WELL OF SHADES - Softcover

MARILLIER, JULIET

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0765310007 ISBN 13: 9780765310002

Publisher: Tor, 2008

Synopsis

Originally published in Australia in 2004.

About this title

About the Author

Juliet Marillier was born July 27, 1948 in Dunedin, New Zealand and grew up surrounded by Celtic music and stories. Her own Celtic-Gaelic roots inspired her to write her first series, the Sevenwaters Trilogy. Juliet was educated at the University of Otago, where she majored in music and languages, graduating BA and a B Mus (Hons). Her lifelong interest in history, folklore and mythology has had a major influence on her writing.

Juliet is the author of seventeen historical fantasy novels for adults and young adults, as well as a book of short fiction. Juliet's novels and short stories have won many awards.

Juliet lives in a 110 year old cottage in a riverside suburb of Perth, Western Australia. She shares her home with a small pack of waifs and strays - she is a foster carer for an animal rescue group. She has four adult children and seven grandchildren. Juliet is a member of the druid order OBOD (the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids.) 

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One Winter was coming. Faolan saw its touch on the land as he traveled southward out of the province of Ulaid toward a place called Cloud Hill. In the mornings the grass was crisp with frost and a shroud of mist hung low over the hills, wrapping itself around barn and stable, cottage and byre. The fields held only stubble, among which crows made leisurely paths, exchanging occasional sharp comments. The skies were uniformly gray. So long absent from his homeland, he had forgotten the rain; how it came every day without fail, gently insistent, penetrating cloak and hat and boots so a wayfarer could never be entirely dry. He reached Cloud Hill in a fine, drenching drizzle. The tiny settlement huddled under the sudden rise of the hill, low stone huts clustered in a scattering of leafless rowans, geese gathered in the shelter of an outhouse with only half a roof, a larger hall standing square, with smoke struggling up from the thatch and a skinny gray dog skulking in the doorway. The rain became a downpour; Faolan decided it was time to put aside secrecy, and made for the entry. The dog rumbled a warning as he approached, and a man twitched aside the rough sacking that served as a door, peering out into the rain. The growl became a snarl; the man aimed a kick at the creature and it cringed back into the shadows. “What’s your business?” The tone was both surly and defensive. “Shelter from the rain, no more.” “Not from these parts, are you?” the man muttered as Faolan came in. “Hardly a day for traveling.” There was a small crowd within, gathered around a smoky hearth, ale cups in hand. The wet was an excuse, maybe, for a brief respite from the work of smithy or field. A circle of suspicious eyes greeted Faolan as he made his way toward the fire, his cloak dripping on the earthen floor. He could not tell if this was home or drinking hall; the atmosphere was hardly convivial. “Where are you headed?” asked the man who had let him in. “That depends.” Faolan sat down on a bench. “What’s the name of this place?” “What place are you looking for?” He’d need to take this carefully. Deord’s kin might be among these wary-looking folk, and he would not come right out with his bad news in public. “I’m seeking a man named Deord,” he said. “Big fellow, broad shoulders; from over the water in Caitt territory. I’m told he has kin in a region known as Cloud Hill.” Muttering and whispers. A cup of ale was slid across the table in Faolan’s direction; he took it gratefully. It had been a long day’s walking. “What’s Deord to such as you?” asked a tall, thin man with calloused hands. “Such as I?” Faolan kept his tone light. “What do you mean?” “You’ve a look of someone,” the first man said. “Can’t quite put my finger on it.” “I’ve been away. Years. Deord and I share a past; we were guests in a certain place of incarceration. You’ll know where I mean, perhaps. There’s a name associated with it, a name folk in these parts will be familiar with.” Another silence, then, but with a new feeling to it. The cup of ale was joined by a hunk of bread and a bowl of watery soup brought in by a woman from another chamber behind. She stopped to watch him drink it. “You and Deord, hm?” the first man said. “He’s not here, hasn’t been these seven years or more. Not that there aren’t folk nearby would be wanting news of the man. By the Dagda’s bollocks, that fellow was a fighter and a half. Built like a prize boar, and light as a dancer on his feet. When did you last see him, then? What did you say your name was?” Faolan thought of lying and decided it would make things too difficult later. “Faolan. Yours?” They introduced themselves. The spokesman, Brennan. The tall man, Conor. The woman, Oonagh, wife of Brennan. And others: Donal, Ultan, Aidan. Someone threw another log on the fire, and the ale jug went around again. “I saw Deord last summer,” Faolan said. “We met in Priteni lands.” He was hacked apart and died in my arms. He honored a vow and was slain for it. “A good man. If he has kin in these parts, I’d welcome the chance to speak with them.” Brennan glanced at his wife. Conor exchanged looks with Ultan. The gathering was suddenly full of something unspoken. Aidan, a lad of sixteen or so, cleared his throat. “Were you really in Breakstone?” he asked in a whisper. “And you got out, just like him?” “Hush, lad,” said Brennan. “If you’d your wits about you, you’d know men don’t like to speak of such things.” He addressed Faolan again. “You know Deord came back? Lasted from plowing to harvest; couldn’t cope with it any longer. The time in there scars a man. Only the strongest make it out, and only the strongest of those pick up the pieces of what they had before. He came home and he left again. Where did he go? What’s he doing?” Sleeping a sleep of no dreams, and the forest creeping over to hide him. “I’d best pass my news to the family first, that’s if there is one,” Faolan said. “He mentioned a sister.” “You got the Breakstone mark?” someone asked in a rush. “Show us.” It was, Faolan supposed, necessary to prove he was not lying. He obliged by turning his head and lifting his hair to show the little star-shaped tattoo behind his right ear. “Just like Deord’s,” said the man called Ultan. “And yet there’s a look about you that suggests captors rather than captives. You mentioned a name that goes with talk of Breakstone. Your face puts me in mind of that name; an influential one.” “It’s like a basket of eggs or a creel of shellfish,” Faolan said smoothly. “There’s good ones and bad ones. Every family has both. I was—I am a good friend of Deord’s. The men who escape Breakstone Hollow are bonded for life. So, his sister? She married a local man, I understand?” He drained his cup. “This is uncommonly fine ale, Brennan.” Brennan favored him with a cautious smile. “My own brew. Deord’s sister is Anda. They live around the hill in a hut on its own. We don’t see much of them. Her man, Dalach, is a farrier; follows the horse fairs. He might be away. You should find someone there. It’s wet out; why don’t you leave it till the morning? We can find you a pallet in a corner.” “Thank you,” Faolan said, taken aback that the mention of Deord and Breakstone had turned deep suspicion so quickly into welcome. “I’d best be getting on.” “The offer stands,” said Brennan, glancing at his wife. “If you find you need a bed, there’s one here. It’s a fair walk over there. Aidan will go with you as far as the stile and point out the way.” Aidan grimaced, but went for a piece of sacking to put over head and shoulders. “You got a knife on you?” Donal asked, offhand, as Faolan was heading out the door. “Why do you ask?” Faolan turned a level stare at Donal, and Donal gazed at his own hands. “What he means is, can you defend yourself?” Brennan’s tone was diffident. “I think I should be able to manage,” said Faolan, who had been not only translator and spy to two kings of Fortriu, but assassin as well. “Difficult, is he, this farrier?” It was not quite a shot in the dark; he was expert at reading faces and voices, at hearing the words not spoken. “You’d want to be on your guard,” Brennan said. The rain continued. They reached the stile and the boy pointed out the way, a muddy track barely visible in fading light and persistent downpour. His job done, Aidan fled for home. Faolan climbed over the stile and headed on, boots squelching. He had an odd sense that someone was following him. The dark forms of cattle could be discerned here and there in the gloom, but nothing could be heard but the rain and his own footsteps. Nonetheless, he looked back and looked back again. Nothing; he was being foolish, taking those men’s warnings too much to heart. No self-respecting vagrant would choose such a day to lurk by the road for easy pickings. No sensible traveler would be out in such a deluge. He should have taken up the offer and stayed in the settlement overnight. All the same, the news he bore was bad, and he owed it to Deord to make sure it was his family who heard it first. He just hoped they were home; it would be a long, wet walk back. The hut was a poor thing, a low construction of mud and wattles, with the water streaming off the thatch to pool around the base of the walls. Here and there the fabric of the place was crumbling; farrier this Dalach might be, but h...

Edition details

• Publisher: Tor
• Publication date: 2008
• ISBN 10: 0765310007
• ISBN 13: 9780765310002
• Binding: Paperback
• Language: English
• Number of pages: 642