that…that…I am so unsure of what he is.”
“Isn’t he the tanist of Dun Bochna? Their next king? That’s why King Murrough is being so careful of him. A tanist will bring a very nice price. Murrough would be a bad king to his people if he did not get what this Brendan is worth!”
“Brendan says he is the tanist. He says many things, but—”
“Ah! You are unsure of his words.” Alvy laughed, pulling her comb through the masses of wool she, too, was spinning. “Then I suppose I am happy, dear one, for you have learned a thing or two! No young woman with a mind to call her own would believe every little thing a handsome man says.”
Muriel smiled a little. “I have listened to you for a very long time.” Then her face grew somber again. “No matter how many times Brendan tells me that he is a prince and will one day be a king, no matter what fine clothes he wears or how much gold gleams at his shoulder and on his arms and his fingers…the only way I see him is as a prisoner.”
“A prisoner? What do you mean?”
Muriel looked away, gazing into the softly burning hearth fire as her thoughts drifted back to when she had first found Brendan. “I discovered him as a half-drowned outcast, an exile thrown to the storm to die…then he was a mysterious visitor dressed in gray, not a guest but not allowed to leave, who might or might not have been what he said he was…and now he is again an outsider, a prisoner dragged into the King’s Hall and locked into a room.”
“I see,” Alvy said, nodding her head. “But everyone else seems to confirm the story he tells. Why do you doubt him? I am sure you wouldn’t unless you had good reason.”
“The mirror,” Muriel said quietly. “You are right. Everyone does confirm his story. Only the water mirror seems to say otherwise.”
Alvy set down her wool and leaned in close. “What does the mirror say?”
“Perhaps I am not understanding it…but it seems to show Brendan as the child of slaves.”
“Slaves,” Alvy whispered, then leaned back again. “I’ve never known the mirror to be wrong. But how could the tanist of Dun Bochna be the child of slaves?”
Muriel shook her head. “I want to believe him. I know that he himself believes what he told me; I know that he does not lie. But though my heart wants to take him at his word, I cannot help but think that there are still many questions left unanswered about who—or what—this Brendan really is.”
The afternoon wore on. After what seemed like forever, Muriel heard the sound of galloping horses—horses heading across the grounds of the dun toward the gates. She sat bolt upright for a moment, then dropped her wool and her wooden spindle into the rushes as she dashed outside, flinging the door wide open and not bothering to close it.
“Brendan!” she shouted as she saw three riders approaching the gate. “Brendan!’
She thought he could not possibly hear her—but then his gray horse slid to a halt, and he turned around on it to face her. His two companions halted as well. Muriel ran over to them.
“I’m sorry,” Brendan said, smiling down at her as his horse moved restlessly beneath him. “I did not mean to leave without a word for you, but I did not want you to worry.”
She reached out and touched his horse’s neck, and the animal quieted. “You are leaving?” she asked. “I thought the king ordered you to stay until the rest of the ransom was paid!”
“He did. But I convinced him that the best one to bring back the cattle was none but myself.”
“You? The king has allowed you to ride all the way to Dun Bochna, and then all the way back again, to bring back your own ransom?”
He grinned again. “Not so far as Dun Bochna—only to the hills above Dun Camas, where King Odhran’s cattle graze. I have promised to bring back not just the number of cattle owed for my ransom, but twice that number. Not only will
“Isn’t he the tanist of Dun Bochna? Their next king? That’s why King Murrough is being so careful of him. A tanist will bring a very nice price. Murrough would be a bad king to his people if he did not get what this Brendan is worth!”
“Brendan says he is the tanist. He says many things, but—”
“Ah! You are unsure of his words.” Alvy laughed, pulling her comb through the masses of wool she, too, was spinning. “Then I suppose I am happy, dear one, for you have learned a thing or two! No young woman with a mind to call her own would believe every little thing a handsome man says.”
Muriel smiled a little. “I have listened to you for a very long time.” Then her face grew somber again. “No matter how many times Brendan tells me that he is a prince and will one day be a king, no matter what fine clothes he wears or how much gold gleams at his shoulder and on his arms and his fingers…the only way I see him is as a prisoner.”
“A prisoner? What do you mean?”
Muriel looked away, gazing into the softly burning hearth fire as her thoughts drifted back to when she had first found Brendan. “I discovered him as a half-drowned outcast, an exile thrown to the storm to die…then he was a mysterious visitor dressed in gray, not a guest but not allowed to leave, who might or might not have been what he said he was…and now he is again an outsider, a prisoner dragged into the King’s Hall and locked into a room.”
“I see,” Alvy said, nodding her head. “But everyone else seems to confirm the story he tells. Why do you doubt him? I am sure you wouldn’t unless you had good reason.”
“The mirror,” Muriel said quietly. “You are right. Everyone does confirm his story. Only the water mirror seems to say otherwise.”
Alvy set down her wool and leaned in close. “What does the mirror say?”
“Perhaps I am not understanding it…but it seems to show Brendan as the child of slaves.”
“Slaves,” Alvy whispered, then leaned back again. “I’ve never known the mirror to be wrong. But how could the tanist of Dun Bochna be the child of slaves?”
Muriel shook her head. “I want to believe him. I know that he himself believes what he told me; I know that he does not lie. But though my heart wants to take him at his word, I cannot help but think that there are still many questions left unanswered about who—or what—this Brendan really is.”
The afternoon wore on. After what seemed like forever, Muriel heard the sound of galloping horses—horses heading across the grounds of the dun toward the gates. She sat bolt upright for a moment, then dropped her wool and her wooden spindle into the rushes as she dashed outside, flinging the door wide open and not bothering to close it.
“Brendan!” she shouted as she saw three riders approaching the gate. “Brendan!’
She thought he could not possibly hear her—but then his gray horse slid to a halt, and he turned around on it to face her. His two companions halted as well. Muriel ran over to them.
“I’m sorry,” Brendan said, smiling down at her as his horse moved restlessly beneath him. “I did not mean to leave without a word for you, but I did not want you to worry.”
She reached out and touched his horse’s neck, and the animal quieted. “You are leaving?” she asked. “I thought the king ordered you to stay until the rest of the ransom was paid!”
“He did. But I convinced him that the best one to bring back the cattle was none but myself.”
“You? The king has allowed you to ride all the way to Dun Bochna, and then all the way back again, to bring back your own ransom?”
He grinned again. “Not so far as Dun Bochna—only to the hills above Dun Camas, where King Odhran’s cattle graze. I have promised to bring back not just the number of cattle owed for my ransom, but twice that number. Not only will
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