Spirit of the Mist Read Online Free PDF Page B

again, but this time there was no humor in it. He glanced away and seemed to look inward, clearly reliving a terrible moment.  
    “Odhran meant to kill me with his own hands. He drew his sword and ran at me…and I would be dead were it not for his druids.”  
    Muriel was struck by a sudden dreadful image of Brendan falling to the grass, shock and pain in his strange blue and brown eyes, his fair skin suddenly white as death and splashed with bright red, his golden brown hair lying still against green grass.  
    She took a sudden breath and looked away. The image faded and she was greatly relieved to see that he still stood before her, draped in his soft gray borrowed clothes, calmly talking to the king.  
    “They said that one dead tanist was enough. That two would be a disaster,” Brendan went on. “Though I believe they simply did not want Dun Bochna to attack them while they were still trying to establish themselves at their new home.”  
    “The druids were much wiser than their king,” acknowledged King Murrough.  
    “They persuaded Odhran to exile me, instead; and once he got that idea in his head, he came to prefer it. He went on at some length about how much longer it would take me to die, and how much more painful it would be if I were cast out onto the ocean with no food and no water.  
    “When the druids protested this, he asked if they would prefer he killed me on the spot with his sword. They had little choice but to relent, and so they did.  
    “That evening, Odhran and a few of his warriors stripped me of everything I had, gave me rags to wear, cut my hair like a slave’s, threw me into a boat, and shoved me out with the tide. All of them laughed as I drifted away, and they were quite certain that they had seen the last of me.”  
    He turned to Muriel. “But thanks to this lady, they have not.”  
    The king regarded him for a moment and then whispered to his druids. At last he turned back to Brendan. “So. All this would explain why you had the appearance of a slave when we found you.”  
    A look of relief crossed his face. “It would. It does.”  
    “We have all enjoyed your story, Brendan. But there is not a word of it that you can prove. You could just as well be a criminal who tells a fine tale—a criminal stripped of all you own and set adrift for your transgressions, to become the property of anyone who might find you.”  
    “If you survived the waves,” added the druid.  
    “King Murrough, I assure you my story is true. I am Brendan, the second son of King Galvin, the tanist of—”  
    But the king abruptly stood, cutting off his guest’s protests. “Tomorrow I will send five men to Dun Bochna to ask about your story. They will be gone at least a fortnight, since they will be forced to ride far inland to get around King Odhran’s fortress.  
    “In the meantime you will remain here. But you shall be neither noble nor slave, with neither weapon nor gold, until we know for certain who you are.  
    “If your story is true, your king and father will no doubt send a ransom and men to bring you home. If it is not, you will go back to the rags we found you in and live out your life as a servant of my people—the ones who rescued you. Which will be more than you deserve should you have lied to us.”  
    Brendan bowed to the king. “I thank you, King Murrough.”  
    “Do not thank me yet,” said the sovereign. He walked down past the firepit and went out the door, followed closely by his druids and his warriors, leaving Brendan and Muriel standing alone in the filtered light of the hall.  
    She looked at him, and he stared back, and for the first time Muriel saw doubt and worry on his face. Not even when he had been lost and facing death out on the waves had she seen anything but confidence in his eyes. Now, though, the supremely confident Brendan was beginning to realize just how precarious his position truly was.  
    “Perhaps you would like to see the ocean