"Donnchadh is your bitter enemy," said Branwyn.
"He is fey as I. And Sighted. It's in our blood, only like my father he has no peace with it. —He is my elder brother." He said this for Meadhbh and Ceallach, reluctant, for he had never spoken much about Donnchadh, but he felt it necessary now that they understand. "We met last in this room, when he had come to Caer Wiell; but he saw me—with the Sidhe's presence about me, and it was too much for him. I think he must not have slept well after that. He went away, he and my father, and I thought they would have fallen from the King's favor after that, but they spoke against me and grew closer to him for putting me aside. Perhaps the King thought there was some luck in them that would outweigh mine. Perhaps he still thinks so. But if I could speak with Donnchadh—"
"It's dangerous," said Branwyn, "and might do more harm than good."
"Ah, Branwyn, not dangerous; to my pride, perhaps. But I had a dream about my pride. One asked me could I give it up for Caer Wiell. And I think there was some foreboding in that dream."
"You are not thinking of going to him."
"That was in my mind."
"Lord, no," said Beorc. "Not yourself."
"What can messengers do, where messengers have failed? But per haps it would heal the wound if I were to come myself."
"No," said Branwyn violently. "No, no, and no."
"I would go," said Domhnull. "Lord, if you think there's some use in this, send me."
Ciaran was silent, gazing at Branwyn, reading there adamancy.
"I would go myself," said Beorc. "Your brother knows me, at least by sight."
"That calls back the war years," said Ciaran, "and the King's councils, and maybe those are days best forgot."
"There is myself," said Domhnull again.
"I would go," said Rhys, "but I fear your brother and my folk are not close."
"I think it madness," said Branwyn, "and a danger to whatever man you send. Cousin, don't offer. He should not be encouraged in this."
"Lord, I offer," said Domhnull. His fair face flushed, young that he was and several times passed by. "If I name myself Beorc's cousin and your man, your brother will know it's no small thing that you send me; and as for the war, I never saw it, so he cannot fault me in that either."
"We will talk about this," Branwyn said. "My lord, if you please, we will talk about this thing."
Ciaran sat still a moment. Branwyn gazed straight at him.
"We will talk," he said, and glanced toward Domhnull. "Domhnull, I will think on this."
But as for his mind, it was already set, and he was already framing the message in his mind, what he would send and say after so many years.
SEVEN
Bainbourne
Their father rode ahead with Beorc and Domhnull and the other men of the escort, on great tall horses; and they rode next to last, ahead of the men who led the five remounts. They jogged along on their two ponies next their cousin Rhys, who seemed justifiably downcast about it all, in the troop of their house guard, all of whom they knew. They felt very important, did Meadhbh and Ceallach, in this faring out across the country. Meadhbh felt a freedom and fear at once, a fear which had settled into her like habit in recent days, since no one was going to tell her any of the secrets that drifted about Caer Wiell's halls, like the things her mother and her father said when they talked in private; or what her mother meant in those warnings she had heard in hall; but her father who often did things her mother's way (she is the wisest of us all, he had said of her one day to his men, when Meadhbh was there to hear; no snare will ever take my lady)—her father had left the hall that night with that look in his eye which meant he was not going to listen to anyone and their mother went about the next morning at breakfast finding fault with Muirne and with everything. Meadhbh accepted this sharpness in hushed patience, and Ceallach gave her a look which said he thought much the same, that it was their father their mother was worried about, that he was doing something dangerous even in sending to Donnchadh, and so it was easier to blame the breakfast.
It was that fear again, that no one talked about, whether it was fear of their cousin the King, or their uncle the lord of Donn, or faery, or something no one meant to name; it was always there now, like some great fish, Meadhbh thought, gliding here and there under black waters, and the surface gave back only the glance of light or branches, so that there was no way of knowing when the fish was somewhere upstream, or right under the surface staring back at them. No one wanted to talk about it, especially not to them; or to think about it, if there was a choice.
There was, for a while, the sunlight and the ride: she loved riding, with the creak Floinn's saddle made, and the motion, and the smell of horse and leather, and the earth and the land and even the sharp scent of oil and metal and leather and sweat and smoke that the men had, which reminded her—which would remind her every time she thought of it—of her father on winter evenings, when he brought himself and all his doings with his gear inside the hall with him, when the armory was too cold, and his corner vied with their mother's which smelled of herbs and the simples she made for folk who needed them in winter, hers all leaves and such and bowls, and his chair with all manner of oddments of horse gear and leather and oil-smelling rags. There was the slow scrape of the whetstone when he honed that great sword of his, the muddled scent of heat and oil and the fine riverstone going just so down the edge which had to be done just right, or spoil it. The blade had lines graven down the center of it which wove back and forth and turned into a running horse. It was precious and very fine and old, a sword which the Cearbhallain himself had cared for, and then Evald their grandfather and now their father had it in keeping; but he had seen them watch ing one evening and let first Ceallach and then herself ply the stone, steadying their fingers, being patient when their strokes went amiss and finally finishing it all himself—redoing what they had marred, Meadhbh had suspected; and her hands smelled of oil after, like his, which delighted her—O Meadhbh, her mother had said, who always smelled of herbs and roses, and scowled at her for the black marks on her clothes. But she always loved the smell, because it was his; and loved what he gave her, which was his cleverness of hand, his knowledge how to ride, and where foxes denned and hares might hide, and what were the names of trees and hills and lands beyond horizons.
But now their father rode armorless among men who were ar mored head to foot, carrying shields upon their backs and many of them carrying the long spears which they never used for hunting. He had left the great sword at home, had banished it from hall with the things of the warding room as if it were nothing. They did not ask why. But they had marked that he had put off even his dagger in hall. He had only the stone with him, always that. They did not speak of it, she and Ceallach, even to each other. She was in sum uncertain whether this gift was at the heart of the trouble or whether the trouble had come and the stone upheld him in it; it was far, far different from their own small gifts, she knew.