The Well of Shades

  She snarled and struck with claws extended. With a yelp the fox retreated, blood streaming from its nose. And Tuala fled, deep into the cover of the trees, to hide awhile under a clump of ferns and remind herself that she had changed her form for both speed and safety. If she was to reach Derelei unscathed, she must follow her instincts every step of the way. No confusion. No lapses.

  Dusk came, and the woods grew darker. Her vision changed with the light; she found that she could still follow the tracks she hoped were her son’s. Perhaps he would be asleep by now, curled up in the bracken somewhere; perhaps she might go past and not know he was there. No; the scent would guide her.

  There came a need to cross water, a thing she didn’t like, not in this form; the human part of her consciousness tried not to think too hard about Derelei and the fact that he did not understand deep and shallow yet. On the far side, the need to stop and lick her body tolerably dry was not to be disregarded. She did so with ears pricked for sounds of danger, but all she heard was birds crying and a small scuttling in the undergrowth. The urge to chase gripped her, but she held back. If this took much longer, she would have to hunt and eat. But not yet. Not unless she must.

  The scent grew stronger. Before it was quite dark, she emerged between elders onto the bank of a broader stream, and there was Derelei sitting on a flat stone. She stood very still a moment, watching him with love and relief flooding through her. There were biting insects all around, and his small hands slapped ineffectively at these unwelcome companions. Tuala could almost hear her son thinking; she could see the conflict on his face. Weary to the bone, his body was telling him it was sleep time, time for cuddles and songs and a last kiss before being tucked into bed. Hungry and thirsty, he was wondering where his supper might be. She saw him yawn, then get to his feet, ready to walk on along the bank. His mouth was quivering. His eyes were stoical. And he was not alone; as soon as he had moved, two others had emerged from nowhere to take their places beside him: a tiny, eldritch girl with snow-pale skin and a garment made of what looked like wood smoke; a sturdy small boy with nut-brown skin and ivy twists for hair. Derelei glanced at them and started to walk; it was plain they were his accepted companions on his lonely journey.

  Tuala released the breath she had been holding. As she sidled out from under the trees in her animal form, the fey boy and girl turned as one, gazing at her, and their faces were not those of children, but of far older creatures, all too familiar from her past. Gossamer, Tuala thought. Woodbine. They led him here…

  There was a tinkle of laughter like a peal of little bells; the pale-skinned girl tossed her threads of silver hair, but spoke not a word. The boy raised fingers like twigs and greeted Tuala with a kind of salute. She seemed to hear his thoughts: We are only companions on the journey. It’s your son who is the leader. A moment later boy and girl had faded away to nothing.

  Tuala came forward, feet rustling in the leaves, and her son turned at the little sound. The droop of his mouth changed to a beaming smile. “Mama!” he exclaimed.

  Tuala effected the change to human form and took him in her arms. “You clever boy,” she murmured, tears starting in her eyes. She’d done it; he was safe. “I might have known you would see through that straightaway! I’ve come to help you, sweetheart. Help find Broichan? That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”

  “Bawta,” said Derelei, his arms around her neck, then yawned again.

  “Sleepy time first. Let’s find somewhere warm to curl up.”

  There was a hollow under an oak. Bracken formed a bed, and Tuala’s cloak covered the two of them. Derelei was hungry and thirsty. The queen of Fortriu unfastened her bodice and let her son drink the milk that should have been Anfreda’s, and he took it like the weary infant he was. Falling asleep under a sky washed with pale stars, Tuala thanked the Shining One for delivering him safely back to her. She considered what part the two fey companions of her own childhood might have played in this, and whether they would start to appear more often now, seeking a part in Derelei’s growing up. Perhaps it was he who had summoned them. She pondered the fact that a child of such astonishing powers was, at the same time, every bit as fragile and vulnerable as any other two-year-old. What would he be if he managed to grow safely to a man?

  18

  FAOLAN AND GARTH stood waiting for the rest of the search party. For a moment a stillness seemed to come over the courtyard; the moon was dark, the stars barely perceptible in summer’s long, eerie twilight, and even the night birds were hushed. It was cold. Wherever Eile was, she didn’t have her cloak. Faolan knew he should be planning how to do this, using logic, but logic had abandoned him completely. Suddenly, he understood faith; the compelling desire to trust in a power beyond the knowable, a benign and loving deity. Or maybe what he needed was the instinct of a wild creature, the ability to seek and find by scent, by subtle sound, by changes in the air that caused the hackles to rise, the breath to catch in the throat.

  “Do you think—” Garth began.

  “Shh. Just a moment.” Faolan held himself still and closed his eyes. In his heart, he cried out to her, a great shout of faith, hope, instinct: I love you! Where are you? Then silence. Silence save for the desperate drumming of his heart.

  He sensed a change in the light and opened his eyes. The other men were coming with torches: Garvan, Wid, Uric, one or two more now, among them the unassuming figure of Suibne with two of his brethren.

  “Brother Colm has given us approval to help you,” the translator said in Gaelic. “Meanwhile, he and the others will pray that we find your wife and the king’s son safe and well.”

  “Wife?” Garth raised his brows.

  “It’s a long story,” Faolan said, nodding thanks to the priest.

  “Bedo’s been called in by the king,” Uric said. “That girl, Cria, as well. Aniel promised to send us a messenger if they got anything useful. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Be quick,” said Garth.

  “We should start down by Breda’s quarters. That’s the last place anyone saw them apart from Breda herself.”

  Garth glanced at Faolan. “That’s the section we were starting on last evening when you came in with Saraid,” he said. “Some of it’s only been covered sketchily. Very well, break up into pairs and head down that way. One torch to each team. Faolan with Brother Suibne. Dovran with Wid. Garvan with Uric.” He paired them all, experienced man with less experienced, stronger with weaker, older and wiser with younger and fitter. “Cover every chamber top to bottom, no matter if the occupant is a court guest. Open storage chests, look in privies, don’t leave a thing unexamined. The least sign of anything untoward, report straight to me or Faolan. Understood?” He shielded a yawn. “And stay alert,” he added.

  “I DON’T KNOW what you want me to say,” protested Breda, wiping her eyes with a delicately embroidered handkerchief. “Everyone’s telling me different stories, even my own maids are saying the crudest things, and I’m terribly confused. And scared. That man, your bodyguard, my lord, he didn’t need to threaten me like that. He should know better. Anyway, he’s a Gael, too. Didn’t Eile come here with him? Hasn’t it occurred to you that he could be part of the whole thing?”

  “Breda,” said Bridei with hard-won patience, “we just need you to tell the truth. This was only a day ago. You can’t have forgotten. It seems you don’t realize how serious these matters could be for you. Your status, your royal blood, those things don’t render you immune where charges of this kind are involved.”

  She stared at him. “Charges? What do you mean?”

  They had been in the small council chamber for some time. Cria, her halting narrative growing steadier as she realized the men believed her, had told a grim story of jealousy, resentment, and retribution, of small omissions and errors punished by severe beatings and by subtle cruelty. She had advanced a theory, long shared in secret by all the handmaids, that Breda had caused the accident at the hunt partly in a deliberate attempt to injure Cella and
partly out of sheer mischief. It was well known by the girls that the princess of the Light Isles could not tolerate a day without drama. If things got too boring, Breda took action to liven them up.

  Bedo had related what he’d been told about jealousy and how that might have made Eile a target. All the while, Breda had watched him under her lashes.

  “You are on the verge of finding yourself held responsible for Cella’s death,” Bridei told her. “If you would not have further accusations of unlawful killing leveled at you, tell us where you went with Eile and the children yesterday morning and where you left them. And let me add, in support of Faolan, who is an old and trusted friend of mine, that I was a hair’s-breadth from taking hold of you myself and shaking the truth out of you. Now speak. The question is simple.”

  “I don’t like this.” Breda’s voice was small and tight. “I don’t think I want to say anything more. It sounds as if I’m being accused of… murder.” She turned her eyes toward Keother. “You’re my cousin,” she said on a plaintive note. “You’re supposed to protect me.”

  “I’m a king, as Bridei is. And yes, I am your kinsman. That allows me to do what he cannot.” Keother strode over to where she was standing, the candlelight illuminating her wan, tear-stained cheeks, her brimming blue eyes, her cascade of golden hair. He seized her by the shoulders and shook her hard. “Tell the truth!” he roared. “Tell King Bridei what you saw! I will not have innocent blood staining the hands of my family!”

  Breda blanched. “We took the sweetmeats down to a… a… storage place,” she said in a whisper. “There were some locked-up chambers, old dark musty areas. The little girl said she wanted to explore. It was part of a game Eile was playing with them, having an adventure, collecting things. I said I didn’t think it looked a very suitable place to be in, especially with children, and I went back to my chamber and then up to the garden.”

  Perhaps, at last, she had told plain truth. Keother sighed. “Why didn’t you say this before? Why all the lies?”

  “Aniel,” Bridei said quietly, “will you send a man to convey this to Garth or Faolan immediately, please?”

  “I was scared,” Breda said, her tone one of misery. “When I heard they were lost, I thought… I thought I’d be blamed. And it wasn’t my fault. I wasn’t even there. Not after that. They were fine when I left. Really.”

  “My lords,” said Bedo, “may I be excused? I’ve told you all I know, and I want to join the search. I could convey the message.”

  “Go,” Bridei said, “and the gods go with you. Remind Garth that within that part of White Hill there is a disused well.” His stomach was tying itself in knots. The well. The well that was behind a chained door, so secure that, almost certainly, nobody had considered it a danger. Perhaps they had not even checked it, for it lay at the far end of that long walkway below Breda’s quarters, a place the search might not have reached at all before it was diverted to the wooded hill outside the walls. Thus you take your vengeance. You give me my very own Well of Shades. He thought he could hear the bitter laughter of the Nameless God. In his mind, Derelei lay down there in the darkness, a broken doll, limbs sprawled, fragile skull smashed. “Keother,” Bridei said, “I cannot go on with this tonight. I think it’s best if Lady Breda remains here until the area close to her quarters has been searched. I would suggest her handmaids sleep in our women’s quarters from now on; Dorica will find them beds, and will provide a serving woman for your cousin. Will you excuse me?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “Bridei,” said Aniel, dispensing with formality, “you should not join the search. We must be mindful of security. I’ll have supper sent to your private quarters. And I will come myself the moment we have any news.”

  Bridei managed to nod politely and leave the chamber before he began to shake. He managed to walk to his own apartments before the tears spilled from his eyes. Then, because he was not just husband and father but also a king, he did not seek out Fola or go to watch his baby daughter sleeping. Instead he knelt in the corner he had set aside for his devotions, quieted his breathing and began to pray. But tonight, for the first time in his life, no matter how deeply he searched within himself he could not summon obedience to the gods’ will.

  THEY FOUND THE door before any message reached them. Brother Suibne held the flaring torch; by its shifting light Faolan examined the chain that held the portal shut. It could not be readily unfastened; the holes through which the chain passed were too narrow to admit his hand. It seemed unlikely Eile would enter such a place. It was not possible a small child could have opened this door. Yet he felt suddenly cold, as if chill fingers had gripped his heart. “Hold the torch closer,” he said. “There’s something on this chain, it’s sticky. Can you see?”

  “Oil?” suggested Suibne.

  But Faolan already knew what it was. He wrenched at the heavy door with some violence, trying to heave it bodily open.

  “Take the torch,” said Suibne. “I may be able to get a hand through.”

  “She’s in there,” Faolan muttered. “I know it. I feel it. Eile!” There was no sound save for a muted rattle as Suibne sought to maneuver his hand through the hole and unfasten the chain blind.

  “Almost got it… Stay calm, Faolan. God will aid us. Ah, that’s it… Now, I need to draw it through… God help us, is this blood?”

  The chain was off. Faolan thrust the torch back in Suibne’s hand and pushed open the door. And there she was, a limp form on the ground, gown rent and filthy, face corpse-pale, eyes shut, limbs sprawled. He fell to his knees beside her, forcing himself not to take her up in his arms but to put his ear to her lips, his fingers gently to her neck. In his mind was a desperate plea, to whom he did not know: Let her be alive. Let me not lose her.

  “God have mercy,” murmured Brother Suibne, then stuck his head back out the door to shout, “Down here!” in the Priteni tongue. He moved back in, lifting the torch to illuminate the raised stones encircling the shadowy pit; to reveal the narrow gap at the foot of the outer wall.

  For an interminable few moments, Faolan’s own heart forgot to beat. Then he felt the weak whisper of her breathing, the slow pulsing of her blood. He stripped off his tunic and laid it over her, touching his lips to her brow as his eyes filled with tears. “She’s alive,” he said, and they were the sweetest words in the world.

  “Faolan.” Something in Suibne’s voice alerted him. “There’s a well.”

  He made himself get up; forced himself to take a step across and look in. The torch showed the two men evidence of a cruel climb. Eile had left her blood on the crumbling wall of the pit, her clawing final effort marking the moss-crusted rim with desperate red trails. It was clear that, once she was safely up and over the edge, she had collapsed into unconsciousness before she could call for help. Suibne held the torch out to illuminate the bottom of the pit. Heart in his mouth, Faolan looked down. The well was empty.

  “Merciful God,” said Suibne quietly. “I had expected the child to be there, and this a heroic attempt at rescue. What has happened here?”

  “Come and look at this.” Faolan, crouched once more by Eile’s side, was examining her hands. The torchlight played on the broken nails, the abraded palms, the fingers whose flesh was raw and torn. Her soft indoor boots were ripped and holed, her feet a mass of cuts and blisters. Her knees were deeply grazed, dirt worked hard into the wounds.

  “She has an injury to her temple,” Suibne said. “Look, there. Best touch her cautiously, there may be hurts we cannot see. It is a long way to fall. A perilous and terrifying climb. Here, take my cape, she’s freezing.”

  “Garth!” Faolan shouted from where he knelt. “Get down here now!” And, disregarding the cleric’s good advice, he gathered Eile into his arms.

  “Faolan?” Suibne’s voice was soft. “Is it possible, I wonder, that a small child might slip out through a chink such as that appears to be over there? If that were to occur, a woman would not be able to get through to bring hi
m back before he wandered. She’d need to raise the alarm. Folk would need to go out by the gates, then around the wall to find him. The trees grow thickly on those slopes.”

  “Mm,” said Faolan, holding Eile close, wondering if he could be sure her heart was beating.

  “Might she slip and fall in her haste to run for assistance?”

  “Not Eile. Besides…” He reached a gentle hand to touch the crusted blood on her head wound. “Suibne?”

  “Yes?”

  “Take that chain, coil it up, put it in your pocket or conceal it elsewhere. I don’t want anyone tampering with evidence. If that’s her blood on it, I need the truth out in the open. I need justice.”

  “One might say, of course, that we are the ones who are tampering. In fact I already have the item in question secure. I admire the young lady immensely, Faolan, whether she is your wife or something else entirely. I saw her courage and sweetness on our voyage to Dalriada. I saw her devotion to her child and her trust in you. I will pray for her recovery.”

  Torches; voices; running footsteps. Garth was there, and behind him the bulky form of Garvan, with Uric close by. More men followed: Wid making remarkable speed, Dovran gray-faced with dread.

  “She’s here. She’s alive. No sign of Derelei. Garth, I need to get her inside quickly. She’s been hurt and she’s icy cold.”

  Exclamations of concern, of shock; a warm cloak—Wid’s; Garvan offering to carry Eile. It was wrenchingly hard to give her up; Faolan did so only because he knew the brawny stone carver would get her to shelter more quickly than he could. He had already demanded more of his knee than it was fit for, and he feared it might give way on him at any moment.