Foxmask (64 page)

So now it was time to act. Asgrim might choose to pursue the hunt year after year, tossing away the lives of his men like so many broken tools. He would not be allowed to waste Thorvald thus. Thorvald would live; he would be a leader such as these folk had never known before.

Niall had considered his plan a long while. He thought it would work, with no real damage to anyone that mattered. What was a seer, after all, but someone who could give the people reasonable advice as to how they might best live their lives? The details of it were unimportant. Nine out of ten men of Rogaland had fair-haired mothers. The rest, that was nothing: probably no more nor less than a wretch such as himself deserved. Certainly less than the punishment he had inflicted on his own brother in a time when he had known only the lust for power, the bitter struggle to make himself into what he believed he must be: a king of men. The ritual could be endured. In its way, it might even be rather interesting, if he were able to remain conscious while they performed the surgery.

The little boat scudded across the ocean, bobbing like a toy in the deep waters between the Isle of Storms and the southern islands, mysterious home of the Unspoken. Niall gazed about him, committing all to memory: the myriad hues of the water; the wide, pale sky dotted with gulls; the steep, dark forms of the islands, fringed with bird-thronged cliffs. The day was a sweet one; the sun had a real warmth in it, the air was fresh, and seals swam to left and right of his boat as if in escort.

He would have liked to see Thorvald again, just once, before they took away his sight. He would have liked to look at his son and tell him how proud he was to have sired such a fine young man; how sorry he was that he had not watched him grow up. Foolish, that was. No boy wanted Somerled as a father. Thorvald was the leader he was precisely because his father had not been there during those growing years. He had been free of his heritage. Margaret had done a good job. Niall wished he could have told her so.

Breccan would not be happy. Breccan would find him gone, and sorrow
for him, and pray for him. If the Ulsterman could see him now, Niall thought, finding there was a smile on his face with nothing at all of bitterness in it, Breccan would be surprised. For there were four things the white-haired man had brought with him on this last voyage from the Isle of Storms. The first was the cloak, since he must stay warm enough to use his hands effectively. The boat could not sail itself. The second was the rope; it was foolish to travel without rope. Third came water to keep him alive in case of emergency. Fourth was the wooden cross that hung around his neck. He had found he could lay down quill and parchment easily, knowing he would never write again. The last psalm was finished, copied in perfect completion, the capitals done with leaves and flowers, and here and there in the text, the places where his thoughts had challenged the confines of the manuscript, yearning and reaching and breaking free of the borders. That work was done now. There would be no more letters, no more maps. A man does not write in darkness. There would be no more sailing, no toiling in the gardens, no walking to settlement or lakeshore or hilltop. That was accepted; the choice to end that life was all his own. And yet the cross still hung about his neck, a simple thing of ash wood that had seemed, until the day he met his son, no more than the meaningless symbol of a faith that would belong always to others like Breccan and Colm, never to himself. Somerled, adherent to a god of peace and forgiveness? Somerled, converted by a red-haired Ulsterman to a path of goodness and light? The idea was so ludicrous that surely even Eyvind, the truest and most tolerant of friends, would laugh in disbelief if he could hear it. And yet, the cross: he reached to close his hand around it, to shut his eyes in prayer.
De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine
. . . Always, before, no more than the words, polite echo of Breccan's and Colm's, the motions only, to make a template for his days, so he could bear to go on living this shell of a life, this travesty of an existence . . . Yet now, no echo but the true word, whole, fierce, majestic, striking a terror to the heart, for this awful voice told him of sacrifice and redemption, of the laying down of a life infinitely more valuable than his own, of the salvation, not just of a couple of hapless tribes on a far-flung group of islands, but of all mankind, forever. This voice whispered in his ear like the rolling of distant thunder, speaking of fathers and sons. This voice made him weep and tremble. It made him grow still with the longing for grace.

And so Niall sailed steadily on, and the southern isles loomed closer and closer as the sun passed overhead. Gulls screamed; the water parted under the vessel's bow. His left hand touched the warm wood of the cross, his right held the steering oar as the wind carried him toward his destiny. The moment
of darkness, the moment when all hung in the balance, would be the moment of awakening; the shadowing of human vision would be the bright dawn of the soul, bought with love and sacrifice. The voice sang in his spirit, at once terrifying and comforting. For this, he had waited all his life.

Creidhe began to fight a way out of the mists of unconsciousness. Sounds came first: the creak of a sail, footsteps on wood, Sam's voice, curt, tense. Then an awareness of movement: a surging up and down, familiar from that unspeakable time of confinement on the
Sea Dove
. It felt as if a knife was jabbing into her temple. She was lying on something soft, a cloak, laid over a ridged, uncomfortable surface: the boards of a boat's planking, probably. Her arm was hurting. There was something tied around it, tight and awkward. As vision returned through the fog that wreathed her eyes, memory came with it, sharp as a kick in the belly.
Keeper . . . Small One
. . . Creidhe sat up abruptly, and nearly vomited from the pain. She tried for words, but found none. The little boat, not the
Sea Dove
but a tiny, frail craft of driftwood and animal skins, was being tossed about with a violence that far surpassed the storm they had endured on their voyage from the Light Isles. Water sprayed everywhere, fine and drenching; while she gathered her breath, a wave washed over them, and she was lying in a cold puddle, her clothing instantly wet through. It was then she saw Thorvald, his hands grasping a scoop or bucket, his features tight and fierce as he stooped to bail the flood from this toy of a craft. The wind whipped at his auburn hair and tore at his clothing with greedy fingers. There were voices in it, howling, angry voices:
You think to cross the Fool's Tide, you, a mere man, and an incomer? Fool indeed!
Beyond him Sam could be seen struggling with the sail, keeping his balance as a true seaman does, reading the surge as if it were an extension of his own body. Creidhe forced herself to her knees; made her head turn this way and that, despite the pain, made her eyes search from bow to stern and into every corner of the boat, refusing to believe what she sensed must be true: surely even Thorvald would not do this, surely the ancestors would not allow it . . .

She saw only the two men, and the churning sea all around them, and behind them the Isle of Clouds, already vanishing into the mists of memory, as if it were all no more than a dream, a silly girl's fancy that she could change the pattern of something so ancient, so grand and terrible; could somehow, if she were brave enough, if she loved enough, make it all come out right. A cry of pure anguish came from her lips. The primitive, wrenching
wail froze Thorvald where he crouched with bailer in hand, and made Sam pause, white-faced, even as he struggled to keep the small craft from spilling them all out into the sea.

The eldritch scream became a torrent of words. Creidhe could hear her own wild babbling, could feel herself clutching at Thorvald's clothing and shouting her furious grief into his face as he stared at her, his blank expression showing he barely comprehended the sense of what she was trying to tell him. But now she had started, she didn't seem to be able to slow down. “Where is he? Where are they? What did you do to them? You've killed him, you've killed him, haven't you, you've destroyed him for your own gain, your own pride—how could you, Thorvald? You've left Small One all by himself, I promised to look after him, I promised, he's only little, he can't—”

Thorvald slapped her across the face. It was a calculated blow, not painful, just hard enough to bring her tirade to an abrupt halt. She stared at him, shocked into silence. In that moment, he seemed like a stranger.

“Where is he, Thorvald?” she whispered, her fingers still clutching tightly at the breast of his tunic. “What have you done? Answer me!”

He had heard her all right, she could see it; he had understood those words above the wind's howling and the angry music of the Fool's Tide.

“Now, Creidhe,” he said carefully, “you've been through some terrible times, I can see that, and we'll talk about it when Sam's got us safely back to Council Fjord. It's dangerous on these waters; you need to sit down and be quiet, and let us sail the boat—”

“Tell me! Tell me what you've done! Where is he? Where is—?”

“Creidhe, stop it. You're safe now, it's all right. We're here, we'll look after you. It's a shock, I know. For us, too. We thought you were dead—”

“Thorvald!” Creidhe said through gritted teeth.
“Where is the child?”
And at that moment she saw the ears, small, pointed ears like a dog's, the only part of the seer that was visible in the bows of the boat, behind her little bag and two other packs. Small One was here; they had taken him. They had taken him and now they would hand him over to Asgrim. If they had taken him, that meant Keeper was dead.

“Creidhe?” Thorvald's voice had softened just a little. “It'll be all right now, I promise you. It's all over. We have you safe.” It was the tone of a man who tries to reassure a frightened woman that all is well, believing that should be enough for her; believing she cannot possibly comprehend the true meaning of affairs, and that therefore there is no point in trying to explain them. She thought, too, that he was fighting a battle with his own
anger, with his own tumult of feelings. But there was no room for sympathy in her. Not now.

“Creidhe?” Thorvald asked quietly. “Did you understand me?”

The next question must be spoken, though she knew its answer already; it was there in the strange, numb chill that had seized her body, and in the hard, cold thing that had lodged itself in her heart.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me, Thorvald. What did you do? What happened to the man who was with me on the island?”

Sometimes lies are necessary, even when you are a leader. For Thorvald, this was one of those moments. He could hardly bear to look at Creidhe, to gaze into those eyes, which surely should have been relieved or grateful or apologetic: they had saved her, hadn't they, her and the seer? But the eyes were furious, accusatory and tragic. Before their awful power his courage seemed to shrink, and he struggled for words. He hadn't wanted to hit her; it had been the only way to stop her flood of crazy talk and calm her down. She was hysterical; if he did not control her she might end up tipping this small craft over as she had the vessel of the Unspoken, and drowning them all in these voracious waters. His anger was not for her, but all for the man who had abused her, had held her prisoner, had turned her into this babbling mockery of her old self. He had struck her, when deep within him all he had wanted to do was put his arms around her, to offer affection and comfort. But there was no time for that; they were scarcely halfway to safety, and it was plain Sam fought every instant to keep them on course through these erratic currents, these insanely gusting winds. He must answer her. And there was only one possible answer, for she had been hurt, abused and terrified out of her wits, and now she needed to know she would be safe. She needed the certainty of that.

“The man who held you captive? The wretch who took the seer and started all this? I killed him. It was that or die myself, and Sam along with me. This is over, Creidhe. It's over, and we're taking you home.”

He hoped, for a moment, that the deathlike grasp she had on his clothing might turn to a reaching for comfort; that he might, however briefly, embrace her, perhaps merely as a brother would, anything, any way he could show her what his confounded tongue, his too-carefully schooled eyes were unable to do for him. But Creidhe let him go, put both hands over her face, and subsided into a terrible, still silence, a withdrawal that spoke of a state of
profound shock. She seemed beyond weeping, beyond comfort, beyond any help at all. Then Sam shouted an order, and Thorvald grabbed the steering oar as it swung wildly across, and it was no longer possible to do anything but follow Sam's commands as the vessel plowed its crazy, tenuous course through the surging waters. This was a battle, two men and a makeshift curragh against the Fool's Tide—the tales had been true; there was no predicting what would come next out here, a gust of freakish wind, a sudden whirlpool, sucking like a ravenous creature of the deep, an impossible, eddying current tugging them toward rocks. Sam looked furious; his brows were drawn together in a stormy scowl, his amiable mouth set in a thin line of anger. When Thorvald glanced back toward Creidhe, somewhat later, he saw that the odd little creature had crept out unobserved from its hiding place and now sheltered in her arms, reaching up from time to time to lick her blanched face, where the bruise Thorvald's blow had made was flowering rose and purple on her delicate skin. Her eyes were fixed to the west, empty and strange, gazing back to the steep, wild shores of the Isle of Clouds. In that moment, she seemed to Thorvald like a being from some dark tale of ancient memory: as remote as a goddess.

The sea punished them all the way to Dragon Isle and the Troll's Arch; almost to the very mouth of Council Fjord. Sam's face was gray with exhaustion, and Thorvald obeyed his commands without any conscious thought. Creidhe sat slumped on the decking with the little doglike creature in her arms. Her clothing was wet through and her hair lay in saturated strands across her bowed shoulders. It was as if she were suddenly blind and deaf, as if she had no understanding of the peril they were in or the horror of the situation she had faced on the island. She did not seem to realize that they had saved her. It came to Thorvald that perhaps her experiences had unhinged her mind; she had certainly had nothing to say that made any sense. But he could not think of that. Once they passed the Troll's Arch the water would be calmer; surely these conflicting currents could not follow them into the shelter of the fjord, where high, layered cliffs offered protection from all but the most cruel of westerly winds. They were nearly there, and they had Foxmask. He allowed himself, cautiously, to think ahead: to see Einar and Skapti and the others at the moment they knew victory was theirs, and a future of peace no longer an impossible dream. That would be sweet indeed. That would be enough, to shake their hands and see the warmth come back to their grim faces, and to hear the joy in their weary voices. He would be content with that; let the future take care of itself.