"No lights," said Boc. "Gods, how dark that pile is."
"I think it is the face we see," Domhnull said. "Its walls and not the keep itself." Rough, lord Ciaran had called his native hold; mostly shepherds, flocks scattered in every fold of the hills round about; a keep which had grown up as chance and invention built it, a wall here, a shed there, a hall of rough stone and timbers—it had never had to stand siege, Ciaran had said, except by wind and weather.
They rode closer, the lonely clop of the horses' hooves echoing off the cliff.
"Are we not reported?" Brom wondered, rearmost, who led the other horses. "Surely the shepherds saw us coming."
"Gods know," Domhnull said, and unslung his shield from his back where he had carried it. So did the others then, a rattle of wood and metal. With that thumping on his left arm he felt at least some cover about him, for they rode near brush and jagged stone as the road followed the streamcourse. It was a place apt for ambush. His weary horse picked up its head, skittish at the sound of the shield, snorted in the darkness. He touched his heels to it and it moved a little faster on the dark trail, past trees and up again, with the walls and gates rising now above them.
"Caer Donn," Domhnull called out, "ho the watch, Caer Donn!"
"Who is it?" a voice drifted back to them. "What purpose?"
He was relieved at that hailing, reined in his horse with his men about him. "I am Domhnull Gaelbhan mac Gaelbhan, Beorc Scaga's-son's cousin, of my lord of Caer Wiell the messenger, and four men my escort. Open your gate for us."
There was long delay. Domhnull sat his horse and kept his shield on his arm while his eyes scanned the rim of the wall. His heart was beating as hard as it had at the worst of their journey, dreading words this time, not arrows: go away, go back unheard, our lord will not admit you. No man behind him spoke, Boc, Caith, Dubhlaoch; and Brom who led the horses. Hooves shifted, clattered, restless: the horses saw a gate, thought of hay and straw and shelter, unwitting of all politics.
"You will come in by the lesser gate," the voice hailed them from the wall, "your shields at your backs, Domhnull mac Gaelbhan."
It was no more than reasonable, at this hour, with the dark behind them. "Do what they ask," Domhnull said, and slung his own shield to his back, tapped his horse in the ribs and rode forward as the lesser gate eased open outward, showing torchlight beyond it.
He passed beneath the arch, among boys who came to take his horse, no different than at Caer Wiell. He stepped from the saddle, looked about him, not missing the men who stood above the gate: archers, if they were needed. Caith came through, and Boc and Dub hlaoch, Brom last of all, with the string of horses. The gate slammed shut. The yard passed into the confusion ordinary with lads and half a score of horses.
"My lord will see you," a man came to say, a graying, square-faced man wearing a gold chain that glinted in the torchlight, wealthier than the look of this place.
Everywhere was timber. Not a hold for war, lord Ciaran had said: it was far too much of wood, a mass of wood and stone before them, like some shepherd's cottage turned fortress, as if some giant had tumbled a hundred such cottages together: here was a wall, there a corner, a second story of wood and stone overhanging, and some of the roof timbers jutting out from all of it. Steps went up to the doors, thundering and creaking under their heavy tread, and so they came into a smoky, timbered hall, a great long table in the midst of it, a fireplace burning, torches lit, so that light chased the shadows; and a great carved chair where a man sat with others standing by him.
Donnchadh, Domhnull thought, finding uncomfortable this place, this sitting in chairs like some minor king, when his own lord would have come down to the yard to meet a guest, or at least stood up to meet him.
"Domhnull mac Gaelbhan," said Donnchadh—there was no brother—likeness, none. This man was lean and gray as a wolf, where Ciaran was fair and golden. Half-brothers, they were. "My brother has some word for me, does he?"
"Lord, he sent a ring to you." Domhnull slid it from his hand— easily it slipped, when Ciaran had worn it on his smallest finger. He offered it, and gave it when Donnchadh held out his palm.
"Yes," said Donnchadh, "I gave it to him."
"My lord sent it for a token." He looked into Donnchadh's eyes and for a moment lost all its thread of thought, everything unrav eling—I cannot, he thought, I cannot do this.
"And wishes?"
"Peace," he said. "Peace and other things ... He said—" His wits rallied; he gathered his forces, embarrassed. "Lord, his word was that he wished peace. That foremost. He says that silence profits neither. He spoke with me—" Ogods, this is not easy. This man hates him. "I am close to him. I know his heart. He thinks often of Donn, has thought, through the years, and wants to see you. Go to him, he said to me, and answer his questions, whatever he might want to ask —and bring back news again, and perhaps—"
"Perhaps?"
Shame flooded his face with heat. The word tangled on his tongue, echoed in this hostile hall. "Forgiveness."
Long silence afterward. Donnchadh stared at him, looked down at the ring, looked up again and his eyes were less fierce. "That is strange to hear from my brother."
"His word, lord."
"I have waited many years," said Donnchadh. His lips clamped taut. He looked down and slipped the ring to his own hand. "Well," he said then, "well, Domhnull of Caer Wiell. I know your cousin."
"Yes," he said, "lord." That little seemed safest.
"News. Is it news my brother wants? Well. You have had a long road and a dangerous, and I am bound to listen. I have long thought he might have sent to me; and tomorrow you will tell me what is in his mind. In the meanwhile—in the meanwhile, there is rest and food, whatever you have need of." He beckoned to the man who stood nearest at his shoulder. "Geannan, see you to it."
"Lord," said Domhnull, "thank you."
"Tomorrow we shall talk at some length," said Donnchadh, "and I shall have thought, and you will. Go with Geannan."
Domhnull made his respects and his escort with him, and followed after the slight man in rich clothing who led them from the hall.
My lord, he thought, would call for food and drink in hall would be frank and open-handed He dismissed such carping thoughts. It was another hall, another custom, a sterner lord. He felt young be fore this man, young and simple, and felt the eyes of Boc and the others on his shoulders, expecting him to uphold Caer Wiell's honor, while bowing and giving courtesies in this place, before this wolf-eyed lord who sat high in the councils of the King in Dun na h-Eoin.
Pages came, meeting them in the hallway beyond the great hall. "I shall show you where you will lodge," said Geannan, "and the lads will see your men well fed and comfortable."
"I will go with my men," Domhnull said, but Geannan soberly caught his arm and drew him on.
"We would not have you say in Caer Wiell that we lodged you meanly, sir Domhnull; you will not report my lord in that way. Come, come, no mean lodging for your men; plenty of ale and per haps cook will find some of that lamb we had for dinner. For your self, perhaps some wine, and I know some of that lamb is left, and perhaps a slice or two of that good ham we had. I shall entreat the cook myself, and hot water, yes, and a fine feather bed, I'll warrant will be far better than the saddle. Did you ride straight on, then?"