The Well of Shades

  She said nothing. He wondered if the story had worked all too well; perhaps she had fallen asleep.

  “Remarkably, he got another chance. She gave him that; she was wiser than he was. This time he determined to tell her how he felt; how she had opened him up and let light into his life. But she kept saying, shh, no, not yet, and he held his tongue. Until the time he nearly lost her again. Then he told her, even though she tried to stop him, because he knew that if anything happened and he hadn’t said it, he could never forgive himself.”

  A silence. Then she murmured, “I suppose you’d better say it, then.”

  “I love you,” he whispered. “I’ll take as much or as little as you’re prepared to give me. I’ll give you and Saraid everything that’s in me.”

  The fire flickered; the birds on the tapestry moved in the draft; the silence lengthened. At last Eile’s voice came, hesitant and sweet: “That was the best story I ever heard, Faolan. Will you sing the song now?”

  He did not tell her where and when he had last sung this lullaby. He did not speak of Deord lying in Briar Wood with his head on Faolan’s shoulder as his eyes grew slowly more tranquil and his face paler, and his lifeblood drained into the dark soil of the forest floor. But he sang it for the three of them, father, daughter, granddaughter; a trio of souls whose courage was a beacon, lighting the way forward. The melody wafted around the sleeping form of Saraid and wove its way across Eile’s body lying against his as if it belonged there. It moved out through the fire-lit chamber where maybe, just maybe, Deord, too, could hear it. By the time Faolan got to the last lines his own lids were drooping, and a sweet warmth was stealing through his aching body. “Rest tired limbs and weary eyes,” he murmured, “and to a bright new day arise.” And, holding her close, he slept.

  UNDER THE SPREADING canopy of an ancient oak, in a hollow partway up a wooded slope some miles from White Hill, the druid sat cross-legged on the ground. He felt the heartbeat of Bone Mother in the earth that supported him; he smelled the myriad scents in the air, the tiny, subtle differences he had learned to recognize over the long years of his training. The sounds of the woodland were a wild, soft music, balm to the ears, telling a wisdom deep beyond human knowing, old and unchangeable. I endure. I am strong.

  His eyes were closed, his back straight, his hands loose against the tattered garment that covered his nakedness. Soon he would slow his breathing, clear his mind, enter deep meditation. As he had come closer to his destination, he had heard the goddess bid him slacken his pace and take time for reflection, for a task awaited him that would tax his newfound strength hard. Daily he had sat thus awhile, fixing his mind on the gods and on obedience.

  Often, in the visions his trance brought him, he would see a figure climbing the hill, feet soft on the forest path, face dappled with sun as the Flamekeeper’s light sought to penetrate down between the leaves. Sometimes it was Bridei, a strong, square-shouldered man in his prime with steadfast blue eyes and curling hair the color of ripe chestnuts. Sometimes it was Tuala, his daughter, a slight, graceful girl whose form seemed both ethereal and strong, both eldritch and dearly familiar, with her snow-pale skin, her cloud of dark hair, and her deep, knowing eyes. And sometimes, as today, it was the child: Derelei, his little student, his frail, precious infant mage. Broichan’s vision showed him the tiny figure clad in nothing warmer than shirt and trousers, his feet in indoor boots that were fraying and mud-coated. The child’s face was grubby, too. Beneath the grime of his journey, the soft mouth was set in iron-strong determination. The large eyes gazed straight ahead.

  Ten paces away, Derelei halted, looking up the hill. At that moment the druid realized that this time it was not vision, but reality. It was indeed his dear one who stood there on the track between the trees, his light, odd eyes lifted, unwavering, to examine the seated figure of the druid. Broichan held his breath.

  “Bawta!” exclaimed Derelei and, opening wide his arms, ran forward, his small face illuminated with joy. Broichan’s heart performed a somersault. Tears flooded his eyes. He rose to his knees, spreading his own arms, and caught his grandson in a strong embrace.

  “Derelei,” he murmured against the child’s hair. “Have you come all this way to find me?” Even as he spoke, he knew it was so. There was no need to consider how such a journey had been made; the fragility of the infant, the long distance and rough terrain, the fickle nature of the weather and the threats attending the path. With this particular child, such considerations had no relevance. Broichan held the boy close, feeling Derelei’s arms tight around his neck, and knew this for a moment of deepest change. He was made whole at last, and now he would go home.

  After a little he opened his eyes and observed that, after all, the child had not made his journey quite alone. Sitting neatly at a slight distance, using a paw to wash behind its right ear, was a small gray cat with a tail like a brush. It looked vaguely familiar.

  A druid did not leap to conclusions. He did not ask questions unless absolutely necessary. Life was a series of puzzles. A druid’s skill lay in choosing from a range of solutions, each of which might be correct in one way or another. Broichan studied the creature. When the cat had completed washing to its satisfaction, it fixed its large, fey eyes on him in solemn examination. The druid smiled.

  “Welcome, daughter,” he said, and the cat was gone. In its place stood the queen of Fortriu, regarding him with something of the same calm scrutiny.

  “Father,” said Tuala. “We’ve missed you. You’re needed at home.”

  Not a word about his sudden departure. Not a sign that she was shocked or alarmed at the change in his physical appearance. Her cool self-discipline was the twin of his own demeanor as it had once been, hard-learned, hard-practiced, a shield and defense.

  “Then we should go,” he said, and heard his voice tremble like a leaf in autumn. He stood with Derelei in his arms and found that he was weeping.

  “You may be the king’s druid,” said Tuala, “and I a queen, but I think we can allow ourselves to forget that for a little. There’s no one to see us out here.”

  She moved across to him and Broichan saw that, although her gait was as neat and smooth as that of the creature whose form she had assumed for her journey, the hand she stretched out toward him was not quite steady. There was a shadow of uncertainty in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” Broichan said, shifting Derelei to his hip and wrapping his arm around his daughter. “Tuala, I’m so sorry.”

  “Shh.” Tuala hugged him, and he saw the tears glinting in her eyes. “That’s all past. What have you been eating, grass? I can feel every one of your ribs.”

  “Tuala—your child—is all well—?”

  “A fine daughter. We named her Anfreda.”

  He felt another wide, uncontrollable grin spreading across his face; it was an odd sensation. In the days of before, he had not been a man who smiled. “Anfreda. That pleases me. You’ll be needing to get home to her. Quickly. Perhaps we should—?”

  “Derelei is too little for a transformation. No doubt he could do it, but we shouldn’t allow that. He lacks control. I can carry him.”

  “I will carry him, Tuala.”

  She did not question his fitness. “Very well. And as we go I will give you the news from White Hill. Much has occurred in your absence. We needed you. We still do. I hope you will stay this time.”

  “If I am needed, I will stay,” he said. “It seems to me you have taken a great risk for me.” He knew how much she feared making her Otherworldly powers public knowledge.

  “For my father, yes. And for my son. When we are nearly home I will use that other form again.”

  “I remember the little cat Fola gave you when you were a child. Mist, wasn’t it?”

  “I loved her dearly. A true friend in lonely times. I don’t think she would be offended to know I copied her form. Remembering her so well made the transformation easier.”

  “It’s a rare gift,” said Broichan. “I hope, in time, you wi
ll show me more. I think we could learn from each other.”

  “YOU SHOULD GO,” Eile said. “I know that’s what you would be doing if it weren’t for us. Saraid and I will be perfectly safe here. We can spend the day with Elda or up in the garden with Dovran to guard us, if you’re really concerned. Derelei’s at terrible risk. The king needs you.” She scrutinized Faolan where he crouched by the hearth, remaking the fire so she and Saraid could dress in warmth. Already he had fetched them breakfast while Garth hovered in the hallway and, to oblige him, Eile had made herself swallow a few mouthfuls. She still felt odd; there were aches and pains everywhere and a curious dizziness when she tried to stand up. But she would not admit this to Faolan. The men were even now assembling out in the yard, ready for another day’s search. She knew that if she held him back, guilt would torment him all day.

  “Of course,” she added, “if your leg’s not up to it…” She would not say how badly she wanted him to stay. It had been sweet indeed to wake in his arms and realize she was not afraid. The anticipation of a wondrous change in herself had stirred her to the core.

  “I’m not leaving you on your own. You must stay where you can be adequately guarded. We still don’t know what happened to you. It’s possible your fall wasn’t an accident.”

  “I know what you think. It sounds… crazy.”

  “Eile, I’m deadly serious. If I’m not here, the best place for you is the royal apartments. Fola is there, and at least two other women, and Dovran will be on guard during the day. I’ll carry you up there before I leave. You mustn’t try to walk about. You need complete rest. I want you to stay with Fola until I get back.”

  Seeing his tight jaw and his pallor, Eile bit back a remark about giving orders. “All right,” she said. “I suppose you do know about these things. Maybe I could help Fola with the baby.”

  “You must rest, Eile. Don’t try to do anything. You can’t expect to be instantly well again; you need time to recover.”

  “If that’s what you think. Resting is something I’m not very good at. Faolan, I hope you find Derelei. That’s the most terrifying thing, not knowing if your child is lost or found, dead or alive.”

  Faolan nodded, then bent to pick her up in his arms.

  “Faolan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Before we go up there, I want to tell you… What you said last night… those things… They were good to hear. Very good.”

  He said nothing; his eyes spoke for him, making her catch her breath.

  “And… waking up this morning with you there, your arms around me, that was good, too. Surprising, but good. I wanted you to know that before you left.”

  Faolan smiled. It was like watching a ray of sunlight break forth in a dark place. “Thank you,” he said.

  FOLA SEEMED UNPERTURBED to find herself overseeing Eile and Saraid as well as the queen’s baby daughter and her wet nurse. She made Eile lie down on a pallet, refusing to take no for an answer. Anfreda’s trusted nursemaid tried to take Saraid out to play in the garden, but the child stood firm, refusing to leave her mother’s sight.

  “Maybe it’s best,” Fola said. “Until Faolan gets to the bottom of what happened to you, he’s wise to suggest the two of you remain within safe walls.”

  “I think he believes someone did it on purpose,” Eile said, glancing at Saraid, who was on the mat playing with Derelei’s wooden animals. She would not use the words hurt, injure, kill in her daughter’s hearing. “I think he’s hoping I’ll remember without prompting, so he can prove his theory. Or that Saraid will say something. But why would anyone want to do that to me? I’m nobody.”

  “Can’t you remember anything?” Fola asked.

  “Not between earlier in the day and waking up in that place. Faolan said there was a narrow opening to the outside; that the children might have got out there. But why would I take them to a well? That’s so foolish, when they’re little and curious. What must people think?”

  “I suggest you ignore what they think, Eile. Those of us who know you at all well would never believe you capable of negligence where children are concerned.”

  “So folk do think it’s my fault that Derelei is lost. Oh, gods…”

  “There’s talk. So I’m told. At such times of crisis folk tend to gossip. Bridei trusts you. You should be reassured by that.”

  “Gossip, what gossip? What exactly are they saying?” Eile sat up on the pallet, trying to disregard the way her head reeled.

  Fola was at the table, grinding something efficiently with a small mortar and pestle. A pungent odor filled the chamber. The wise woman turned shrewd dark eyes on Eile, but said nothing.

  A sudden suspicion came to Eile. “Did Faolan ask you not to tell me?”

  Fola smiled. “You know each other pretty well, don’t you?”

  “Tell me, please. I need the truth, woman to woman. What is it people are saying about me?”

  “I heard a theory,” said Fola with some reluctance, “that you’d been placed here for the purpose of kidnapping Derelei. That you were a spy, a very clever one who won the queen’s trust with astonishing speed. In some people’s eyes, that makes Faolan guilty, too, guilty by association. Bridei stood up at supper last night and ordered the entire household to stop spreading such tales. He was right; the whole idea is sheer nonsense.”

  Eile’s stomach tightened with a feeling that was part misgiving, part fury. How dare folk turn on Faolan, who had been with the king since Bridei first came to the throne? “But they know Faolan,” she said. “They must know how loyal he is; how stupid it is to suggest he could be a traitor.”

  Fola had finished pounding her dried berries to powder. Now she transferred the result from the mortar into a tiny stone jar. “Faolan is a particular kind of man,” she said. “He may have been at court for years, but few folk really know him. He’s ever been less than open to friendships. He’s been guarded about his past. He is by no means universally liked, Eile. And he’s a Gael who, by choice, has attached himself to a Priteni king. That in itself must arouse suspicion. Those few who do understand the man at all well know he is flawlessly loyal to Bridei even when out there playing some contrary role, as his work often requires him to do. But ordinary folk may well look at him, and look at you and what has happened to you, and leap to an unpalatable conclusion.”

  Eile made herself speak, though she feared her voice would betray too much. This hurt far more than the gash she bore on her head. “But nobody knows what happened to me,” she said. “If I fell or was pushed; if I was stupid enough to take the children into that place of danger. Whether I sent them outside the wall; whether someone took Derelei with or without my approval. There were no witnesses except Saraid, and she won’t talk about it even to me. If I can’t remember, how can I defend myself? How can I defend Faolan? He’s been the best friend I ever had and all I’ve brought him is trouble.”

  “Lie down, Eile. You’ve been through an ordeal. It’s essential that you rest. That’s a severe head wound, not to speak of the chill you sustained. Take my advice and set these rumors aside. Don’t let them bother you. In time the truth will come out.” She corked the little bottle and set it on a shelf. “I hear that baby stirring. I’ll ask Tresna to bring her out here to be fed; we could do with a distraction.”

  Obediently, Eile lay down and closed her eyes. She listened to the sounds of the two women changing Anfreda’s wrappings; of Tresna feeding her while her own baby kicked on the mat, cooing happily. She listened to Saraid singing to Tresna’s infant and examining its tiny fingers and toes. All the time the feeling in her belly, a cold stone of uncertainty, grew heavier and the images in her head grew darker. How could she set this burden on Faolan, who had been so good to her? It wouldn’t just be today. If she stayed with him, if she let him take responsibility for her, it would be one thing after another. She was trouble; he’d more or less said so, even as he’d spoken his sweet words of love. She would create problem after problem for him without even trying.
Besides, tied down by her and Saraid, how could he continue with the special duties he performed for the king, the duties he excelled at, the secret ones nobody else could carry out? He’d never be home. She’d constantly be worrying about him, out there in danger. They’d both be unhappy. Common sense suggested she should walk away; leave White Hill and let him get on with his life. She pictured him coming back and finding her and Saraid gone; his voice sounded in her heart, saying, I’ll give you and Saraid everything that’s in me. “No running away,” she murmured to herself. “Not anymore.”

  The day wore on. In the early afternoon, when it became apparent both Eile and Saraid were chafing at the restriction of staying indoors, Fola allowed them to go out and sit in the queen’s private garden. With Dovran on guard it was deemed safe.

  “But don’t venture any farther,” the wise woman warned. “I’m under orders to keep you more or less in sight. If you need anything we’ll send someone to fetch it. And don’t talk to anyone except Dovran.”

  Out by the long pond, Eile watched Saraid running along the path, then stopping to show Sorry something she had found. Her daughter’s hair was glossy, her skin rosy; she looked neat and pretty in her gray gown with a little embroidered cape over it, a gift from Elda.

  Dovran hovered close by; he seemed keen to talk. “How are you feeling? You looked so limp and white last night. And your head… That’s a nasty injury.”

  “I’m well enough. Don’t waste your time worrying about me.”

  “I do worry,” Dovran said, the words rushing out. “I care about you. If I could—”

  “Dovran,” said Eile, “tell me what folk are saying about what happened to me. What stories are they telling?”

  “It might be better if you disregard that.” Dovran stood leaning on his spear, brown eyes troubled in his handsome, open face. “Folk talk a lot of rubbish.”