Authors: Juliet Marillier
Blade of Fortriu (53 page)
Broichan could not see such an ending for himself. The pain that racked his body might perhaps be dulled by soporific draughts. The mist that rose to enshroud his mind, to deny his intellect its true exercise and to cripple his control of the craft of magic, that was the element truly to be feared. These symptoms were familiar to
him. It seemed to him the poison administered long ago had not left his body, but had lain dormant all these years, biding its time before it struck again. So he believed; he could not think of any other possible cause for his malady, and he was learned in the healing craft. He would take no draughts; he had ordered Fola sharply to stop trying to be helpful. He must keep the last spark alive. He
must not lose what fettered powers remained to him. There was a child to be taught. And there was Bridei, far down the Glen now with no seer by his side to advise him.
him. It seemed to him the poison administered long ago had not left his body, but had lain dormant all these years, biding its time before it struck again. So he believed; he could not think of any other possible cause for his malady, and he was learned in the healing craft. He would take no draughts; he had ordered Fola sharply to stop trying to be helpful. He must keep the last spark alive. He
must not lose what fettered powers remained to him. There was a child to be taught. And there was Bridei, far down the Glen now with no seer by his side to advise him.
That had been the hardest cut of all: to watch his foster son, the young king he had made, ride out to war and not to be there by his side, ready to protect him in ways the most able of bodyguards could not. Who but the king’s
druid could cast an augury on the eve of battle to determine whether to advance or hold back? Who else could employ the tools of divination as they traveled, and pass down the wisdom of the gods? Without that guidance, the great victory over the forces of Dalriada depended entirely on the judgments of men, and those were unreliable even when the men were good, clever, courageous, and steeped in lore,
as Bridei undoubtedly was.
druid could cast an augury on the eve of battle to determine whether to advance or hold back? Who else could employ the tools of divination as they traveled, and pass down the wisdom of the gods? Without that guidance, the great victory over the forces of Dalriada depended entirely on the judgments of men, and those were unreliable even when the men were good, clever, courageous, and steeped in lore,
as Bridei undoubtedly was.
It was pride that had held Broichan back from summoning some other druid from the forest to take his place by Bridei’s side: pride and a pathetic hope, for up till the day of the king’s departure, he had prayed that he might be well again and strong enough to go with them. Because of that, Broichan had sent the man he loved like a son out to face the Gaels without proper
safeguards. He had undertaken to watch from afar, using the tools of divination. He had not told Bridei, or Fola, or anyone that even this now seemed to be beyond him.
safeguards. He had undertaken to watch from afar, using the tools of divination. He had not told Bridei, or Fola, or anyone that even this now seemed to be beyond him.
He bolted the door of his chamber from the inside, lit a lamp from the candle he carried and went to the oak chest for his scrying mirror. It was a fine piece, a gift from his old teacher: round in shape, fashioned of polished
obsidian and bordered with creatures wrought in silver, owl, marten, frog, otter, dragonfly. A lovely thing. He planned to show it to Derelei soon and see what the child made of it. If the boy possessed Tuala’s raw talent as a seer, he should soon begin to be guided in this art, so its development would be gradual and controlled. He was so young …
How long
, the druid thought,
just tell me how
long I have, so I can plan for him. A year? Two? A season only?
It was unthinkable. Not to see Bridei achieve his great victory, not to see the true faith restored throughout Priteni lands, not to see his small charge grow and flourish and learn … How could he bear it? But bear it he must, if it was the gods’ will. Obedience was at the core of Broichan’s being. Obedience had seen him enact the
Gateway sacrifice year after painful year until Bridei declared an end to that observance. Obedience kept him on his knees night after night, listening for the voices of the gods while cold and pain turned his body to a living hell. Obedience stopped him from seeking help … Perhaps not. He could hear Fola’s crisp voice, saying something about pride, about arrogance, about thinking he knew best. To
seek help was to discover, perhaps, that he was beyond help. This he feared above all.
obsidian and bordered with creatures wrought in silver, owl, marten, frog, otter, dragonfly. A lovely thing. He planned to show it to Derelei soon and see what the child made of it. If the boy possessed Tuala’s raw talent as a seer, he should soon begin to be guided in this art, so its development would be gradual and controlled. He was so young …
How long
, the druid thought,
just tell me how
long I have, so I can plan for him. A year? Two? A season only?
It was unthinkable. Not to see Bridei achieve his great victory, not to see the true faith restored throughout Priteni lands, not to see his small charge grow and flourish and learn … How could he bear it? But bear it he must, if it was the gods’ will. Obedience was at the core of Broichan’s being. Obedience had seen him enact the
Gateway sacrifice year after painful year until Bridei declared an end to that observance. Obedience kept him on his knees night after night, listening for the voices of the gods while cold and pain turned his body to a living hell. Obedience stopped him from seeking help … Perhaps not. He could hear Fola’s crisp voice, saying something about pride, about arrogance, about thinking he knew best. To
seek help was to discover, perhaps, that he was beyond help. This he feared above all.
Broichan unwrapped the mirror from its covering of soft woolen cloth and held it between his palms, not touching the polished surface. He slowed his breathing, willing it not to catch in his throat. The deepest breaths made his lungs burn like a blacksmith’s fire; he made his body relax into the pain, let agony
flow through him unheeded. He gazed at the dark obsidian with eyes unfocused—that, at least, was not difficult today—and let his mind drift. He banished, one by one, the thoughts and images that tangled and twisted in his head: Bridei, the battle to come, Derelei growing up at court without him, so vulnerable, so easily exploited. All the things he had not done, and now would not have time to
do … He breathed them away into oblivion, out of the shadowy chamber where the lamplight was barely sufficient to cast a faint glow on the equipment of his craft, set out precisely on stone shelves: his herbs and remedies, his scrolls and inks, his oaken staff standing in a corner. And the more secret objects, those he could recall the child Bridei staring at in wonder the first time his foster father
had let him enter the private chamber at Pitnochie. Part of Broichan wanted to pack it all up and go back there now. There, he could stop pretending and just let it happen. Mara would tend to him, his cook Ferat would try to tempt his failing appetite, Fidich and the others would accept the druid’s presence calmly and continue to ensure the smooth running of household and farm. At Pitnochie
he could die in his own place, among his own folk.
flow through him unheeded. He gazed at the dark obsidian with eyes unfocused—that, at least, was not difficult today—and let his mind drift. He banished, one by one, the thoughts and images that tangled and twisted in his head: Bridei, the battle to come, Derelei growing up at court without him, so vulnerable, so easily exploited. All the things he had not done, and now would not have time to
do … He breathed them away into oblivion, out of the shadowy chamber where the lamplight was barely sufficient to cast a faint glow on the equipment of his craft, set out precisely on stone shelves: his herbs and remedies, his scrolls and inks, his oaken staff standing in a corner. And the more secret objects, those he could recall the child Bridei staring at in wonder the first time his foster father
had let him enter the private chamber at Pitnochie. Part of Broichan wanted to pack it all up and go back there now. There, he could stop pretending and just let it happen. Mara would tend to him, his cook Ferat would try to tempt his failing appetite, Fidich and the others would accept the druid’s presence calmly and continue to ensure the smooth running of household and farm. At Pitnochie
he could die in his own place, among his own folk.
The lamp flickered, making Broichan blink. It was a reminder. Put Pitnochie out of his thoughts. Put all of it out … Float … Let the conscious mind go … Let vision blur … Forget the ever-present fear that today, yet again, his power in this would fail …
He sat there a long time. In upper corners of the chamber spiders spun webs and in lower
ones beetles fossicked. Within the walls mice went scurrying about their business. A vision came at last, not on the dark surface of the mirror itself but straight to his mind, a vision that was the clearest he had been granted for many moons. He had hoped to see Bridei or the other Priteni leaders, or the Gaels, or a pattern of events or objects that might be construed in a way that was useful. What
came was unexpected.
ones beetles fossicked. Within the walls mice went scurrying about their business. A vision came at last, not on the dark surface of the mirror itself but straight to his mind, a vision that was the clearest he had been granted for many moons. He had hoped to see Bridei or the other Priteni leaders, or the Gaels, or a pattern of events or objects that might be construed in a way that was useful. What
came was unexpected.
A man was running through dense forest. He made good speed, remarkable speed for one of such stocky build. The runner was broad of shoulder, deep of chest, and bald as an egg. There was a pack of hunting hounds on his trail, and following them a group of horsemen armed with bows and spears and knives. They were uniformly big men, with heads of shaggy hair and beards to match;
they wore fur cloaks and their broad faces bore intricate tattooing. Warriors of the Caitt. The fugitive was marked with battle counts on one cheek, done in the same mode as the others. He was one of their own. He bore knives at his belt but no other weapons. His features showed nothing of the terror of the hunted: he appeared calm and controlled. Broichan could tell he was regulating his breathing,
husbanding his strength for the confrontation to come. Someone had given this man remarkable training.
they wore fur cloaks and their broad faces bore intricate tattooing. Warriors of the Caitt. The fugitive was marked with battle counts on one cheek, done in the same mode as the others. He was one of their own. He bore knives at his belt but no other weapons. His features showed nothing of the terror of the hunted: he appeared calm and controlled. Broichan could tell he was regulating his breathing,
husbanding his strength for the confrontation to come. Someone had given this man remarkable training.
The vision changed and changed again. Always the runner: now balancing on a log across a deep gorge, now hurtling down a steep, rocky slope at a pace that put limbs in danger of snapping and brought a shower of stones after him. He did not seem overcautious about making noise; it was almost
as if he wanted to draw the pursuit after him.
as if he wanted to draw the pursuit after him.
Dogs and horsemen closed on him; their leader found another way around the gorge and a path that bypassed the steep incline. The hounds sighted the runner and gave voice. The leader raised a horn to his lips. In this man’s eyes Broichan read a thirst for blood and, although he could not hear, the druid’s mind could guess what this chieftain was shouting
to his men. “Hold back the dogs! He’s mine!”
to his men. “Hold back the dogs! He’s mine!”
They cornered the bald-headed man against a rock wall; he had seized a fallen branch and was sweeping it before him at waist height, this way, that way in a savage arc. The dogs could not get near him, and their keepers went in at the chieftain’s command to fix ropes to the baying hounds’ collars and drag them slavering away. The warriors made a loose
semicircle around the trapped man, keeping their distance from that swinging branch. The man’s arms were corded with muscle; Broichan recognized the phenomenal strength required to hold a thick length of damp timber at that height and control it thus. He watched as the leader gave another command and four of his company set arrows to bow strings.
semicircle around the trapped man, keeping their distance from that swinging branch. The man’s arms were corded with muscle; Broichan recognized the phenomenal strength required to hold a thick length of damp timber at that height and control it thus. He watched as the leader gave another command and four of his company set arrows to bow strings.
The druid opened himself to the voices in his
vision. There was no sound in the quiet chamber where he sat with his mirror, for this was an image in his mind only, conjured by his readiness for what the gods offered him at this particular moment. The mirror he used as a tool to detach the mind from the myriad thoughts that crowded it, to clear it of distractions the better to make room for the visions he might be granted. To hear as well as see
required a deeper level of concentration; slowing his breathing further, Broichan found it.
vision. There was no sound in the quiet chamber where he sat with his mirror, for this was an image in his mind only, conjured by his readiness for what the gods offered him at this particular moment. The mirror he used as a tool to detach the mind from the myriad thoughts that crowded it, to clear it of distractions the better to make room for the visions he might be granted. To hear as well as see
required a deeper level of concentration; slowing his breathing further, Broichan found it.
“Where is she?” demanded the leader of the hunting party, his voice harsh with fury. “Where have you taken her?”
It was clear the cornered man had no intention of replying. He simply continued to fend off the attackers with his branch, while keeping an eye on the archers.
“Hold off!” the leader barked
at his men, and the bows were lowered slightly. “I need his answers first, then you can have your sport. Put that thing down, scum, and speak to me! Where’s Ana? Where’s the wretched Gael, and where’s my brother? By all the gods, how could you set Drustan free? Haven’t I provided you with food and shelter and a steady supply of silver pieces these seven years past? I trusted you, and you let that
murderer out!”
at his men, and the bows were lowered slightly. “I need his answers first, then you can have your sport. Put that thing down, scum, and speak to me! Where’s Ana? Where’s the wretched Gael, and where’s my brother? By all the gods, how could you set Drustan free? Haven’t I provided you with food and shelter and a steady supply of silver pieces these seven years past? I trusted you, and you let that
murderer out!”
The branch continued its steady sweeping motion; it was the only thing separating the fugitive from his attackers. He spoke now, levelly, as if he had not just run the race of his life. “I’m ready to fight. Set your men against me one by one, or two by two. If you want to make an end of me, let it be in fair combat. Would you hunt a man down like vermin?”
“Vermin is what you are,
and it’s I who will choose the manner of your death. Answer my questions and you can have your fight. It’d need to be three at a time, I think; the men know your reputation. Fail to answer and your end will be slower. And it will hurt more. Now tell me! Where’s Ana? Where’s her godforsaken turncoat bard? And where’s my brother, you treacherous apology for a servant? Where’s he flown off to?”
and it’s I who will choose the manner of your death. Answer my questions and you can have your fight. It’d need to be three at a time, I think; the men know your reputation. Fail to answer and your end will be slower. And it will hurt more. Now tell me! Where’s Ana? Where’s her godforsaken turncoat bard? And where’s my brother, you treacherous apology for a servant? Where’s he flown off to?”
When there was no response, the leader gave a nod to his archers. A red-fletched arrow left the bow, whirring across to skim the trapped man’s shoulder, for he had ducked just in time. Another nod; a second missile, this one more skilfully aimed in anticipation of a move. It took the quarry in the left arm, lodging deep in the well-developed muscle. The fugitive grunted; he could not reach to draw
out the shaft without putting down his makeshift weapon.
out the shaft without putting down his makeshift weapon.
“Where are they? Where have you hidden them? Speak up, my patience is running short.”
“Somewhere in the forest,” the fugitive said calmly. “If you search for long enough, you may find them. Or they may slip from your grasp, Alpin. I care nothing for any of them. Weakling bards, golden-haired ladies, what are they to do with the likes of
me? As for your brother, he’s served his penance, poor wretch. I doubt you’ll ever. see him again.”
me? As for your brother, he’s served his penance, poor wretch. I doubt you’ll ever. see him again.”
“You’re lying. You helped them escape. We found your cunning little tunnel and your clever concealment. You helped the Gael get away; you helped him steal my wife. He wants her for himself, I saw it in his eyes from the first. He’s probably out there having her right now, and Drustan’s standing
by waiting for the leftovers. When I find the bard I intend to take him apart. Limb by limb, slowly. Out with it, Deord! Tell me where they are and I’ll let you die like a fighting man and not like a rat in a hole.”
by waiting for the leftovers. When I find the bard I intend to take him apart. Limb by limb, slowly. Out with it, Deord! Tell me where they are and I’ll let you die like a fighting man and not like a rat in a hole.”
The man called Deord looked at the other, eyes untroubled. The branch he held ceased to sweep before him; he lowered its outer end slowly to the forest floor. “Whatever I do between
this moment and the moment of my death,” he said as blood from the arrow wound spread a slow stain across the sleeve of his shirt, “I won’t betray a trust. Don’t think you can prevail by threatening me, Alpin. I’ve seen your tactics too many times. Your brother’s gone. He’s free. As for the others, they are none of my concern.” As the leader drew a long knife from his belt and took a step forward,
Deord added, “I’ve often thought the quality of a man can be judged by how well he dies. I intend to make my end a measure of what I am, as a man.”
this moment and the moment of my death,” he said as blood from the arrow wound spread a slow stain across the sleeve of his shirt, “I won’t betray a trust. Don’t think you can prevail by threatening me, Alpin. I’ve seen your tactics too many times. Your brother’s gone. He’s free. As for the others, they are none of my concern.” As the leader drew a long knife from his belt and took a step forward,
Deord added, “I’ve often thought the quality of a man can be judged by how well he dies. I intend to make my end a measure of what I am, as a man.”
“A man does not scream and whimper and plead for release,” Alpin said. “Believe me, before I’m finished with you, you’ll be doing all three and soiling yourself to boot.”
Deord did not reply but, as Alpin drew closer, he turned in a sudden whirl
of movement, his right leg coming high behind him in a powerful kick that sent one man sprawling at full length on the ground, while a punishing blow from the undamaged right arm caught another in the chest, winding him. Alpin, who had stepped back out of reach, clicked his fingers. Arrows whirred and thumped, and Deord, rising from his turn, received them in shoulder and thigh, each quivering shaft
lodged deep. He staggered, then steadied. A knife appeared in each hand.
of movement, his right leg coming high behind him in a powerful kick that sent one man sprawling at full length on the ground, while a punishing blow from the undamaged right arm caught another in the chest, winding him. Alpin, who had stepped back out of reach, clicked his fingers. Arrows whirred and thumped, and Deord, rising from his turn, received them in shoulder and thigh, each quivering shaft
lodged deep. He staggered, then steadied. A knife appeared in each hand.
“Tell me the truth!” Alpin snarled. “Tell me now or pay the price! Where have you taken my wife?”
Deord gave no sign of having heard him. His stance, legs apart, knees slightly bent in readiness for whatever move was required, was that of a seasoned fighter; the barbs that he carried in his body seemed no more than a minor
inconvenience. His eyes remained calm. Around him the semicircle of hunters drew tighter, but there was a certain margin beyond which none of them would advance, not even their leader, Alpin. To Broichan, watching with the eyes of a practiced seer, it seemed the hand of the Flamekeeper himself stretched out over this lone fighter, imbuing him with a kind of purity that stripped away all trace
of fear and made him an instrument of deadly force. What man, so outnumbered, could face his enemy with such fearless equanimity, save one favored by the god himself? The Flamekeeper honored courageous deeds; he loved the fire that burned in the hearts of his dauntless sons. Perhaps he had marked this one for a place at his right hand. The scene in Broichan’s mind could not be destined to end in triumph
for this fighter, not against such odds. The druid found that he was holding his breath, willing into being what could not happen. He made himself relax and pace his breathing once more, for if he lost control thus, he risked losing the vision entirely. It had been sent for a purpose. He must watch to the end, the bloody, inevitable end, and then hope he could make some sense of it.
inconvenience. His eyes remained calm. Around him the semicircle of hunters drew tighter, but there was a certain margin beyond which none of them would advance, not even their leader, Alpin. To Broichan, watching with the eyes of a practiced seer, it seemed the hand of the Flamekeeper himself stretched out over this lone fighter, imbuing him with a kind of purity that stripped away all trace
of fear and made him an instrument of deadly force. What man, so outnumbered, could face his enemy with such fearless equanimity, save one favored by the god himself? The Flamekeeper honored courageous deeds; he loved the fire that burned in the hearts of his dauntless sons. Perhaps he had marked this one for a place at his right hand. The scene in Broichan’s mind could not be destined to end in triumph
for this fighter, not against such odds. The druid found that he was holding his breath, willing into being what could not happen. He made himself relax and pace his breathing once more, for if he lost control thus, he risked losing the vision entirely. It had been sent for a purpose. He must watch to the end, the bloody, inevitable end, and then hope he could make some sense of it.
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