The Well of Shades Read Free Page B

behind.
    “Eile?”
    “Curse it, now I’ve woken her up!” Eile’s voice was a fierce whisper. “Go, will you?”
    “Are you sure? Who is that?”
    “Go. How hard is that to understand?” And, as a smallfigure appeared from the inner chamber, rubbing its eyes, “Now, Faolan. Before she has a chance to get scared. Hush, Saraid, it’s all right. Did you have a dream?”
    He went. This time, the dog did notfollow. One image stayed in his head all through the decidedly uncomfortable walk back to the settlement: the child, whose age he could not guess, not being familiar with children, clad in a much-mended nightrobe, long brown hair ruffled from sleep but healthy and clean, eyes big and dark from her sudden waking. Little, certainly, and skinny like the other one, but surely well loved; he’d heardthe change in Eile’s voice, as if she became another girl entirely in this small one’s presence. How old was Bridei’s son, Derelei? Somewhere between one and two. This child was bigger, perhaps a year or so older. For her aunt and uncle to leave Eile alone in that isolated, near-derelict hut was bad enough. To leave their own small child there as well was quite unacceptable. He hadn’t seen a scrapof food in the place.
    Faolan sighed, pulling his wet cloak more tightly around his shoulders. He was making too much of this. It was poverty. It existed, and folk did what they could to survive. His own upbringing had been one of privilege by comparison, food on the table, a loving family, a household where smiles were common currency and the talk flowed freely. Until that day when he destroyedthe very fabric of it. There had been poor people at Fiddler’s Crossing; there were poor people in the settlement near Bridei’s fortress at White Hill. But folk helped each other. Food was shared; a man chopped a neighbor’s wood in exchange for a share of nuts harvested or shellfish gathered. His mother had taken remedies to the sick. Faolan himself had played for village festivals, long ago, beforehis hands turned themselves to the occupation of killing. His music had been free; rich and poor alike had shared it.
    So, it was simple poverty. But Eile was Deord’s daughter. Faolan was bound to help her. She’d scoffed athis silver, and he did not understand that, for it was plain she needed money. It was all he had to offer, anyway. He’d go back in the morning and give a sum to the aunt, who’dlikely be less hostile. He’d request that part of it be spent on the girl’s welfare: perhaps she could be taught some skill whereby she might achieve a position beyond those crumbling walls, sewing maybe. Faolan grimaced, remembering the expert grip of her small hands on the pitchfork. She’d learned that somewhere. Maybe, in his brief sojourn home, that peerless warrior Deord had begun to teachhis daughter how to protect herself.
    Well, tomorrow was a new day. He’d get this thing done and be on his way. Faolan had embarked from the shore of Dalriada with three missions to fulfill. In the epic poetry of his homeland, much of which he’d memorized during his bardic training long ago, things had a tendency to come in threes: three blessings, three curses, three wise sayings. The first mission,for the king of Fortriu, was to locate a certain influential cleric known as Colmcille, find out what he was up to, and carry a report back to Bridei. The second he had just attempted: to break the news of Deord’s death to his kinsfolk. The third…
    The third mission would carry him home; home to Fiddler’s Crossing to face the unthinkable. It was years now since he had walked away from his birthplacewith his harp under his arm and a bundle on his back, never to return. He had left with his brother’s blood on his hands, the beloved brother he had killed in order to save the lives of his parents, his grandparents, and his three sisters. Three… Dáire, a widow at twenty, aged beyond her years; Líobhan, fourteen years old and full of