Foxmask (67 page)

“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 retreated; 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.

Creidhe shifted uneasily, feeling the wind's bite through the thickness of Skapti's cloak. She was being unfair, of course. The terrible, cold grief that
had possessed her had not quite driven out her powers of reasoning. If Thorvald had not killed, Keeper would have made an end of him, and of Sam too. Keeper had taken countless lives in his mission to protect his small kinsman. It would have been Thorvald's sightless eyes, and Sam's, staring down at her from those shelves on the northern cliffside, if Thorvald had not acted to defend himself.

She glanced at Thorvald now where he took his turn on the steering oar; he was pale as chalk, his dark eyes narrow and fierce, his tight mouth bracketed by lines of tension. She understood what he felt; hadn't she always? To find his father at last, and perhaps to lose him so cruelly before they could meet, and embrace, and speak freely together, that was terrible indeed. But it was no more terrible than the death of Keeper, and the drowning of Small One. Once, she had not been able to look at Thorvald without feeling her whole self suffused by love and longing. Once, she had been little more than a child. She knew what love was now; she knew what loss was. Her eyes passed over her old friend and away, and she could not find a shred of sympathy in her heart. If she still stayed by him, if she obeyed the compulsion to be at his side on this last voyage into the unknown, she did not do it for Thorvald, but for the white-haired priest who was his father. In this realm of grim strangers, Niall had been a voice of wisdom, of kindness, of sanity. She had seen something in him that seemed to chime with her father's words as Eyvind spoke of that fierce, lonely child who had been his friend and his enemy so long ago. What was it he had said? Something about a spark of greatness, of goodness, hidden so deep few could see it. It seemed to Creidhe the perilous voyage, the seasons of loneliness, the long testing of the spirit these isles had imposed on Somerled had forged a new man, one who still held that spark, now grown to a blaze of warmth and compassion, whatever he himself might say. It was for this man's sake, and for her father's, that she was here now, watching as the shore of another island drew closer, and the men worked to lower the
Sea Dove
's sail and ease her into the bay under oars. Creidhe was not frightened, or apprehensive, or regretful. She was no longer angry or aggrieved. There was simply the cold, hard stone of loss in her chest, and the voice of the ancestors breathing in her ear, bidding her go on. Her feet must tread this path; in time, she would understand why.

The men sprang over the boat's side, weapons in hand. Even Breccan bore his heavy staff. Here, there was no resistance; the Unspoken had not so much as a single sentry posted at their landing place. There was a path leading up across the rocks; higher on the hillside there seemed to be turf-roofed buildings, and from somewhere above, a low, rhythmic chanting could be heard, a powerful sound that resonated deep.

“A ceremony,” Breccan said, white-faced. “Perhaps they enact the ritual even now. Come, we must hurry.”

“Be watchful,” warned Thorvald. “If we rush in blindly we do nobody any good. Keep your weapons ready, and look about you. Leave the talking to me. Skapti, we're going to need you.”

“You can't leave Creidhe on the boat alone,” hissed Sam.

“She must hide,” Thorvald said curtly. “Skapti's the best fighter among us, we can't do this without him. I'll need all of you.”

“I don't like this,” Skapti muttered, glancing at Creidhe with little, anxious eyes before he, too, jumped out of the boat into knee-deep water and followed the other men to shore. “Stay down out of sight, lass. We won't be long.”

Creidhe waited a certain time before she followed them: not so long that they were gone from view, but long enough so they would not simply turn and march her back to the
Sea Dove
. She hitched up her skirt, but it still got wet through as she waded to the narrow strip of dark sand marking this island's safe landing place. There were long, low boats here, the twins of the vessel she had capsized out in the Fool's Tide, killing its men. Creidhe shivered, stooping to wring out the folds of her skirt. Perhaps she was being foolish. Perhaps she should obey Thorvald, who seemed to believe himself in charge here. Was it true that she was no more than a meddling nuisance, best hidden away where she would do no more harm?

A white-plumed sea bird glided above her, calling plaintively into the empty sky. The chanting rose and fell, a stark, echoing sound that seemed as old as the bare hilltops of the islands, a thing beyond human memory. Creidhe smoothed her damp clothing. The sweet notes of color on the hem—Keeper's careful, small stitches—sent a pain like a barbed arrow through her heart.
Walk on
, the bird seemed to cry.
Walk on
, sang the voices from the hillside above her. Creidhe made her back straight, held her head high. As Thorvald and Sam, Skapti and Breccan moved with stealthy purpose up toward the place of ritual, Creidhe came silently behind them, as calm and pale as a spirit woman. The bird that flew above her was joined by a second and a third, their voices making a music that flowed with the chanting, and below those sounds of the island came another: the hushed, wild, endless song of the sea. Creidhe's steps were silent; all the same, at a certain point, Sam turned his head to look behind him, and nearly dropped his knife.

“Creidhe!” he hissed in horror, and at that moment the men reached the top of the track.

Creidhe saw Thorvald freeze in place, looking away from her; she saw
Skapti raise his arm, spear poised to throw. Breccan's hand tightened on his staff, but he would use it only to defend himself, she knew that. A moment later the chanting faltered and ceased and shouts erupted, the voices of the Unspoken in outrage, in ferocious challenge, and she could see Thorvald gesturing to the others,
no, don't attack
, and sheathing his sword, and putting his hands up, empty, as if to say to the enemy that he had come in peace. She could hear an angry swell of noise, growing to a roar; that was to be expected. One did not lightly interrupt a solemn ritual. Now two of the Unspoken appeared and seized Thorvald by the arms. Skapti was shouting at his leader, demanding to be allowed to use his weapons or at least his fists, and the roaring grew louder, the dangerous sound of a crowd frustrated of a long-desired goal. Creidhe began to run, scrambling up over loose stones. She reached the top of the path and halted, staring.

There was a wide expanse of open ground before the low stone buildings of the settlement here. Grass grew lush and green, dotted with small, bright flowers. The sward was trampled now, for there was indeed a large circle of folk here, men and women, gaunt, wind-weathered and wild, clad in crudely woven garments covered with skins. Some bore ornaments of bone around the neck, strung on strips of leather; most wore their hair long and twisted into knotted strands, with here and there a small bead or decoration, again of pale bone, white or cream or yellow. Their eyes held a single expression: furious outrage. It was clear the unexpected visitors had disrupted a gathering of deepest solemnity.

A group of men stood in the center of the circle, five or six of them, and among them there was one who was tall, old and commanding in his presence. This elder was staring directly at Thorvald, eyes blazing with anger. In his hands was a neat, small implement of bone, something between a knife and a scoop. It was glistening red. And now, as Creidhe's heart thumped with horror, although she had thought she could feel nothing again, the other men shifted, revealing what lay between them.

On a vast slab of rock a man lay sprawled on his back, a thin robe of fine wool covering his body. He seemed relaxed, as if in sleep; he was not chained, or tied, or bound in any way, though red marks on his arms and legs suggested he had but recently been held hard in place by those lean, dangerous-looking fellows who still waited close by his side. His head was shaven in front, the same as Brother Breccan's; from where she stood transfixed, Creidhe could see the white sweep of his hair, pale as a swan's feathers, and the bright stain of blood that ran down his blanched face to stain the snowy locks scarlet. She felt herself gasp with shock and release her breath in a
shuddering, sickening rush. Then Thorvald, Thorvald who was a master of self-control, Thorvald who might have cared nothing for the world at all, so little was he accustomed to revealing of his heart, let out a great cry, threw off the grip of the fellows who held him as if they were straw men, and launched himself across the space to the ritual stone. He moved like a thunderbolt, like a fury, like a bird winging for home. In that moment, nothing in the world could have stopped him. The men who stood by the stone stepped back at the look in his eyes.

Skapti moved. Spear in hand, he surged across the space to Thorvald's side, a massive, furious presence. Thorvald was bending over the slab, speaking softly. Creidhe saw him lift the wounded man's head and slip a careful arm beneath his shoulders. The elder's expression had tightened alarmingly, and now the other men around him drew their knives on some unspoken command. Beside Creidhe, Sam shifted his own blade in his hand. Immediately, all around the circle, weapons appeared, implements of sharpened bone, of leather, of hard stone. In a moment this would erupt into a chaos of blood and death. That could not be. It was not meant to be.

“Stop!” Creidhe cried out, and, taking a step into the circle where all could see her, she slid back the hood of the thick felt cape she wore, Skapti's cape, to reveal her long, shining hair, bright gold in the sun of the summer afternoon. “Stop, all of you! You must not hurt this man further! He is a Christian priest and cannot be your true seer!”

The silence that followed was profound, a silence of shock, disbelief and wonder: a silence of something close to terror, as the men and women of the Unspoken stared, lean faces growing pale, mad eyes fixed on Creidhe's slender form in her wet clothes and her rough cape, and the fall of golden hair across her shoulders. Even the elder grew still. Behind him, Thorvald sat on the edge of the granite slab, cradling the injured priest in his arms. Breccan had moved closer and was using Thorvald's knife to rip cloth from his robe, trying to staunch the bleeding.

“Dead,” the elder whispered, staring at Creidhe. “Lost in the Fool's Tide. Dead, but walking still.”

“No,” Creidhe said, finding it not so hard to hold his gaze, for she seemed beyond fear now. “I am alive, as you see, a flesh and blood woman, saved by the ancestors' intervention, and by an act of great kindness. Saved for this. Let the hermit go; you cannot use him now, the ritual has been interrupted. It is imperfect, and the spirits displeased. Take me instead. I offer myself willingly, if these hostilities cease as a result. I have nothing left to lose.”