Foxmask (73 page)

“But what, Thorvald? Does it embarrass you to have a cleric for a father? You see some other path for me, perhaps one where I limp forward with a sword in my hand and a patch over my eye?”

Thorvald flushed. “I waited a long time to find you,” he said, glancing around the room as if to check nobody was awake to hear him. “All my life. I had hopes you might choose to stay here, by me. To help me. I have a great deal to learn. I can pretend to be the leader they want, strong, wise, just. But in truth, I know nothing at all. I've been making it up as I go along. It was Creidhe who won their battle for them in the end, not I.”

“Ah,” Niall said with a crooked smile, “a little humility. That's good to see. It's a quality I could have done with at your age, and lacked entirely. Thorvald, you
are
the leader they want. They have chosen you. They respect and love you. If the truth astonishes you and makes you humble, that's just as it should be. You will spend your life becoming worthy of their trust.”

There was a silence. “Father?”

“Mmm?”

“I'm not sure I can do it on my own.”

“You're not on your own. You're surrounded by good, strong men and women, willing and loyal, whose hearts are bent only on a future of peace and prosperity. Besides, I won't be far away. I expect I'll manage to hobble down the hillside occasionally; and my door will always be open to you.”

“It's not the same. You have a wisdom beyond mine; an authority far greater, if you choose to use it. It's you who should be leader of the Long Knife people. Should have been so years ago, I think, when first you came to the Lost Isles.”

“Oh, no. Oh, no.” Niall's face grew somber. “Never that. I challenged Asgrim, it is true. But I drew back from wresting power from his hands, misguided as he was. Do not forget what you know of me, Thorvald. I am as I am now. But I have performed deeds to make men shrink with horror. I was indeed blind in those days, and walking a path as twisted and awry as any the Devil himself could devise. If you wonder why I do not seek power in the world of men, that is half the answer. A man whose hands have taken his own brother's life is not fit to lead. A man who cannot act without bringing darkness to all he touches should set himself aside; should place himself where he cannot be tempted to interfere. I became a hermit. I ceased to seek out Asgrim; I let him follow his own path. Until the day I sailed for the Isle of Shadows.”

“What changed your mind?” Thorvald whispered.

And Niall said simply, “Love.”

After a little, Thorvald took his father's hand in his, swallowing, and asked him, “You said that was half the reason. What was the other half?”

“I discovered that God has a sense of humor. All those years I played the part of priest: I stood by my brethren and mouthed the words they spoke in true faith; I copied the scriptures not because I believed a single word of them, but simply so I would not lose the skills I had at reading, scribing and translation. I argued philosophy with Breccan: there was genuine pleasure in that. I tried not to let my cynicism confuse the boy. I found a certain calm in the pattern of their days; the order and discipline of their life suited me. But I was no Christian. My mind was full of doubt and disbelief. I have seen enough of the dark acts men can perform. I have felt such shadows in the core of my own being that I could hardly be swayed to believe in a god of
goodness and light, however eloquently Breccan pleaded his case. Until now.”

“What do you mean?”

“God's joke: he saved it until the last, testing my resistance to him all those years. It was simple, Thorvald, simple and shattering. You came, and Creidhe told me I had a son, and I saw you, the one fine thing I had made. I had known nothing of your existence before then. Something changed within me; something opened, a tiny crack, a little chink. It is all God needs. I ceased to resist him, and I heard his voice. He laughs now, I imagine. He has won this battle, and I am truly his.” Niall's eye was bright. It seemed to Thorvald the light that shone in the priest's pale features owed little to the flickering glow from the oil lamp. This was an illumination soul deep.

“I cannot think what to say,” Thorvald told his father, “save that if this news makes its way home to Brother Tadhg in the Light Isles, he will be even more astounded than I.”

Niall grinned. “Ah, Tadhg. Creidhe told me he still lives, roaming the islands with his little satchel and his book of tales. How I feared that man! He had extraordinary power; God's love was ever strong in him. Yes, he will be amused. And delighted. He once offered to teach me the ways of his faith and I would not listen. Thorvald?”

Thorvald caught the change in his father's tone and did not respond. He knew what was coming.

“What happened with Creidhe? She won't talk to me or to Breccan. It seems she won't talk to anyone. I heard her on the Isle of Shadows, proud and strong, facing the Unspoken, protecting the child with all she had to give. But after that, such a terrible change . . . the bonny, smiling girl she once was has become a wraith, dispirited and hopeless. She has suffered some hurt we know little of, I'm aware of that. But Creidhe is resilient and courageous, like her father. I cannot understand this. Couldn't you reach her?”

Thorvald's brief laugh was bitter with self-mockery and full of pain. “I? I am the last person she will confide in, Father. I was her friend once. She came here solely for me, to protect and guide me. I thought her foolish for that, but it was I who was the fool. It was Creidhe's intervention that won us the peace. But something has changed. She's been hurt and frightened. She was captive on the Isle of Clouds, and there's no doubt in my mind the fellow used her. It seems to me that she does not recognize, yet, that she is safe.”

“Fellow?”

“There was a warrior there; he held her and the child prisoner. He'd been a long time without a woman, I imagine.” Thorvald could hear the anger in his voice. “I think it was Asgrim's son.”

“Erling? That dreamy, quiet lad, still alive after so long on the island? But yes, it does make sense; who else would have the love, the drive to preserve the child all those long years?”

“Love,” echoed Thorvald with some bitterness. “He did not show much love to Creidhe; he abused her, defiled her. You've seen what she has become.”

Niall was silent for a little. Then he said, “This sits at odds with what I knew of the boy, Thorvald. Still, it is a long time, and men change when their circumstances are extreme. He perished in your last battle, I take it? A sad ending for such a peaceable young man.”

“I begin to believe it is not the same,” Thorvald said, “for this was no peace maker. He was a killer, professional, expert and ruthless. He deserved the punishment we meted out. In truth, he deserved more.”

Niall waited.

“I came close to killing him,” Thorvald said with a certain reluctance. “In the end something stayed my hand. Very probably he did not survive. He was wounded, and I left him where he lay.” The full truth he would not tell, lest he appear weak.

“I see. So it is over for him, and over for Creidhe, the dark and dangerous times behind her. And yet, she still seems sunk in despair. I ask myself why? From what I saw of her earlier, when we witnessed the cruel death of an infant she had struggled to save, Creidhe does not seem a person easily thrown into despair.”

“I thought”—there was misery in Thorvald's voice—“that once the seer was safe, once she knew he was content and would not be harmed, she might forgive me for my meddling. That it might be as it once was between us.”

“And how was that?”

“It was . . .” Under his father's searching gaze, Thorvald struggled for words to tell the truth. “All those years, since we were little children, she followed me, like a constant shadow, always there, listening, waiting, walking in my footsteps. When I was sad she comforted me. When I was hurt she helped me. She was younger; often I grew impatient or angry, and drove her to tears or to silence. But I . . . I got used to it, to having her near. I took her entirely for granted, Father. Until I believed her dead. And then I . . .”

Niall waited.

“I could not believe how it hurt. I could not understand how a man could suffer such a blow and still go on.”

“But you did. Go on, I mean.”

“The men needed me,” Thorvald said simply. “My feelings were unimportant. My grief, my guilt . . . they were of no matter, not when the future of the Long Knife people was in the balance. I shut them within me and got on with things.”

“And now Creidhe has returned and you still take her for granted?” Niall's brows arched in query.

“No!” said Thorvald fiercely. “Never! When I knew those fellows were talking about her—was she going home, was she likely to wed one of them—I was so angry I had to go off by myself to save from setting my hands around their necks and throttling them.”

“Why, Thorvald? Such talk seems not unreasonable in the circumstances. She's a comely girl, and there is a certain shortage of marriageable women here.”

“I never gave it much thought before,” Thorvald whispered. “Marriage, I mean. My mind was on other things. Besides, I knew Eyvind would never allow . . . but when they started to talk . . . How could Creidhe wed someone else? It just wouldn't be . . . it wouldn't . . .” He faltered to a stop.

“But you will not tell her how you feel?”

“You've seen her, Father. She cares nothing for me anymore. She cares nothing for anyone. It's as if part of her is lost, some vital core removed. I don't know how I can help her.”

“You must let her go home,” Niall said quietly. “Back to her family, back to her own people.”

Thorvald bowed his head.

“Thorvald, she's not for you. Such fair souls as this, they touch us deeply, they enchant us with their transparent goodness and beauty. We are drawn to them like moths to the lamplight. Perhaps we want to own them, as much as we can, hoping some of that magic may pass to us and make us a little better, a little brighter. But they are not for you and me, son. Ours will always be a pathway of doubt and struggle. That is our nature. You've a task here among the men, a fine and worthy one, and you'll do it well. Perhaps in time you will wed and raise children of your own, perhaps not. But you must smile, and thank your two friends for their bravery and their support, and bid them farewell when the
Sea Dove
sails. We have our own road to tread.”

And though Thorvald hardly understood his father's speech, for it was as if he spoke not of his son or of Creidhe, but of others entirely, it did seem Niall's words bore the wisdom of his long experience, his years of contemplation and study.

“You're tired, Father,” Thorvald said. “It's late. You should try to sleep now.” He settled Niall on the pallet, easing a goose-feather pillow under his head.

“Thorvald?”

“Father, you must stop talking and rest if you want to get well—”

“I need a pen and ink and a parchment. Tomorrow. You must—”

“You're not well enough to write. Not yet.”

“There's nothing wrong with my hands. Tomorrow. Please.”

Thorvald sighed. “I suppose someone can fetch what you need. Is it so urgent to begin your transcriptions once more? There are years ahead for scholarship.”

“I must write a letter. Before the
Sea Dove
sails.”

“Oh.”

“Your mother deserves that at least. I treated her as thoughtlessly as you did Creidhe. It will be hard for her when the
Sea Dove
returns without her son.”

“She won't care.” Thorvald knew even as he said it that this was not true.

“Nonsense,” said Niall, reaching to clasp his son's hand as Thorvald tucked the blankets in. “Though they may not put it into words, mothers always love their sons. Margaret was ever a self-contained girl. That was one of the things I liked about her. Make sure you get the pen and ink in the morning.”

“Yes, Father.”

Keeper awoke to a deathly quiet. He knew instantly that they were gone, for he felt the island's rhythms and balances in every fiber of his being; he was attuned to them. The place was deserted, save for the seals and the birds. And himself.

All the same, he searched. He searched as he had prepared for the hunt, with meticulous care, with cold purpose, with nimble feet and a predator's acuity of sight. He scoured the island from rocky shore to dizzy crag, from hidden bay to deepest cavern, until his legs trembled with weariness and his vision blurred with exhaustion. Then he went back to the shelter and made a halfhearted attempt to clean the crusted blood from his head wound. He sat by the cold hearth with his hand on the necklace he wore, a pale, faded thing woven from strands of his sister's long hair. Small One's boots stood by the wall; his short cloak lay crumpled on the ground. Keeper reached for the blanket on which Creidhe had lain in his arms only this morning; he lifted
the worn fabric to his face and thought he could smell her faint, sweet scent still lingering there. He did not weep. He sat empty, silent. Small One was taken. Keeper had broken his promise. Creidhe was gone. It was his own blow that had struck her; he had wounded her. And now they had torn her away from him. He sat there long, wondering if he would ever move again, wondering if grief and guilt would steal away the man he had been, a fighter, a guardian worthy of the name he had chosen for himself, and leave behind only a shell to be broken and dispersed by the wind. Almost, he gave in to sleep, for if he lay here on the earthen floor with the blanket clutched close, perhaps he would dream fair dreams of his goddess. Perhaps he could shut out the vision of Small One cold, hurt, bleeding, frightened, the image of Creidhe running, falling, lying pale and still on the stony hillside. Perhaps he could forget the triumph in the eyes of the red-haired man. But he did not sleep, for it seemed to him a vigil must be kept. So he sat open-eyed, and in time came the song. It came from far away, so far away it was almost beyond the margins of hearing, and yet he heard it as if Small One had meant it for him alone. It was a fragment borne on the wind, a scattering of notes already fading as they reached him, and yet he understood them deep in his heart.