THIRTEEN
Thor’s hammer!” exclaimed Sam. “A welcoming party! Now that I wasn’t expecting.” For sailing toward them in the center of the long bay, making steady progress against the wind, was the neat, compact form of the Sea Dove. As their own small craft drew closer, they could see familiar figures on board: Orm at the tiller, towering, broad-shouldered Skapti in the bows, and, sitting on a bundle in the central hold, a man in the coarse brown habit of a Christian hermit, with an expression of desperate anxiety on his amiable countenance.
Now I must say it, Thorvald thought. Now, already, I must find the words. I must tell them I have broken my promise: that I have failed them.
But as they drew alongside the Sea Dove, and Skapti reached down with a hook to hold the curragh against the larger vessel’s side, Breccan called to them, his voice tight with distress.
“Thorvald! You must help me!”
A tale emerged, a garbled, extraordinary story. All the same, the white-faced cleric told it with the undeniable voice of truth. Breccan spoke of a man gone, sailed away alone to the southern isles in a crazy quest to offer himself to the Unspoken as seer . . . a man who was no seer, but who nonetheless had such a persuasive tongue, such a gift with words, that he might, just possibly, succeed in his bizarre mission . . . a hermit who was prepared to sacrifice his own sight, his own mobility quite willingly if it would end the years of futile waste and heartbreaking loss on the islands . . . who was prepared to be a blind cripple, if it would save his son.
“You see,” Breccan said simply, “he knew that even if you survived the hunt, Thorvald, your days were numbered. The Ruler fears you: this season, he has found you useful to his purposes, but in the longer term your skills, your power, the leadership you offer his men are deeply threatening to his authority. How could Asgrim let you live beyond this summer?”
“Like to see him try anything now,” muttered Skapti. “Things have changed.”
“By doing this,” Breccan went on, “Niall intends to end the war and allow you to take control more easily. That is what I believe. He himself has stood outside the world of affairs these many years, for fear of what he might begin if he acted against Asgrim.” The Ulsterman was struggling to explain calmly, to control his shaking voice. “But he could not stand by and watch his son perish. He hinted at this before, but I could not credit it; it is a crazy, wild scheme, and Niall is a man of cold logic, of meticulous planning and tight controls. I did not believe he would go through with it. He timed it well; kept me up late, so that I slept past matins. He was long gone by the time I woke, and in this wind he may already be nearing the shores of the Isle of Shadows, where they have their place of ritual. We need the Sea Dove, Sam, with you to sail her. And we need you, Thorvald. Niall won’t listen to me, nor to a single one of the Long Knife people. But he will surely hear the voice of his son. You must turn him from this dark course. To act as he intends is to condone the violence, the primitive ritual, the heathen practices of these lost souls.”
And as Thorvald stared back at him, stunned into silence, Breccan looked beyond him, and saw who it was they carried with them in the little boat of latticework and skins.
“Creidhe! By all the saints!”
Thorvald noticed, in the ensuing flurry of activity, that Skapti could not stop staring at Creidhe, and that the big guard seemed to have tears in his eyes. He observed that Breccan moved with perfect balance on the boat, unsurprising, he realized, in view of that long voyage from the shores of Ulster. Thorvald and Sam clambered up onto the Sea Dove. There was a brief dispute.
“Creidhe can’t come with us,” Sam said flatly. “She’s been hurt, she’s exhausted, and besides, the moment those savages set eyes on her you know what they’ll decide. They’re taking a chance, trusting the word of an enemy, if they choose the priest. With Creidhe they’ve got their fair-haired girl all over again, the means to recreate their cursed Foxmask. And there’s not many of us. She must stay here.”
“I can take her ashore on the small boat if you want,” Orm offered, glancing at Thorvald. “But—”
“I’m coming on the Sea Dove.” Creidhe’s tone was chill and final. “I must be there. I must be there at the end.” She stood in the rocking curragh, her hands grasping the rope that Skapti had lowered to help them climb up. “You owe me, Thorvald,” she said.
Thorvald opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again.
“You can’t leave Creidhe here with Asgrim,” Breccan observed mildly. “That would be the same as handing her over to the enemy.”
“I’m coming with you.” Creidhe began to climb, but Skapti reached down, gripped her by the arms and, with one expert heave, lifted her bodily onto the Sea Dove. Orm climbed down into the curragh.
Thorvald found his voice. “You’d better tell them,” he croaked as Orm took up the oars, heading for the tidal flats where a number of men seemed to be waiting. “Tell them I failed in the mission. We found Foxmask all right; for a little, we had him. But . . .” He glanced at Creidhe. “But he escaped us, at the end. Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them I’m more sorry than I’ve ever been in my life.”
Orm gave a nod, and pulled on the oars, and the little boat slipped away shoreward. On the Sea Dove, Creidhe sat silent and blank-eyed once more. She looked as if part of her were missing; as if something had plucked out the vibrant core of her being, leaving an empty hollow inside her. Skapti had taken off his own thick felt cloak and put it around her shoulders, and she huddled in it, shivering. Sam was doing something expert-looking with the sail, and gesturing for the big guard to take the steering oar. The Sea Dove trembled, steadied, and moved off westward again. The sun had not yet reached its midpoint. Perhaps there was still enough time.
“Thank you, Thorvald,” said Brother Breccan quietly. “It was such joy for him to find he had a son. He has great pride in you.”
Thorvald bit his lip, afraid to speak lest he lose his last vestige of self-control. For all his efforts to discipline it, his heart seemed to be busily tearing itself to shreds.
“I see how difficult it is,” Breccan went on, seating himself by Thorvald, well out of the way of the brisk, efficient activities of Sam and Skapti. “If we took no action here, if we let Niall follow his own course, there might be peace in the Lost Isles. The killings, the stealing away of souls, the terror and bloodshed might be at an end. We could achieve that simply by doing nothing. And you would be a hero to these folk.”
Thorvald stared at him. “He must not do it,” he whispered. “He must not sacrifice himself. A victory bought at such a cost is not worth winning.”
Creidhe’s eyes were on him. Their blue depths seemed full of truth, as if she could see right into his heart, and a sadness came over him that was deep and abiding, for it seemed there were no answers here, no real ones. Who was he to meddle in such grand and perilous matters, such ancient patterns of power and faith? What had he done in this place but add sorrow to sorrow? Thorvald closed his eyes, for he could not bear to look at Creidhe, or at Breccan, or at a single one of them, lest he see only a reflection of his own wretchedness in their gaze.
So far, so good. Niall’s quick ear, his gift for language had served him well. The tongue was the same, though different in inflection and emphasis, with a certain spitting crispness to some sounds; the Unspoken had quickly understood his purpose. Whether they were prepared to accept the offer remained to be seen. He was weary; the long sail had sapped his strength. He thought, as they marched him up from the stony shore to a flat expanse of sward before the low buildings of their settlement, that there were certain small goals he could set himself, which might make this a little easier to endure. He wished to retain some dignity. He would give himself a pattern for the management of fear, and of pain. Patterns were always useful. Not to scream, that was his first goal. Not to lose control of his bladder and bowels: that might become difficult at a certain point. Not to change his mind and beg for mercy. He knew he could manage that one, the most imp
ortant one. He need simply picture his son, a man infinitely more deserving of a future than himself, a man who would not have existed but for him. His one fine achievement: his one good legacy. To preserve Thorvald, he could endure much. He could endure whatever they did to him.
They put him in a low, dark hut, with men standing guard outside. He waited. After a long time, a tall old man came in and squatted by his side, dark eyes fixed on his craggy face ash-white in the shadows. There were questions then, not so very many of them, but all difficult to answer. If Niall got this wrong they would send him away, and it would all have been for nothing. He must not get it wrong. He must not falter. Had he not always been a master at games, a subtle wearer of masks, a skilful manipulator of others’ beliefs and emotions? So he made guesses, gave answers and thought he saw the old man’s strong features relax a little, his strange, deep eyes grow warmer. The inquisition over, the elder withdrew. There was another endless time of waiting.
He could hear the men of the Unspoken conferring in hushed voices, but he could not catch the words. From time to time they strode past the entry to the hovel where he sat, and once or twice looked in: thin, scarred faces; dark, deep-set eyes; necklaces of bone; clothing of skins, rank-smelling as if incompletely cured. Niall waited, and while he waited he muttered to himself the words of the psalm he had copied as his last act of scholarship in the world of seeing men: speravit anima mea in Domino . . . And after a while the tiny, powerful voice seemed to speak again, a breath of reassurance, a murmur of hope, and his thundering heart slowed a little, his head cleared somewhat, his breathing steadied. Faith . . . a man must have the faith to pass this over to a higher power, to trust in one whose wisdom must surpass that of mortal man, to let it go . . . finally, to relinquish control and accept as God’s will whatever must come . . . How could he do that, he who had ever exercised his own controls, carved his own path, been master, not just of his own fate, but the fate of all those who stepped into his shadow? Faith, murmured the voice, terrifying in its simple truth. Hope . . . Love . . .
And though Niall thought he could keep the pattern he had set himself, and mask the signs of weakness as they performed the dark acts of the ritual, before this terrible whisper he trembled like a birch in a spring storm. To lay his heart open thus and let the light touch him at his core was the hardest thing he had ever done. In the shadows of the little hut, Brother Niall knelt on the earthen floor, the cross between his hands. His lips moved in prayer. “See, the door is open at last,” he breathed, and felt hot tears flow from his eyes like the water of a blessing. “Be welcome here . . .”
He was not sure how much time had passed. He judged, by the sun’s position, that he had knelt there long. His joints were stiff; the men of the Unspoken had to haul him to his feet. His mind felt empty, clean as if new washed; the things they were doing seemed to have little connection with him. Indeed, he hardly understood their purpose. They stripped off every item of his clothing: his coarse-spun robe, his sandals, the shirt and small-clothes he wore underneath for warmth. His fingers moved to clutch the cross as one man severed the cord that held it. Then he let it go. There was a purpose to this, though it had escaped him for a moment. It came to him again with brutal clarity, and he could not suppress a shudder. It seemed they intended to perform it now, straightaway. So soon; he had not thought it would be so soon. He had passed the test. Whether he could maintain this role remained to be seen. He hoped that he could, so the peace would endure. Let the cross be taken, for he held its power inside him now, and he thought that would shield him against much. They slipped a robe over his head, fine dark wool sewn with many small shells. They offered him a bowl of strong-smelling liquid to drink. He was thirsty; he took a mouthful, then pushed it away.
“Take, take,” the tallest man was urging him, a frown creasing his brow. “Hard, the pain—take, sleep—”
But Niall would not drink, for it seemed to him this must be endured in its full terror and grandeur, or he would learn nothing. Besides, he did not wish his senses dulled in a drug-induced torpor, his lids closed by false repose, not even for an instant. Until the last, he would have his eyes open to the sky, to the light, to a world he had never understood was beautiful until the day he saw his son.
They led him out, not as a captive now, but with a respect verging on awe. Many folk were assembled around the edges of the sward, and he could see that there was a great stone in the center, a monumental flat slab of granite, the lush grass around its base studded here and there with summer flowers, small and bright. Yellow, pink, blue, red, each was a sweet reflection of the season’s kindness. Sheep watched him from the stone-walled field beyond, rangy, long-coated sheep with mild eyes and busy, chewing mouths.
They led him closer, and the people began to chant. There were women here, gaunt, wild-eyed women as feral as the men, and clad in the same rough animal hides, with tunic or leggings of crudely woven wool beneath. He saw no children. By the stone slab the old man waited. His hair was as long and twisted as the wool of those tough island sheep, and in his deep, dark eyes could be read iron-strong purpose, and alongside it, both respect and compassion. There was a short, squat fellow beside him, with ropes in his hands.
“No need to bind me,” Niall said. His own voice had a faraway sound, as if it belonged to another man, in another life. “I’ve come here of my own free will.”
“Hard for you,” the tall man muttered, lifting his brows. “None can keep still against the blinding.”
“Then hold me with your hands.” Niall glanced at the second man, trying for a reassuring smile. He was not sure he could recall how such an expression was formed; all of a sudden he was feeling quite odd. His heart refused his request to slow down; his breath faltered.
The short man nodded. “I hold you,” he grunted. “And others. Will be quick.”
Niall lay down on the stone, on his back. The sky was dazzling bright, but he would not shut his eyes on this last glimpse of day. It was a blue arch above him, as blue as Eyvind’s gaze that had so astonished him with its guileless beauty, long ago in Rogaland. Another pattern established itself in his mind as the short man placed his strong hands on either side of Niall’s head, holding it still, and he felt the grip of four others on his arms, his legs, as if the pain of this might cause his whole body to jerk convulsively and set the knife off course. Perhaps they would not use a knife but some other implement, a spoon-like device, or even sharp-nailed fingers. He had not looked to see what tools they had at hand. A new pattern, he told himself, forcing his breathing slower. He would endure this as Eyvind would, his one true friend, his brother of the heart, the man he would wish to have been were there any choice at all in such matters. Eyvind, emphatically no Christian, was yet the very pattern of faith, hope and love: their true exemplar, as child and man. Eyvind would lie still and silent; Eyvind was strong. Let this priest, or whatever he was, use his knife as quickly and cleanly as Eyvind himself had done, the first time Somerled had ever seen him, slaughtering a goat in a moment of pure, perfect sacrifice to Thor. That swiftly slashing blade, merciful in its certainty, those warm blue eyes had changed Somerled’s life forever. Let today’s enactment mark another change: in the shadow of blindness, in the shattering of his bones, let his spirit walk forward into light.
“You are ready, brother?” the tall man murmured.
Niall could not nod in response, for his head was held in those two strong hands as in an iron vise. He swallowed and, with a certain difficulty, found his voice.
“Do it,” he whispered.
A desperate journey: four men sailing, pushing the boat to her utmost, straining to make what speed they could to the shore where, Breccan had told them, the Unspoken had their place of deep ritual. The Ulsterman knew it; in the early days, his kind had taken their message even to the heart of this pagan realm. Indeed, they had persisted for some time, until it became quite clear to them that these particular ears would be deaf forever to the word of God. They had retrea
ted; their purpose in this isolated place was not a mission to convert the heathen but primarily prayer, solitude and self-denial in the mode of those who had sought God’s voice in the deserts of the Holy Land. Still, Breccan remembered the place, and directed them to it with quiet efficiency.
The wind was westerly, the sailing tricky even now they had passed beyond the oddities of the Fool’s Tide. Even so, with Sam’s knack for coaxing the best from his boat despite contrary conditions, they made good progress. Seals crossed in the white wake the Sea Dove left behind her. The small curragh Niall had taken would be far slower, so they had at least some chance of reaching their destination in time. On the other hand, Niall’s path was shorter, a direct way southward from Blood Bay. The day had brightened; the sun shone pale gold in a wide expanse of summer blue.
Creidhe could not stop shaking. The men moved about her briskly, and she saw their sideways looks, their frowns as they assessed her, but this did not seem to have any meaning. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Her mind was turning in tangled circles: If I had not come to the islands, if I had not been there, they would not have caught Keeper unawares. If I had not tried to stop them, Keeper would have lived. If Keeper had lived, they would not have taken Small One, and Small One would not have done what he did . . . It was my fault . . . and now both of them are gone. The grief of that was in her somewhere, a tight, cold knot deep inside. The screams, the fury, the tears had done nothing to diminish it. She knew she would hold it forever; it had become a part of her, as Keeper and Small One were. Forever . . . Keeper’s vow whispered in her heart: My walls will shelter you, my hearth fire warm you, my feet walk beside yours until our journey’s ending. For him, the ending had come cruelly soon.
She had known. She had seen it, in the visions, in the stitches she refused to make, the images she would not fashion. And yet, Small One had urged her to complete her work. Put him in your web, now, now! Perhaps if she had . . . perhaps if she had dared . . . no, that was foolish. If the ancestors willed she should lose the two of them, her little family, her dear ones, then that was how it unfolded. No girl with needle and colored wools had the power to gainsay such ancient wisdom. Still, she had not thought, when she felt the compulsion to follow Thorvald, when she felt the sharp pull of the Isle of Clouds there on the path above Brightwater, that it would end in such sorrow. She had found her heart’s joy here in this lonely place. And Thorvald had killed him; it was Thorvald, the center of her world for as long as she could remember, who had shattered her happiness. That was what the hunger for power did to a man: made him a mindless killer.