the king asked.

Elda was on her feet, threading a path between the tables, slowed by the swell of her pregnancy. She looked back to answer.
“My lord, there’s a child missing. It’s Eile’s daughter. Please excuse me. Faolan, you’d best come.”

Eile’s heart went cold. She should never have left
Saraid with the others for supper. She should never have let her out of her sight, not for one instant. She sprang up, and the hall wavered and rolled around her. “Run!” she said. But Faolan was already gone.

I
T WAS
W
ID
who helped her out to the courtyard; Wid who, despite his advanced age, was steady enough on his feet if he used a staff. By the time they reached the open, folk with torches were everywhere. Eile’s head was devoid of thought; it held only a blank gray wash of utter terror. Her heart was jumping about, her skin clammy with sweat.
Saraid,
Saraid…
Saraid who knew something and wouldn’t tell. Saraid whom Faolan had said needed guarding until the truth came out. Saraid whom they’d judged it safe to leave with the twins, just for tonight, under the supervision of the serving woman the children knew well, the one who gave them supper with calm and loving competence. The one whose face had been drained of color as she brought the news.