Spirit of the Mist (13 page)

Only brief and static images came: Brendan and his two men and their cattle overtaken by the torch-bearing riders of King Odhran. Men and women hiding in the trees and watching—men and women dressed in the poor garb of slaves. Finally, attacking riders swarming over Brendan and his men, drawing their swords and shouting as they swung and slashed their iron blades at the tanist and his men.
 

Then the heavy clouds took away the images, leaving the water dark and still. Muriel tried again and again to see Brendan, touching the water and speaking his name, but it was no use.
 

She could see nothing but shadows.
 

The two days that followed were the longest of Muriel’s life. The worst part was realizing that it could well be a very long time before she knew what had happened to Brendan. Her mirror could show her nothing again until next the moon was full.
 

She would have to wait until word came to them somehow from someone who knew something at King Odhran’s court…or worse, wait until a party came galloping to Dun Farraige to take their revenge for a failed cattle raid, bringing with them the severed heads of those they had defeated.
 

Either Brendan would return, or he would not. There was nothing that she could do for him now. It was all up to him.
 

The sun rose yet again, though on this fifth day after Brendan’s departure it soon disappeared into a heavy gray wall of cloud. Muriel sat in the King’s Hall among the other women and worked at her embroidery, listening to the rain and to the soft voices and laughter of the other women, but she listened most of all for the sound of hoof beats.
 

The rain grew stronger, and from time to time a little flicker of lightning appeared outside the hall’s windows and through the opening in the roof above the firepit. Thunder rumbled in the distance and then faded again, though after one bright flash the roar seemed to roll on and on and did not fade.
 

Muriel looked up. That was not thunder she was hearing. It was the sound of horses’ hooves.
 

She got up and hurried across the hall, unpinning her purple-blue cloak and dropping it to the rushes as she ran outside, not caring that the cold rain soaked her hair and flooded her eyes. Grabbing up the hem of her gown, Muriel raced across the muddy grounds, straight to the enormous herd of black cattle pouring in through the gates, straight to the three horsemen riding close behind them, and straight to the man who was the last to come through the gates. The man rode tall and proud on his big, gray horse.
 

Chapter Eight
 

All of the people of Dun Farraige gathered together that night in the bright, torchlit King’s Hall. As the thatched roof of the great rectangular building was open in the center to allow the smoke to escape, steady rain fell hissing and steaming into the flames of the firepit below. But the sound was largely lost in the laughing and talking and singing of the revelers inside.
 

In the shadows on the far side of the pit, Muriel and Alvy had taken on the task of directing the servants who worked to prepare the very large feast. “Muriel, there was no need for you to watch the servants do their work,” Alvy scolded as she began dropping freshly caught crabs and lobsters into a bronze cauldron of boiling water. “You could have sat beside Brendan tonight, instead of getting your hands greasy back here!”
 

“I do not mind,” Muriel said, carefully spooning some of the dun’s precious store of salt from a leather bag into three small golden bowls. Not so much as a single grain spilled onto her green gown.
 

“I’m not sure I want to sit with him just yet. I want to see what he will do on his own before the king and queen. If I am not available because I am doing this task for the king, what will he do then? Will he ask another to sit in my place?”
 

“Dear one, I have taught you well,” Alvy said with a chuckle. Then she tossed the last of the lobsters into the steaming cauldron.
 

Muriel put the salt away and turned her attention to the rest of the feast. Some of the servants turned great sides of beef on spits; others pulled codfish wrapped in clay out from under hot ashes where they had been baking; still others saw to the chopping of fresh seaweed and cress, ready for a brief plunge into the water and salt and beef fat now boiling in the cauldrons. Everyone else who could be spared worked to prepare endless flat, round pieces of oat bread.
 

On the other side of the firepit, well away from these bustling preparations, a long line of polished wooden slabs lay end to end in thick dried rushes. Down the center were placed an assortment of sand-filled seashells with rush lights already burning in them. On either side of those slabs rested straw-stuffed cushions made of gray sealskin and black cowhide, and in front of each cushion sat a gleaming gold plate and cup.
 

Muriel caught her breath and smoothed her damp hair back from her face. All was ready. Brendan’s own kingdom could doubtless do no better.
 

Then, as three of the servants came out with heavy skins of honey wine to fill each golden cup, Brendan and his two companions from Dun Bochna entered the hall. They were closely followed by a large group of King Murrough’s warriors and druids, each with his wife or the lady who was his favorite if he had no wife, and each looked especially strong and virile.
 

But Muriel found she had eyes for no one but Brendan tonight. If she had never seen him before, she would think him a prince just from the way he was dressed. His tunic was woven from blue and cream and yellow wools, with a wide blue cloak pinned in folds over his shoulder by an enormous golden brooch. She could not help staring at the brooch for a moment; it was one of the most beautiful she had ever seen, for though it was circular like most others, it was overlaid with a leaping, arcing dolphin, also in gold.
 

An iron sword with a bone handle hung in a scabbard at his hip. His skin was fair and glowing, and his damp, dark golden hair shone in the soft light of the hall. All the other men seemed faded and ordinary next to him.
 

Muriel stayed back in the shadows as the guests moved to their places beside the cushions. The hall fell silent as everyone stood waiting for the king and queen.
 

In a moment King Murrough appeared at the door, with his wife, Queen Orla, at his side. The music of harps and drums filled the hall as they walked to the far end of the wooden slabs. The royal couple sat down on their own cushions, which were covered with the softest white fur. The rest of the company settled comfortably at their own places, with Brendan across the corner from the king and both of his men sitting right beside him.
 

The music quieted as the king raised his cup and held it out toward his guests. “Brendan of Dun Bochna,” he said. “No longer are you a prisoner or a hostage. You are my guest on this night, as are both of your men. You are welcome here.”
 

“We all give you our thanks for your hospitality, King Murrough,” Brendan called, then all of them raised their cups and drank deeply of the honey wine.
 

Muriel hurried back to the servants and sent them out to serve the first course of the feast. The king and queen and Murrough’s most favored warriors and druids received lobster, with the rest being served crab, all with steaming cress and heaps of seaweed besides. The strong and delicious aromas of the food wafted through the hall.
 

It was not long before everyone had been served—but just as they got down to the business of eating, Brendan sat back from his plate and looked over at the king.
 

“What is wrong, Brendan?” asked King Murrough. “You are my honored guest tonight, yet I have seen you taste only a single bite of lobster before sitting back. Will you tell me why you do not eat?”
 

Brendan nodded politely to his host. “The food is magnificent,” he said. “And I am especially grateful for the company here this night in your beautiful hall. But as I look about me, I see that one guest is missing.”
 

“Missing?”
 

The music fell silent. The king glanced from Brendan to Queen Orla to his druids, and then back again.
 

“I do not understand,” King Murrough said. “Both of your men sit here beside you. All of my wisest druids and most honored warriors are here to offer counsel and conversation. The best of my bards play their harps for you now, and will entertain you with their poetry after we have eaten. And none but the most skilled of my servants are preparing this meal. So tell me, Brendan—who could be missing from my hall on this night?”
 

Brendan smiled. “It would be my honor if the Lady Muriel, who saved me from the sea not long ago, would share this feast with me tonight.”
 

Muriel stood very still. The steam from the nearby cauldron drifted over her hair, leaving it damper than ever. The rain made a steady pattering and hissing as it fell into the firepit.
 

“Go to him; go to him!” Alvy hissed, nudging her. “He has asked for you, just as you wished. It’s not for a marriage—it’s just for a meal! Enjoy yourself for one evening. Wipe your hands and go and sit beside him.”
 

He has asked for you…
Muriel smoothed back her hair, dried her hands on a clean cloth, and walked with all the dignity she could summon toward Brendan.
 

For her work tonight, she had put on the oldest and plainest of her gowns, dyed in a dull shade of green. There was no gold or bronze of any design at her wrist or shoulder or throat, no touch of rowan at her lips to redden them. Yet as she sat down beside Brendan on the soft cushion, Muriel felt as though she were dressed in her finest linen gowns and glowing with every piece of gold that was hers to wear.
 

“Does my hall now hold all the guests that you could wish, Brendan?” asked the king sincerely.
 

“It does. And I thank you.” He smiled at Muriel and took her hand, and this time she returned the gentle pressure of his fingers as she smiled up at him in return.
 

Once more the music started, and all of the guests made short work of the lobster and crab. More wine was served, and then the next course came out—great, thick cuts of beef with baked codfish and hot, flat oat bread alongside.
 

But instead of trying the meat and fish, Brendan drank deeply of his wine and once again turned to the king. “King Murrough—the food in this hall has been some of the finest I have ever enjoyed. This honey wine is beyond compare. The plates and cups gleam, the cushions are soft as clouds, the rush lights glow. And yet…as before, I find that some item, some thing of beauty, is missing from this hall.”
 

The king sat back, and this time he regarded his guest with amusement in his eyes. “All of my best possessions have been brought in for the enjoyment of my guests,” he said with a wave of his arm. “The most polished of the wooden flats, the softest of the furs, the largest and cleanest of the shells to hold the best of the lights, and the most beautifully worked of the golden plates and cups.
 

“Tell me, Brendan. What thing could be missing from my hall on this night?”
 

Brendan started to speak—and then hesitated. “It is better shown than said. If you will allow me, I will go and fetch it.”
 

The king smiled this time, as did the queen and all of the warriors and druids gathered at the table. Brendan was providing them with a bit of entertainment, and they were curious to see what he would do next. “Go, Brendan, and bring us whatever my poor hall is lacking. We will wait to try our beef and bread until you return.”
 

Muriel looked up at him as he rose to leave, but he never spared a glance for her. He simply went striding across the rushes and straight out the door, into the rain and into the night.
 

The music played, and more honey wine was brought out, but even as the food began to grow cold on the plates there was no sign of Brendan’s return. The guests drained their cups, and the servants refilled them. Brendan’s place remained empty.
 

Muriel played with her own cup. She could not bring herself to look up at the king, or at anyone. It was as if all of this were somehow her fault. The feast was delayed yet again while they waited for Brendan to do something for her.
 

She wished that the guests could go on eating, but the king had said that they would wait for Brendan, and he would not go back on his word. He spoke to one of his druids, and in a moment a pair of bards stood up beside the tables. They began to recite the story of a hero and the lady he had loved and nearly lost, for he had believed she was a goddess and had to fight for her until at last she took him with her to live forever in the Otherworld. It was a pretty story, but Muriel could not enjoy it now, for she only felt more angry and embarrassed as the night wore on.
 

What could Brendan possibly be doing? How could he think to humiliate her this way? Why would he play with her so, in front of the people, in front of the king? Had he taken his horse and gone home to Dun Bochna, leaving her to wait for him here as some sort of monstrous joke? Had he—