Nine

Although she hadn’t spent much time there, Hallfield was passingly familiar to Moiread, and the Colquhouns—Calhouns, now—who ruled there more so. She’d passed through a few times during the wars, and before that when she’d been young. Four days’ ride wasn’t so distant, particularly not when she’d been able to fly most of the way and transform in a convenient bit of forest.

“Will you want to go in undisguised?” Madoc asked when he heard.

“No, it’d confuse folk. And I’ve not properly visited the castle in years.” She glanced at the fields they passed: wet, brown earth fresh plowed from spring planting, strips neatly divided to go with the neat cottages that lined the road ahead of them. “There’s not nearly as much convenient forest as there once was.”

Everything had been wilder in her youth. It still was, in her mind, and she felt the difference. The growth of fields and houses made her feel not only exposed but old.

Still, the castle was mostly as she remembered: a round wooden tower at the top of a hill and a small castellum below it, all surrounded by a wide moat and a thick wall. Two men stood on each end of the bridge, carrying spears and watching Moiread and Madoc as they approached. The wars hadn’t been over long, and they’d gone harder here than in the north.

Out of habit, Moiread noted both the men’s alertness and their posture with approval, caught herself nodding satisfaction, and chuckled quietly.

“Hmm?” Madoc asked.

She grinned at him. “A bit used to command. And a bit slow to realize what’s not my problem any longer. Is there any baggage you’d keep with us, by the way?” she asked, slowing her horse slightly as she thought of the question. “We’ll likely not be able to put the beasts up ourselves here.”

“One bag,” he said. “Treasures of my people, and a few other items I’d as soon keep by my side.”

“I’ll take that, unless you’ll need it here.”

“No, that’s unlikely.”

They halted in front of the bridge. “Who comes?” asked one of the guards. He and his companion stood in the center. Their comrades behind them fanned out to the sides of the bridge, where each had a good line of sight if he needed to throw his spear.

“Madoc of Avondos, and my squire, Michael. I sent word to the Calhoun of my visit.”

“Aye, my lord,” said the head guard. “Enter and be welcome.”

He and his fellow stood aside. The way in was only wide enough for one to ride, so Moiread took the front, reflecting briefly that the portcullis was left raised for the first time in years, as far as she could recall: another sign of peace.

The buildings inside the round castellum were the same as Moiread remembered, and much the same as in the courtyards at Loch Arach: kitchens, chapel, smithy, storehouses, and the stables, where she and Madoc surrendered the horses into the care of two youths and a grizzled man with a limp, and most of the baggage to a small assortment of pages, to whom Moiread tossed small coins.

It never hurt to gain favor, particularly with the people who’d have their eyes on her mount and her gear.

Following behind Madoc took getting used to. Even such short experience as she had at being a bodyguard suggested strongly that she take the lead, wary for ambushes and traps. Calm yourself, girl, she said silently. You’re on friendly territory now. It didn’t help much. She managed to follow Madoc up the stairs to the keep at a proper remove, and to keep her free hand from her sword while she did it, but it was a conscious effort and a struggle against her reflexes.

Near the top of the stairs, a small crowd came out to meet them. The Calhoun was tall and red-blond this generation, with a beard a small mammal could get lost in. His wife, Glynis, was short and dark, and their three daughters looked like they’d end up with various interesting combinations, though it was too soon to say anything for certain. They were all in that vague stage somewhere between walking and marriage.

All looked better than they had when Moiread last passed through. She’d come then in rain-soaked darkness, which hadn’t helped, but the change was more than sunlight. The Calhoun—Eachann, Moiread thought his name was—had lost the grim cast to his face. His wife was smiling, and the children were watching the strangers with unmixed excitement, not waiting to overhear bad news.

“My lord Madoc of Avondos,” Moiread said, belatedly remembering what she’d seen men do in her place and bowing before the assembly.

Then she stepped out of the way, letting Madoc and the Calhoun take hands and exchange greetings. Behind the younger members of the family, she spotted a late arrival: Uisdean, who’d been the chief of Hallfield the last time she’d stayed there as a noble guest rather than a soldier. His hair and beard had gone from brown to pure white, and the hair was considerably thinner. So was the man. When the crowd moved toward the keep doors, she saw that he’d lost perhaps half his flesh. His brown eyes were cloudy too, and Moiread saw him squint as he peered from her to Madoc.

That infirmity would aid in her disguise, yet she couldn’t be glad of it.

“Here, lad,” said one of the guards, putting a comradely hand on Moiread’s shoulder. “Och, but you’re a nervous one,” he added, as Moiread tensed, not quite reaching for her sword. “The war’s over, isn’t it?”

“It’s been a long trip,” she said, making herself relax. The man’s broad face was good-natured and honest. She put little faith in that, but he was one of the Calhoun’s guards, and not the lowest ranked at that. She remembered playing dice with him when she and her men had camped before the inner walls. “Your pardon, sir.”

“Easy enough granted. Come along wi’ me. Your gear’s under a bunk already, and I’d wager you’re hungry. Might as well feed ourselves while our lords go through their paces, do ye no’ think?”

Briefly, Moiread watched the crowd bear Madoc away toward the great doors of the keep. He walked by Glynis’s side, as was proper for a guest. The two talked quietly and with cheerful faces, looking back at Eachann frequently as he spoke. Uisdean followed with the children, a tall figure yet among them.

“I’ve heard considerably worse ideas,” Moiread said.

* * *

“Truth to tell, I know little of these matters,” said Eachann Calhoun as they came out of the castle’s chapel into the evening air. “It was my aunt who’d made any sort of study, ye ken, and I’ve only the tales she told me, nor have I ever tried to use the knowledge.”

Eachann wasn’t just trying to warn Madoc of his ignorance; his uneasy backward glance at the chapel said as much. He’d worn a brief but poorly concealed expression of relief when Madoc had come with him to vespers, but his guest’s ability to step over the church threshold and say the Lord’s Prayer without incurring a bolt of lightning clearly only went so far toward reassurance.

It was a pity Sunday was so far off. Communion might have put the man more at ease.

“Oh, that won’t be any trouble at all,” said Madoc. “I’ll do everything that requires study.” The man’s own half-conscious evasion was a useful one. He spoke again, trying to sound reassuring rather than desperate. If Eachann was having second thoughts now that Madoc was there, it was a bad sign, and Madoc didn’t have many days to be persuasive. “Your part will only be to accept. It’s mostly an oath, truly.”

Here it was mostly an oath. Here at Hallfield, all the magic would come from the beings Madoc called on to witness the pact, the spells he had cast at the beginning of his journey, and the momentum of the journey itself, with the tracks of foot or hoof a tie between the two lands. At his two remaining destinations, matters would be different: as showy as the rite at Loch Arach had been, or more.

“Good,” said Eachann. “If it’ll give me or my son or my grandson the upper hand, should the English get greedy once more, there’s not much I’ll not welcome, and gladly.” This time his look toward the chapel was almost defiant, and all the briefer for it. “But I’m glad I’ll not have to fumble my way through.”

“You don’t strike me as a man who fumbles much,” said Madoc, smiling with relief and trying to pass it off as amusement.

“That’s because I stick to what I know, life allowing.”

Madoc, who thought that sounded like a dull way to live, but who knew that Eachann could have easily said I’m glad I’ll not have to meddle with unearthly things and put my soul in jeopardy, or decided he didn’t have to do that, made a gesture of assent and changed the subject. “I didn’t know you had a son.”

“Adair.” The bearded face split with a proud smile. “Sixteen and already my height. He did himself right well in the war too. He’s been gone as a squire for the last two years. A shame he’s not here now, or he and your lad might have a bit to talk about between them.”

“That they would,” said Madoc, laughing both because it was expected and because it felt strange to be discussing Moiread in such a manner. “And I can only pray that Michael’s accounts would all be good, and that the word tyrant got used but rarely.”

He would have liked to be a fly on the wall during such a conversation, even knowing Moiread’s end of it to be more than half falsehood.

“He’s not given you trouble, I hope?”

“No,” said Madoc. “He’s quite promising.”

“And handsome with it.” Eachann snorted. “There’s at least one of my girls making cow eyes over him already, and her not yet twelve. D’ye ken his family at all?”

“Ah,” said Madoc, not having anticipated quite this turn of questioning. “Only a little. My father knows more of them. A…Seymour, I think?”

“An English name, that.”

“Yes, but his mother’s family is Scottish, and they’ve had the raising of him since his father died.” Madoc silently noted all the details and hoped he’d have a chance to pass them along to Moiread before she had to answer any such questions herself. “A bit of bad blood there, actually, I’m hearing.”

The Calhoun nodded. “And so there would be, I’d think. Well—” He rubbed his chin idly. “Many a young man’s come from humbler stock.”

“So they have,” Madoc agreed. They climbed the steps toward the keep side by side. The view near the top wasn’t as dramatic as that from the high windows of Castle MacAlasdair, but it had a beauty to it: blue-violet sky over peaceful fields and stars beginning to shine. “They seem pleasant children, your daughters.”

“Oh, mostly, though Gara, the middle one, has the devil’s own temper when she’s vexed.” Eachann hesitated, resting a hand on the stone ledge, and then added, “Seonag, my eldest, she knew my aunt well. She’s taken an interest—not that I’ve much I can teach her, but there are a few records.”

“Ah,” said Madoc. “If you think she might be of assistance tomorrow, I’d welcome her.”

“Well, it comes to mind that, even if ’tis but a vow, I’ll not only be taking it for myself.” Eachann said. “No man lives forever. Best that my children know who they can call on—and who can call on them. Adair’s far from here. And he’s no more given to these arts than I am, truly.”

Again Madoc heard the words beneath the words, the ones that the Calhoun was too much the host—and too polite in general—to speak aloud. Magic might do well enough for women, sometimes, under the right circumstances, if it stayed firmly on the side of the angels. Men had better, more honest ways of addressing the world, or should. His guest, both man and magician, was an exception, of course.

Present company excepted. Mostly because it’s present, and company.

A man did as well as he could with what he’d learned and who he was. Madoc smiled honestly back at his host. “I’d say that was wise of you, sir.”