Authors: Juliet Marillier
Blade of Fortriu (39 page)
Ferada gave a snort of laughter. “Now
that
I refuse to believe as anything but a figment of the imagination.
I put it down to too much mead. Clearly, it’s my duty to help you finish this bottle. Let’s have a toast, shall we? To absent friends: may the gods watch over them and bring them safely home.”
that
I refuse to believe as anything but a figment of the imagination.
I put it down to too much mead. Clearly, it’s my duty to help you finish this bottle. Let’s have a toast, shall we? To absent friends: may the gods watch over them and bring them safely home.”
“May the Shining One give them good dreams tonight; may the Flamekeeper brighten their waking,” said Tuala, but there was a shadow in her eyes: how many such wakings might there be until the time of war,
when Bone Mother walked the field of blood and pain, gathering up her broken sons for the longest sleep of all?
when Bone Mother walked the field of blood and pain, gathering up her broken sons for the longest sleep of all?
FAOLAN MIGHT AS well have been playing the music of war, for the drumbeat of his heart was in keeping with such martial entertainment. His skin was clammy with nervous sweat; his fingers would be hard put to pluck the harp strings cleanly. The tight codes with which he had
learned to rule his behavior and rein in his feelings all through the long years since the night his life changed forever were not going to be of the slightest use tonight. The moment he set hands to harp, the moment he opened his mouth to sing, he would lay himself bare again. How could he possibly get through even one song, let alone sufficient to last the lengthy duration of a festive after-hunt
supper?
learned to rule his behavior and rein in his feelings all through the long years since the night his life changed forever were not going to be of the slightest use tonight. The moment he set hands to harp, the moment he opened his mouth to sing, he would lay himself bare again. How could he possibly get through even one song, let alone sufficient to last the lengthy duration of a festive after-hunt
supper?
Ana was gazing at him. She did look ill; the pallor was more pronounced now, the cheeks hollow, her lovely mouth set as if she were attempting to control pain. She nodded to him gravely. Faolan saw in her eyes an acknowledgment that she had erred in her judgment and the recognition that it was he who would suffer for it, though she could not understand the full extent of that, since he
had never told her his story and now never would. He saw that she was sorry and forgave her instantly. He bowed his own head in response; it was the courteous gesture of servant to mistress, stiff and formal, calculated not to offend Alpin in any way. Then Faolan cleared his throat and began.
had never told her his story and now never would. He saw that she was sorry and forgave her instantly. He bowed his own head in response; it was the courteous gesture of servant to mistress, stiff and formal, calculated not to offend Alpin in any way. Then Faolan cleared his throat and began.
They liked the hunting song. Gerdic, true to his word, picked up the rollicking chorus and led the assembled
crowd each time it came around. Faolan had been extremely careful in his research; nobody in the hall could have guessed he had not, in fact, been present when Lord Alpin’s own spear had pierced the first boar’s heart, or when the second creature had unexpectedly erupted from the undergrowth and come close to gelding Briar Wood’s assistant chief huntsman before the dogs moved in. By the end
of the song—a long one, twelve verses in all—Alpin was singing along with the best of them, and Ana’s expression could only be described as stunned.
crowd each time it came around. Faolan had been extremely careful in his research; nobody in the hall could have guessed he had not, in fact, been present when Lord Alpin’s own spear had pierced the first boar’s heart, or when the second creature had unexpectedly erupted from the undergrowth and come close to gelding Briar Wood’s assistant chief huntsman before the dogs moved in. By the end
of the song—a long one, twelve verses in all—Alpin was singing along with the best of them, and Ana’s expression could only be described as stunned.
The hunting song had been delivered unaccompanied, save for rhythmic stamping and clapping. Faolan felt the sweat dripping down his neck; it was as if he had fought a battle all alone. In a way, that was exactly what this had been: a battle against
himself. He was uncomfortably aware that the real test was yet to come.
himself. He was uncomfortably aware that the real test was yet to come.
“Let’s hear the harp, lad!” shouted Alpin, beaming. The chieftain was well pleased; the fact that he had not called Faolan “Gael” proved it. “Give us a little something for the ladies. What about a love song? You’d like that, my dear, wouldn’t you?” He patted Ana’s graceful hand with his own massive one.
Faolan made himself
breathe slowly. He set the harp on his knee; took his time fiddling with the tuning, although it was already perfect, for he had checked and rechecked it before entering the hall.
breathe slowly. He set the harp on his knee; took his time fiddling with the tuning, although it was already perfect, for he had checked and rechecked it before entering the hall.
“Faolan,” Ana’s voice came clear and soft across the crowded space, “I am fond of that ballad about the man who fell in love with a fairy woman, you know the song I mean?” She turned to Alpin. “Of course, it’s in Gaelic,
but you won’t mind, will you, my dear? I do enjoy the melody, even though I can’t understand the words.”
but you won’t mind, will you, my dear? I do enjoy the melody, even though I can’t understand the words.”
She thought she was helping him, providing him with a song he already knew, since she had heard him humming it at the ford. Thought, perhaps, that it was the only other piece in his repertoire.
Alpin made a gruff comment that indicated reluctant consent, and set a heavy arm around his betrothed’s
slender shoulders. Faolan’s hands moved; paused; moved again in a confident, sweeping flourish across the strings. The sound rang out, bold and true, silencing every tongue in the hall. His heart quivered and trembled with the harp’s frame, a sudden flood of emotion threatening to unman him completely, so long had it been since such powerful feelings had been set free within him. He must
do this; this time he could not hide, he could not run away. Faolan drew breath and began to sing.
slender shoulders. Faolan’s hands moved; paused; moved again in a confident, sweeping flourish across the strings. The sound rang out, bold and true, silencing every tongue in the hall. His heart quivered and trembled with the harp’s frame, a sudden flood of emotion threatening to unman him completely, so long had it been since such powerful feelings had been set free within him. He must
do this; this time he could not hide, he could not run away. Faolan drew breath and began to sing.
She did understand Gaelic, of course; enough of it so that, had he not needed every scrap of strength he had not to be overwhelmed by his memories and break down into tears or worse, he could have used this opportunity to speak to her, to warn her, perhaps, that Alpin was quite probably a liar and
that they might need to make a hasty departure; to praise her beauty and courage; to tell her what he could never tell her outside the safe confines of a fantastic tale of passion and heartbreak. As it was, Faolan let the harp speak for him, conveying in its delicate tracery of notes the wondrous love of Fionnbharr for Aoife, the maiden of the Sidhe, and the aching void he felt within him when
he lost her. The singing seemed to happen despite himself. If his voice cracked once or twice, his audience scarcely noticed. Goblets were arrested between table and mouth, pork bones held unmoving in greasy fingers. Serving people stood rooted to the spot, laden platters in hand. By the far wall a short, bald man with big shoulders stood listening intently, eyes calm, mouth displaying a small, ironic
smile.
that they might need to make a hasty departure; to praise her beauty and courage; to tell her what he could never tell her outside the safe confines of a fantastic tale of passion and heartbreak. As it was, Faolan let the harp speak for him, conveying in its delicate tracery of notes the wondrous love of Fionnbharr for Aoife, the maiden of the Sidhe, and the aching void he felt within him when
he lost her. The singing seemed to happen despite himself. If his voice cracked once or twice, his audience scarcely noticed. Goblets were arrested between table and mouth, pork bones held unmoving in greasy fingers. Serving people stood rooted to the spot, laden platters in hand. By the far wall a short, bald man with big shoulders stood listening intently, eyes calm, mouth displaying a small, ironic
smile.
Eventually it was over. Wild applause broke out, with shrill whistles and table-thumping. Gerdic came over to . slap Faolan on the shoulder, almost dislodging the harp; another man thrust a brimming cup of ale into his hand.
“Drink up, then let’s have another. Not one of those tearful, slow things, for all the ladies lapped it up—look at my wife there, she’s sniffling as if her mother
just died. Give us something with a bit of a beat to it, a marching song or suchlike. And then that first one again, we know the tune now.”
just died. Give us something with a bit of a beat to it, a marching song or suchlike. And then that first one again, we know the tune now.”
“Bard!” Alpin called out. “No more of that soft Gaelic rubbish, I’ve no patience with it. Let’s have words we can understand, for pity’s sake. And give us a tune fit for men, for we’ve shed a boar’s blood today, and we need entertainment fitting to the occasion.
Play us something bold and stirring.”
Play us something bold and stirring.”
Faolan took a mouthful of the ale, set the cup down and began again. Finding the right sort of tune was not difficult; he knew hundreds of them. Playing was no real challenge, even though his fingers had been untested at the task for more years than he liked to remember. The techniques came back to him readily enough, and the neglected harp stood up remarkably
well to the test. If Faolan could have shut himself off from the painful return of the heart’s knowledge, he might have done as he was asked and emerged with nothing worse than blistered fingers. He labored on, glad that the company showed a marked preference for rousing, cheerful songs, for it was the sorrowful and profound that were most likely to undo him.
well to the test. If Faolan could have shut himself off from the painful return of the heart’s knowledge, he might have done as he was asked and emerged with nothing worse than blistered fingers. He labored on, glad that the company showed a marked preference for rousing, cheerful songs, for it was the sorrowful and profound that were most likely to undo him.
At a certain point in the evening
Ana made her excuses and retired to bed. It was clear to Faolan she was struggling to hide her astonishment and, he supposed, relief: the last thing she would have expected was to find him entirely competent as a musician. They allowed him a brief rest during which he was plied with food and drink. He spoke with Gerdic and some others. Later, he could not remember a word he had said. He tried breathing
in a pattern, which was a thing he had observed Bridei doing at times of stress, and found it helped slightly. The flood of memories still surged in him, but he was able to hold back its physical manifestations: shaking hands, unsteadiness of voice, furious tears. The long evening finally drew to a close; Alpin called for one last song.
Ana made her excuses and retired to bed. It was clear to Faolan she was struggling to hide her astonishment and, he supposed, relief: the last thing she would have expected was to find him entirely competent as a musician. They allowed him a brief rest during which he was plied with food and drink. He spoke with Gerdic and some others. Later, he could not remember a word he had said. He tried breathing
in a pattern, which was a thing he had observed Bridei doing at times of stress, and found it helped slightly. The flood of memories still surged in him, but he was able to hold back its physical manifestations: shaking hands, unsteadiness of voice, furious tears. The long evening finally drew to a close; Alpin called for one last song.
Faolan had not decided, as his fingers moved to the strings
once more, just which piece he would give them. His common sense dictated something brief, bland, and cheerful to send them to their beds smiling and give them pleasant dreams. At the last moment he chose to disregard his own good counsel, and began the introduction to a far grander song, an account of a heroic battle, Gael against Gael, in which a great leader inspired his forces to unlikely
victory. He did not sing in his own tongue, but in that of his audience, and instead of a redheaded chieftain of Ulaid his hero was a young king of Fortriu newly come to his throne, a man whose token was the eagle, and on whose great endeavor the Flamekeeper gazed with benevolent warmth and heart-deep pride. He did not actually name Bridei, but there would be neither man nor woman present in the
hall who would mistake his meaning. He told of how old men laid down their walking sticks and ale cups to cheer as the young leader came by; how men in their prime rode off by the hundreds to join him; how youths scarce old enough to leave their mothers’ skirts took up the rusting swords of dead grandsires and marched away to pledge themselves to the new king’s service. He sang how, in this young
leader, the courage, wisdom, and strength of the original ancestor, Pridne, seemed reborn.
once more, just which piece he would give them. His common sense dictated something brief, bland, and cheerful to send them to their beds smiling and give them pleasant dreams. At the last moment he chose to disregard his own good counsel, and began the introduction to a far grander song, an account of a heroic battle, Gael against Gael, in which a great leader inspired his forces to unlikely
victory. He did not sing in his own tongue, but in that of his audience, and instead of a redheaded chieftain of Ulaid his hero was a young king of Fortriu newly come to his throne, a man whose token was the eagle, and on whose great endeavor the Flamekeeper gazed with benevolent warmth and heart-deep pride. He did not actually name Bridei, but there would be neither man nor woman present in the
hall who would mistake his meaning. He told of how old men laid down their walking sticks and ale cups to cheer as the young leader came by; how men in their prime rode off by the hundreds to join him; how youths scarce old enough to leave their mothers’ skirts took up the rusting swords of dead grandsires and marched away to pledge themselves to the new king’s service. He sang how, in this young
leader, the courage, wisdom, and strength of the original ancestor, Pridne, seemed reborn.
The piece ended with a stirring melody on harp alone, and a single bright note from the highest string. It hung in silence for a count of five, then Faolan bowed his head as applause thundered around him. He had performed the whole song without conscious thought; it had seemed to flow, not because of him,
but almost despite him. Once, when he was young and struggling with technique, he would have given much for such intuitive creation. Tonight he was only aware of how he felt now it was over: as if his body had been dragged over stones. He felt bruised, battered, like a beaten cur, his heart cowering within him, cringing from the assault it had suffered, for he had opened a door long closed and
bolted, and had let in more than he could rightly hold.
but almost despite him. Once, when he was young and struggling with technique, he would have given much for such intuitive creation. Tonight he was only aware of how he felt now it was over: as if his body had been dragged over stones. He felt bruised, battered, like a beaten cur, his heart cowering within him, cringing from the assault it had suffered, for he had opened a door long closed and
bolted, and had let in more than he could rightly hold.
“Come here, bard.” Alpin was standing, ready to retire; benches scraped on the flagstones as the household rose with him.
Faolan’s feet made the necessary moves, carrying him across the hall to stand before the chieftain of Briar Wood. He found that his knees were not prepared to bend; the pretense of subservience no longer seemed to be
possible. He managed to bow his head, for if he had tears in his eyes, he surely did not want this man to see them.
possible. He managed to bow his head, for if he had tears in his eyes, he surely did not want this man to see them.
“You surprised me.” Alpin’s tone was not inimical, merely curious. “The last thing I expected was that you could actually play. The lady was not lying after all.”
Faolan looked up, tears forgotten. “Lady Ana does not lie,” he said coolly.
Alpin scowled. “Maybe you play prettily,”
he said, “and sing wittily, and maybe you did provide good entertainment. But if you’re a court bard, I’ll skin the next cat that crosses my path and eat it for breakfast, bones and all.”
he said, “and sing wittily, and maybe you did provide good entertainment. But if you’re a court bard, I’ll skin the next cat that crosses my path and eat it for breakfast, bones and all.”
“Yes, my lord.” Faolan’s hands clutched themselves around the harp frame.
“I’m for bed,” Alpin said. “The lady’s unwell; I might look in on her, see that she wants for nothing. I hope she’s not going to be
sickly. I need sons, bard. No amount of pretty singing is helping me get those. Off you go, then. By the Flamekeeper’s manhood, you look as pasty in the face and shaky in the knees as your mistress. What is it with you southerners? Gerdic, get this fellow off to the sleeping quarters, will you, before he passes out and drops that instrument? We need him in one piece, and the harp; no doubt the womenfolk
will be wanting more fancy ballads tomorrow. Good night, lads. The Flamekeeper bring you dreams of wild beasts slain and battles won. And an accommodating armful of a woman in your bed.”
sickly. I need sons, bard. No amount of pretty singing is helping me get those. Off you go, then. By the Flamekeeper’s manhood, you look as pasty in the face and shaky in the knees as your mistress. What is it with you southerners? Gerdic, get this fellow off to the sleeping quarters, will you, before he passes out and drops that instrument? We need him in one piece, and the harp; no doubt the womenfolk
will be wanting more fancy ballads tomorrow. Good night, lads. The Flamekeeper bring you dreams of wild beasts slain and battles won. And an accommodating armful of a woman in your bed.”
There had been a time, more than five years ago, when Faolan had spent a long wakeful night by Bridei’s side. He remembered how Bridei had retched his stomach dry; how he had fought a trembling that possessed
his body; how he had managed to stay quiet and to hold back tears. They’d all been there for him that terrible night of the Gateway sacrifice, himself, Breth and Garth, and they’d tended to their soon-to-be king out of love as much as duty. Tonight, Faolan himself was the one in danger of falling victim to an excess of dark emotions, and if there had been a comrade nearby to offer support, he would
have shrugged him off. Indeed, he did not believe a man like himself could have such a thing as a friend; he was of his nature undeserving of it. There wasn’t a soul in the world he would allow to witness his weakness. There wasn’t a man living to whom he would confess his full story. Not even Bridei. What he had revealed to Drustan and Deord was the merest sliver of the truth, and even that confidence
he regretted. Such things were best left where they were, locked inside, not to be spoken. Almost, but never quite, forgotten.
his body; how he had managed to stay quiet and to hold back tears. They’d all been there for him that terrible night of the Gateway sacrifice, himself, Breth and Garth, and they’d tended to their soon-to-be king out of love as much as duty. Tonight, Faolan himself was the one in danger of falling victim to an excess of dark emotions, and if there had been a comrade nearby to offer support, he would
have shrugged him off. Indeed, he did not believe a man like himself could have such a thing as a friend; he was of his nature undeserving of it. There wasn’t a soul in the world he would allow to witness his weakness. There wasn’t a man living to whom he would confess his full story. Not even Bridei. What he had revealed to Drustan and Deord was the merest sliver of the truth, and even that confidence
he regretted. Such things were best left where they were, locked inside, not to be spoken. Almost, but never quite, forgotten.
So he made his excuses to Gerdic and the others, who were keen to take a supply of ale back to the sleeping quarters and continue the evening’s celebration. Faolan made his way alone up to the selfsame small courtyard where he knew Ana sat in the afternoons with her embroidery.
There were guards on the walkways, and they were keeping an eye on him, as indeed they should, but they did not attempt to halt his climb up the narrow stone steps. He held back his demons—ah, Dubhán, best of brothers, and the hot blood spurting, dyeing his own hands scarlet—until he reached a shadowy corner where the light from torches set here and there in iron sockets would not fall
on him. There he crouched down, put his arms up over his head like a lost child and, in silence, wept.
There were guards on the walkways, and they were keeping an eye on him, as indeed they should, but they did not attempt to halt his climb up the narrow stone steps. He held back his demons—ah, Dubhán, best of brothers, and the hot blood spurting, dyeing his own hands scarlet—until he reached a shadowy corner where the light from torches set here and there in iron sockets would not fall
on him. There he crouched down, put his arms up over his head like a lost child and, in silence, wept.
“YOU’RE LOOKING BETTER this morning,” Alpin said through a mouthful of porridge. Ana had begun to take breakfast with him again as soon as her bleeding had passed and her belly was free from cramps. “Touch of rose in the cheeks, that’s more like it. I’ve had some news.”
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