Son of the Shadows (23 page)

did not expect. A pity you cannot wield a staffer draw a bow; we might have recruited you to the troop."

It was my turn to laugh. "I think not. But as a matter of fact, I can. Wield a staff and draw a bow, that is."

He gazed at me. "Now that I cannot believe."

"I'll show you."

Iubdan had taught me well. This bow was rather longer and heavier than I was used to, and I could not draw it fully. But it would do. Bran watched me in silence, brows raised in derision as I adjusted the string. "What would you have me strike with this arrow?"

"I suppose you could try for the large knothole on that elm trunk."

"A child could find that mark," I said with some scorn. "You insult me. What target would you choose for a young man who wished to join your band of warriors?"

"He would not have got this far without proving himself. But if you insist, I suggest the apple tree that grows down there between the rocks. Here, let me show you."

He took the bow from me, and drew it fully, eyes narrowed against the light. It was quick. A twang as he released the string, and I saw a small green apple fall to the ground, split by the arrow's point.

"Your turn," he said dryly.

This was a game Sean and I had practiced over and over. I drew the bow as far as I could, said a word under my breath, and released the string.

"Beginner's luck," said Bran as another apple fell. "A fluke. You couldn't do it twice."

"I could," I said, "but I really don't care if you believe me or not. Now, we have work to do. If I told you what I needed, could you find some herbs for me? My supply is nearly gone, and Evan will be in increasing pain."

"Tell me what you want."

It was just as well I had slept so soundly that night, for there was to be little sleep in the days to come.

The smith grew steadily sicker, his features becoming hectically flushed, the flesh around his wound now mottled and bluish. Bran had brought back what I had asked for, and I had made up a tea, which I fed

Evan drop by drop until he grew quieter.

"Where are you, Biddy?" he muttered, still moving his head restlessly from side to side. "Biddy?

Woman?

I can't see you."

"Hush," I said, sponging his burning face. "I'm here. Sleep now."

But he took a long time to sleep and, despite the herbs, did not rest long before the pain woke him anew.

Bran was outside, and I did not call him. What was the point? There was nothing he could do. I sat by

Evan's side, the two of us in the small pool of lantern light, and held his hand. I told him not to talk, but there was no stopping him.

"Still here. Thought you'd have gone home by now."

"Yes, I'm still here, as you see. You don't get rid of me so easily."

"Thought it was Biddy for a bit. Silly. She'd make three of you; fine big girl she is, my Biddy."

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"She's waiting for you; make no doubt of it," I said.

"You think she'll still want me? You think she wouldn't mind the . . . you know?"

I gave his hand a little squeeze. "A strong, strapping fellow like you? Of course she'll want you.

You'll have them lining up, man."

"Don't like to complain; know you're doing your best. But God, it hurts . . ."

"Here, see if you can swallow more of this."

"Need some help?" Bran had come in silently, with a small flask in his hand. "Gull left me this. It is a drink

from his own country, very potent. Saved for special occasions."

"I doubt if he could keep it down. A few drops, maybe. Here, put a little in this tea; you are right; it is time for strong measures. Can you lift his head and shoulders for me? Thank you."

The flask was silver, lined with fine yew wood, and its surface was chased with an elaborate spiral pattern. The stopper was of amber glass, fashioned in the shape of a little cat.

"Not too much. We want it to stay in his stomach long enough."

Little by little, sip by sip, I fed Evan the potent brew, while Bran sat behind, supporting him.

"Trust you, Chief," said the smith weakly. "Wait till I'm down, then try to poison me. Better leave it to the lass here."

"Indeed, what am I here for but to do her bidding?"

"That'll be the day, Chief. . ."

"Hush," I said. "Too much talk. Drink this, and keep quiet."

"You hear that?" said Bran. "She likes to give orders. No wonder the others couldn't wait to get away."

Evan's eyes closed. "Told you she was just your type, Chief," he said faintly. Bran refrained from comment.

"Sleep," I said, putting down the cup of herbal tea. It was half empty. He had managed more than I

expected. "Rest. Think of your Biddy. Maybe she can hear you, across the water as she is. It happens that way sometimes. Tell her you're coming for her soon. She won't have to wait long."

After a while Bran lowered Evan gently to the ground, his head supported on a roll of blankets so he could breathe more easily.

"Here," he said, and he was offering me the silver flask.

"Maybe not." But I took it from him, thinking its intricate pattern seemed to flow across his hand and up his arm under the sleeve of his plain, gray shirt, rolled to the elbow. "I must be able to wake when he does."

"You have to sleep sometime."

"So do you."

"Don't concern yourself with me. Drink a mouthful, at least. It will help you rest."

I put the flask to my lips and swallowed. It was as strong as fire. I gasped and felt a warm glow spread through me. "You, too," I said, passing it back.

He took a drink, then stoppered the flask and stood up. "Call me when he wakes." For the first time there was a sort of diffidence in his tone. "You don't have to do this alone, you know."

Brighid help me. I was suddenly overtaken by the most profound sadness. Arrogance, scorn, indifference

I could deal with. Quiet competence was just fine. Arguing with him was almost enjoyable. It was the unexpected words of kindness that threatened to shatter me in pieces. I must indeed be weary. I fell asleep with a vision of Sevenwaters before my eyes: dark, shadowy trees, dappled sunlight, the clear

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waters of the lake. Tiny and perfect and oh, so far away.

We fell into a routine. We became used to each other. While I slept, Bran kept guard and tended to the smith. When Bran slept, which was seldom, he made me stay inside; and I did as I was told. Day followed day, and we watched the fever strip the flesh from Evan's bones and slowly drain the life from his eyes. It would have been easy for Bran to remind me that I had insisted on keeping this man alive long enough to suffer a lingering and painful death. It would have been easy for me to blame Bran for moving the smith before he was fit to travel. But we did not speak of these things. We did not speak much at all.

It hardly seemed necessary. He knew when I needed him and was there. I began to recognize the times when he needed to be alone, and I would retreat silently indoors or up to the pool to sit on the rocks and will my mind to quiet. There were carven stones there, ancient, monumental slabs encrusted with creeping lichens and shawled by soft ferns. That they were somehow guardians of the old truths that had their center here, I was in no doubt whatever, and I nodded to them with respect as I passed.

Our talk became different, as if there were no need any longer to play a game of strategy with our words.

Evan held on, and I allowed myself a slim hope that all was not lost. There was a brief respite one night, time for the two of us to sit outside, under the waxing moon and the arch of a thousand stars, eating rabbit baked in the coals with wild garlic, while the only sounds around us were the tiny rustling of night creatures in the undergrowth and the solitary hoot of a hunting owl. It was a companionable silence. I

realized I had come to trust this man, something I would never have believed possible.

"Give me your honest opinion," he said, when we had finished eating. "Has he any real chance?"

"He'll survive until morning. I'm trying not to look too far ahead."

"You learn quickly."

"Some things. It's another world out here. The old conventions don't seem to work anymore."

"Tell me. You seem to know a great deal about herbs and potions. What you used when you put him to sleep, when we took off his arm; it was powerful. Have you any left?"

I could not see his face clearly in the shadows, but the eyes were watchful, intent.

"Some. Gull commented on it. He took one sniff and named almost every ingredient. That surprised me."

"His mother was an herbalist, famous in her own country. There were those who called her a witch. That led in time to persecution and death. Gull has been tried almost beyond endurance."

I could not resist asking, "I thought these men had no past?"

"They learn to put it behind them. To do the kind of work we do, a man must travel light. He must carry neither memories nor hopes. To be what we are, you must think only of today's task."

"I knew Gull's story."

"He told you?"

"The others told me. Each has his tale. Not buried so very deep. Each has his hope. No man can be truly without it."

"No?"

I decided it would be wise to pursue this no further.

"Haven't you ever been tempted," he asked quietly, "when your patient is in pain and you know he cannot survive? It would be easy, wouldn't it, to make the draft just a little stronger? So instead of suffering further, he simply sank into sleep and never woke?"

I had been thinking the very same thoughts.

"One must be careful," I said. "Meddling in such matters can be dangerous, and not just for the victim.

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We each have our time to move on. The goddess wills it. I would act thus only if I believed she moved my hand."

"You follow the old faith?"

I nodded, reluctant to be drawn into talk of my family.

"Would you do it?" he asked me, "if he keeps getting worse?"

li

"Then I would be no different from you with your little knife, your convenient solution. I heal, I do not kill."

"You would, I think, if you had to."

"I would not wish to offend the goddess, nor would I take such a step unless I was sure that was what

Evan wanted. I suppose I cannot say what I would do unless I was faced with the choice."

"You may get the chance to find out."

I did not reply.

"Did you believe," he went on after a while, "that I would have done it? Used this convenient solution for yourself because you were in my way?"

"At the time, yes. I believed it was possible And—what I had heard of you seemed to support it."

"I would never have done such a thing."

"I know that now."

"Don't get me wrong. I am not soft. Conscience does not trouble me. I make decisions quickly and I do not allow myself to regret them. But I am no arbitrary destroyer of the innocent."

"Then why did you—" It was too late to bite my words back.

"Why did I what?" The tone had suddenly become dangerous. He had trapped me with his kindness.

"Nothing."

"Tell me. What tale was it you heard of me?"

"I—" It was plain that silence was not going to be an option, and he would know if I lied. "I was told of a time, not so very long ago, when a party of men, on their own land, were ambushed and slain while bearing the bodies of their dead for burial. I heard that their leader was held and forced to watch his friends die, one by one—for nothing, for nothing more than a demonstration of skill. The description

he—the tale was told in a way that made it clear you were responsible."

"Uh-huh. Who told this tale? Where did you hear it?"

"Who was your father? Where were you born? Fair trade, remember?"

"You know I will not tell you."

"One day you will." There was the sudden cold again, as if a wraith had passed by and touched me with its breath. I did not know why I had said these words, but I knew they were the truth.

"Did you feel that?" asked Bran, in a strange voice. I stared at him. "Feel what?"

"A—a chill, a sudden draft. Maybe the weather is breaking."

"Maybe." This was getting ridiculous. Not only was I sharing his nightmares, but he was feeling it when the Sight touched me. It was most certainly time I went home.

"His name is Eamonn," he said slowly. "Eamonn of the Marshes, they call him. His father had a bad reputation, and the son has done nothing to improve on that. My men picked you up in Littlefolds, didn't they? Right on the border of this Eamonn's land? What is he to you? Cousin?

Brother? Sweetheart?"

"None of these," I stammered, my heart pounding. I must not tell him who I was, must not leave my family vulnerable. "He is known to me. I heard him tell the tale, that's all."

"Where?"

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"None of your business."

"You would do well not to ally yourself with that man. His kind is the most dangerous. You do not cross such a man and come out unscathed."

"You speak of yourself, surely, not of Eamonn."

"You spring quickly enough to his defense. Is he not the one who waits anxiously for your return, as my men so touchingly related?"

"Your men have overactive imaginations, born of too little entertainment. There is no sweetheart waiting for me at home. Only my family. That's the way I choose it."

"That sounds implausible."

"It's the truth."

We sat quiet for a while. He refilled my cup and his own. I was starting to feel drowsy.

"It was not arbitrary." Bran spoke into the space between us. "The killing. It was no massacre of the innocent. We are men. We do men's work. You might ask this Eamonn of yours how many he has slain in like fashion. We were well paid to do as we did by an old and powerful enemy of his. His father wronged many in his time; the son continues to pay the price. I did add a little touch of my own; I heard he was unimpressed."

"To me it sounded like an act of mindless slaughter. And the aftermath, the arrogant gesture of a man who believes himself untouchable."