Son of the Shadows (73 page)

Come out, warrior! A mission lies before you, a mission lifelong, whose challenges are many, whose rewards are beyond measure. Come forth now and show us true courage. Show us true strength of spirit, as once you did, long years ago. For the strength of the child is the strength of the man. The child and the man are one.

The cry ceased, and the rustling died down to a hush, a profound silence of deep anticipation.

Something was expected of me, I could feel it, something more. Bran lay as still as before.

Outwardly, nothing had changed, but for the slow tears that trickled down his face and onto mine, so that we shared the same grief for good folk whose lives had been cut short, the same sorrow for lost opportunities. I had to do something, but I was tired, so tired I thought I could sleep forever, tucked up warm with my man and my son, the deep, innocent sleep of a little child

. . . but no, I must not give in to that. It was near dawn, and I did not have him, not yet. The silence was complete, save for the tiny whisper in my mind.

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Do it

. But what? What? If he had not awoken to that ancient clarion call, what could I say that could pos

ü sibly be more compelling? I had done everything and still he did not stir. My father had said, you make this seem so simple. But it wasn't, it was the hardest thing I had ever done . . . and yet perhaps, after all, the answer was very simple indeed.

Come, Johnny

. In my mind, I held out my hand, and reached down to the child crouched in the small, dark space. He would not look up at me; his fingers covered his eyes, as if, while he blocked out the light, he would himself remain invisible.

Take my hand, Johnny. There are ten steps up, see? But maybe you do not know how to count to ten. You do? Then we'll walk up one at a time, and count them as we go. When we get to the top, the night will be over. Take my hand, Johnny. Reach up just a little farther. Yes. Yes, that's good. Good boy. Now count. One, two, three . . . four, five .

. .

well done . . . six, seven . .

.

'. . . not far now . . . you can do this. . . nine . . . ten . . . good, dear heart.

The voices of the Old Ones echoed mine, deep, sonorous, wise.

Good. Good

. Then, suddenly and totally, weariness overtook me. I fell into a deep slumber, and I dreamed a wonderful dream in which I

lay here by Bran's side and felt the salt tears on his cheeks, a dream in which he stirred and put his arm around me, and touched his lips to my temple, and was himself again. In my dream I wound my arms around his neck and felt his body warm and alive against my own, and I told him I loved him, and he said yes, he knew that.

Abruptly, I was awake, and it was light, not the soft light of early dawn but later, much later, the full brightness of morning. How could I have allowed myself to fall asleep, how could I? I reached out, and my hand touched the small, sleeping form of my son, cocooned in the blanket as the two of us lay on the pallet together. Had I half woken and fed him and slumbered again unaware? How could I do such a thing? I reached out farther. Bran was gone. My throat went dry, and chill fingers clutched at my heart.

He could not have woken and got up. That was impossible after so long without food and water; he would be too weak. That meant—that could only mean ... I sat up and remembered belatedly that I was completely naked. I reached for my gown, where I had dropped it by the pallet last night. My hands were shaking. I could not find it nor my shift. There was an old shirt there, which would cover me to the knees, and I dragged this over my head, and stum bled out of the shelter. Three men were seated by the newly kindled fire: Gull, Snake, and my father. Their heads turned as one toward me.

"Where—what—?" was the best I could manage.

My father read my expression quickly and got up to take my hands in his and to speak reassuringly. "All's well, Liadan," he said. "Take a deep breath now. He is awake and in his right mind. You're as pale as a ghost, Daughter. Here, sit by us a little."

"I—I—where?"

"Not far, we're keeping an eye on him. Down yonder." Gull jerked his head toward the far end of the pool away from the barrow.

"He wouldn't let us wake you," said Snake apologetically. "Not in the best of moods, is the chief, as we predicted. But he's alive. You've done it."

"He is up, and walking?" I could not believe it. He had been near death. Surely this was some
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cruel dream. "He shouldn't be out of bed. How could you let him—?"

"Gave us no choice. Near bit our heads off. But he's had plenty of water, and as I said, he's being watched. Best left alone for now."

"Fetching outfit," remarked Gull, looking me up and down. I blushed. "Where are my clothes?"

"Somewhere being spruced up for you. We'll find you some fresh ones. You'll be needing them."

"I must go—I must—"

"Maybe not yet," said Gull. "Gave us orders. Leave him alone. Later, maybe."

My father cleared his throat. "I've spoken with him at some length, Liadan. I told the story as you bid me.

You should perhaps heed these men's advice and give him time."

"I don't think so," I said, and I walked away under the beeches in my bare feet and my ill-fitting shirt;

down to the northern end of the pool where a great tree had fallen long ago. Now its massive trunk was overgrown with fine mosses, and its cracks and crevices, its small, shadowy passages held the lairs and hiding places of a myriad of tiny creatures.

I suppose I had not really believed it, not quite, until I saw him, seated on the rocks beyond this tree with his back to me and an obstinacy in the set of the shoulders that I recognized well enough. He wore his old clothes of indefinable color, and they hung on him like the garments of a far larger man. He was looking down, and hi his hands he turned the little silver locket over and over. I longed to run forward, to wrap my arms around him and reassure myself that this was real and not some false vision. But I went cautiously, my bare feet making no sound. Still, this man was an expert at what he did. He spoke without turning, halting me when I was ten paces away. His voice was tightly controlled.

"Your father leaves this morning. You'd best pack up and go with him. Best for you. Best for the child.

There's nothing for you here."

It took every scrap of will I had not to burst into tears, not to give him the opportunity, again, to tell me a woman cried when it suited her, just to get what she wanted. It took every bit of restraint I could muster not to walk up and slap him on the cheek, and point out to him that while I might not want gratitude, I did not expect to be dismissed like a hireling whose task is complete. I had learned a lot since first I met him.

I had learned that the most evasive, the most difficult quarry must be taken with care and patience and subtlety.

"I—I remember you told me once," I said, holding my voice as steady as I could, "that you would not lie to me. Did my father happen to mention a promise he made me?"

There was a long pause before he replied.

"Don't make this more difficult for the two of us, Liadan," he said, and as I came close, I could see how his hands were trembling where they held the locket.

"Did he?"

"Yes."

"Very well. So you know that this choice will be my own and not my father's."

"How can there be a choice? It is no more than common sense that you should leave me. What future can there be for . . . for . . ."

I came up to him and moved to stand before him, three paces away. If anyone were to break the code this time, it would not be me.

"Look at me, Bran," I said. "Look at me, and tell me you want me to go. Tell me the truth."

But he stared down at his hands and would not. "You must indeed think me weak," he muttered.

"After this, I will forfeit any respect."

And despite all his efforts, I could see the mark of a tear on his face, gleaming on the patterned
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side, where he had not been able to hold it back.

"I wish I could dry these tears," I said softly. "I wish I could make this better for you, but I don't know how."

There was the tiniest silence; a heartbeat of time, while the trees and rocks and the very currents of air seemed to hold their breath. Then he reached out his hand, blindly, and took my arm, and pulled me toward him. I stood there with his head against my breast and my arms wrapped around his shoulders, as he set free the rest of the tears he had held back for so long.

"There, Bran. It's all right. It's all right now. Weep, dear heart."

It was a long time, or a short time. Who can say? The men left us undisturbed, and the tall beeches looked on in silence, and the sun climbed higher in a cool autumn sky. It is not such a terrible thing for a grown man to weep. Not when he has eighteen years of grief and sorrow within him; not when at last, after such a long and painful journey, he has found the truth.

Eventually he was done, and I used a corner of my disreputable attire to wipe his face for him and said, rather severely, "You should not even be out of bed. Did you have anything to eat this morning, or were you too busy giving orders?"

I moved to seat myself by him on the rocks, close by, so that our bodies touched.

"It was indeed wondrous to wake," he said shakily, "and find you lying there beside me, and not a stitch of clothing between us. Both wondrous and frustrating since I was so weak all I could do was look at you. Even now, I can scarce lift my arm to put it around you, let alone take advantage of this interesting garment you wear. I suspect there is little between it and yourself."

"Ah," I said, and felt a blush rise to my cheeks. "You're acquiring a sense of humor. I like that.

There will be other mornings."

"How can there be, Liadan? How can there be time for us? You cannot live among the men, traveling by stealth, always looking over your shoulder, outcast, pursued. I could never subject you, or him, to that risk. The decision lies outside what you or I might want for ourselves. Your safety must be the first consideration. Besides, how could you stay with me after what has happened? I allowed myself to be taken by—that man; I allowed Gull to be maimed, and you to endure the most appalling treatment, you and my son. Now I am reduced to a shivering, weeping shadow of a man. What must you think of me?"

"I have not changed my opinion of you since last we met," I said steadily.

"What are you saying, Liadan?" Still he stared at the ground and would not meet my eyes. I slipped off the rock where we sat and went to kneel before him, giving him no choice but to look at me. I put my hands around his, and the silver locket was held, protected, by the two of us.

"Remember," I said quietly, "you asked me back at Sevenwaters what I wanted for myself? I said you were not ready to hear it. Do you think you are ready now? How much do you remember of what has happened here?"

"Enough. Enough to know we walked through years, not days. Enough to know you were there beside me. It is this that makes it so hard. I should order you to go and let that be an end of it. I know what is right. But—but I find that this time it is, after all, beyond me to bid you farewell. I hold my mother's love in my hand here and know love endures beyond death. That a heart once given is given forever."

I nodded, with tears dangerously close. "She hid her most cherished things," I said. "This locket, with the tokens of her lost ones. Her small purse, bearing the symbols of who she was and whence she came.

And her little son. She gave her life for you. John gave his life in the service of his friend and kinsman.

That is the truth."

He nodded soberly. "I have been wrong about some things. You will not hear me recognizing
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Hugh of

Harrowfield as a hero, but I find the man has some good points. He was very straight with me. I respect

that. He is more like you than I could have imagined."

"He's known for his honesty."

"Liadan."

I looked into his eyes. His face was starkly pale, his features drained, exhausted. But the eyes were giving me another message entirely. They were hungry.

"I haven't answered, have I? Haven't told you what I want? Do I need to say it, Bran?"

He nodded, without saying a word.

"I told you I had not changed my opinion of you, not since you came to me at Sevenwaters and we so nearly forgot the rest of the world for a time. What has happened these last days is a part of our journey together. Together we suffer and endure and change and walk forward again, hand in hand. I think you strong beyond belief; at times too strong for your own good. I see in you a leader, a man of vision and daring. I see a man who is still afraid to love, and to laugh; but who is learning both now that he knows the truth about himself. I see the only man I would have for my husband and the father of my children.

You and no other, Bran."

He lifted his hand and reached out to touch my cheek, very carefully, as if he must learn how to do this again, now that everything had changed.

"This is a—a proposal of marriage?" he asked me, and there was the very smallest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth, something I had never seen before.

"I suppose so," I said, blushing again. "And, as you see, I'm doing it properly, on my knees."

"Hmm. This would, however, be a partnership of equals you're offering, I imagine?"

"Undoubtedly."

"I cannot speak the words. I cannot bring myself to refuse you. And yet, how can I accept? You ask the impossible." His face was bleak again. "You ask me to subject those I love best to a life of danger and flight. How can I agree to such a thing?"

"Ah," I said, "I would not have told you this, not yet; but you give me no choice. It seems there is a place for you—for us—in Britain, at Harrow-field. A place and a mission. So my father tells me. His brother's hold on the estate weakens; Edwin of Northwoods watches closely, thinking to broaden his own domain.

My father cannot return there to help them, but you could go. It need not be now; but it is something to consider. This is your father's land, Bran; these are your father's people. You scorned Lord Hugh once for turning his back on Harrowfield to follow his heart. Now he gives you the chance to do what he cannot: to help Simon strengthen and unite these good folk once more."