Child of the Prophecy (23 page)

"Your own family will be missing you," I added.

"Aisling is all the family I have," he said after a moment, and now he was looking down at the ground.

I paused. "You surprise me," I said. "No wife? No children? Perhaps my lack of exposure to the world limits my understanding of such things, but are you not anxious for an heir to your estates?"

He gave the tiniest of smiles. "You are very direct, Fainne. Startlingly so."

I employed Grandmother's teaching again, making a delicate gesture of confusion, fingers up to my lips. "I'm sorry. I had no wish to offend you. I grew up in solitude, and never learned the art of conversation. Please ignore what I said."

"It is unusual, I suppose," said Eamonn, moving around to sit by me on the steps. "Once, I imagined I could have those things. After all, a man considers them no more than a basic right. But everything changed."

"How?"

He looked down at his hands, now tightly clenched together.

"Ah. Now you venture into those matters of which I cannot speak. We must each keep our secrets, I think."

"I'm sorry, Eamonn."

He glanced at me, brows raised.

"You would prefer I called you Uncle Eamonn? It doesn't seem altogether appropriate."

"Indeed not, Fainne. And after all, I am not your uncle, though I might have been. I should go. My men will be waiting. It's a long ride to Sidhe Dubh."

"That is where you live?"

"And at Glencarnagh. You would prefer that house. It's more of a place for a woman."

"And I'd better go back to the children," I said. "They must be tidied up and given some sewing to do. Aunt Aisling keeps us all busy. I don't mind. It's just that they're so loud."

Eamonn smiled. It improved his appearance markedly. A pity he was so old. Nine and thirty at least, I thought. Older than my father.

"You like quiet, then?"

I nodded. "I might have better stayed in the south, and dedicated

myself to a life of peace and contemplation," I said softly, pleased that

I had not had to lie.

"You would not then wish for a family of your own, someday?"

Eamonn asked gravely.

I guessed at what Grandmother would think appropriate here. "Indeed yes," I breathed, making my face the picture of exquisite young womanhood, on the brink of discovery. "A husband, a fine son, a lovely little daughter to watch over—doesn't every girl long for

that?"

There was another pause. "I hope," said Eamonn, "I hope Sean chooses wisely for you. I would not see such a—I hope he exercises sound judgment on your behalf. Now I must be off. Good luck with your riding. I'm sure you will become as accomplished at that as no doubt you are at everything else."

"You flatter me," I said.

"I doubt that very much. Goodbye, Fainne. Perhaps we can talk again, when next I visit Sevenwaters."

"I'd like that," I said, and watched him go. I had managed, at least. Grandmother would probably have approved. So why had this interchange so disturbed me that my stomach seemed to tie itself in knots whenever I thought of it? I went through all I had said, and could find no error in it. But I kept seeing Darragh's face as he watched me dancing at the fair, the face of a man who feels somehow betrayed. And all I could think of was how glad I was that Darragh could not see me now; that he would not know what I must do, and what I must become.

Chapter Five

The forest was like a cloak of darkness around the keep and its small settlement. As the year moved forward and the weather grew damp and chill, I found it hard to shake off the feeling of oppression, of being shut in a trap that would draw close around and smother me. The forest protects its own, Muirrin had said. It seemed to me the forest lived and breathed, and sensed an intruder in its midst with destruction in her heart. Grandmother had set things out for me with devastating simplicity. Make sure they don't fight, she had said, or if they do, make sun they lose. To lose the battle was to lose the Islands. To lose the Islands was to bring ill on the forest, and on all the dwellers therein, whether of human world or Otherworld. It seemed to me the forest knew this, as a living being knows a great truth. Foolish thoughts, I said to myself briskly, as I added a log to the small fire in my room. After all, it was only trees. Trees can be cut down and burnt. Trees can be cleared to make room for crops or grazing. Stupid, to give those fears too much weight. And yet, in the lore, trees could not be underestimated. To Conor and his kind they were powerful symbols. To Muirrin and her family they were a sacred trust, to be protected at all costs. In its turn, the forest guarded all who dwelt at Sevenwaters.

I stood by my window looking down, watching the rain driven sideways by the gale, seeing the leafless forms of great oak and beech shudder under the storm's onslaught, yet stand firm together. It was nearly dark, and I had lit a candle, which struggled to remain alight

there in the window. Its flickering golden glow touched Riona's embroidered features to life, and turned her silken gown the shade of autumn rose. There was the strangest of feelings about this spot, close by the narrow window. I had felt it before: some power, some significance, as if a person had waited here endlessly, as if what they felt was so strong that the memory of it still lingered there in the cold air, before the flickering candle. The sense of it chilled me. I moved away to sit on the bed, and Riona's eyes watched me.

Fears, I told myself, too many fears. I must rid myself of them, so the task could unfold. If the forest was a threat, then I must confront it. I must answer the voices, and challenge the silent sentinels. Did not my task strike at the heart of the Fair Folk themselves? And yet I quailed at the prospect of walking alone under the oaks, lest I hear their voices. Without knowledge of those whom I must defeat, I could achieve nothing. Was I not a sorcerer's daughter? Where was my courage?

The weather cleared; stormy days gave way to crisp, frosty mornings and cool afternoons under a pale sun that gave no respite to the ache deep in the bones. The little girls stopped squabbling and went outside to play, not too far from the house. The last of the season's work was completed, roofs repaired, wood stacked, winter supplies carefully stored away. In the yards, men with sword and spear and dagger rehearsed, endlessly, the lethal dances of war. More horses came in, and the stable lads were too busy to bother with a lady's riding lessons. Sean seemed grim and preoccupied, striding about with the two great dogs padding silent behind him. Other men came, and consulted with him, and left. Supplies were brought in on carts and put away before anyone could get a look at their nature. Often Conor would be there with his nephew, checking things and offering grave advice. It was not so unusual for a druid to involve himself in a military campaign, especially when it touched on something so dear to his heart.

For my grandmother had been right about the great venture planned for summer. It was indeed no less than the final onslaught on the Britons of Northwoods, the clan that had laid hold of the Islands sacred to the old faith, generations since. This was the summer when the Islands would be returned at last to their rightful guardians. Not owners; that term was not appropriate. The family were custodians only, of forest, lake, and Islands. This ancient trust had been laid on

our ancestor by the folk of the Tuatha De Danann, when first he set foot in the forest of Sevenwaters. There had been a terrible neglect of that trust, and Northwoods had laid hold of the Islands. Over countless years, the feud for control of these specks of land far out in the sea had been waged, and sons of Erin and Britain alike had laid down their lives for the cause. This would be the last onslaught. North-woods would be driven out, his forces shattered. The time was right; the child of the prophecy was among them, and a warrior fully fledged. With him to lead, and an array of allies such as had never before been mustered, the venture could not fail.

All this I learned by listening and observation. The training my father had imparted had made me skillful at both. Indeed, there were times when I overheard rather more than I wished to; times when I wondered much about the history of this great family and the secrets which seemed woven into it. There was a day when I had fled the children's chatter and taken myself off to a secluded corner of the garden to sit in silence on an old stone bench. The air was chill; I was well wrapped in my warm cloak. I held my grandmother's amulet in my hand and tried to fix my mind on the task she had set me and how I might achieve it. Sometimes when I touched the small bronze triangle I saw her face in my mind, and heard the fierce whisper of her voice, Don't forget, Fainne. Don^t forget your father. I remembered her punishments, and did not doubt her power. At times my spirit quailed at the impossibility of the quest which lay before me. The amulet helped in these moments of doubt. Its small form in my hand was always reassuring; while I held it I could believe myself capable of almost anything.

That day I was sitting on my bench in the shadow of a tall winter-brown hedge, when I heard voices: my uncle Sean's, and Conor's. They were walking along a gravel path on the other side of the trimmed beeches, and they paused right behind me so I could not fail to hear their words. Just in case they should decide to come around the corner where they could see me, I used a little spell to blend myself more fully into the hedge-shade, to dapple my clothing to the colors of dry winter leaf and dark clutching twig. I listened.

". . . have asked myself many questions about Ciaran's reasons for this, but no answers come to me," Conor was saying.

"It's plain enough to me, Uncle," Sean replied. "Even Ciaran

must understand his daughter has no future in a remote settlement somewhere on the fringes of Kerry. He can't bring her north himself; he knows he can never be received here, for all he shares our own blood. So he sends the girl to us, hopeful that we will see her settled, find her a good husband, secure for her a future befitting a daughter of Sevenwaters."

There was a little silence.

"There's something wrong here." Conor's tone was thoughtful, as if he struggled with some challenging puzzle. "Ciaran had no love for Sevenwaters nor for his family when he stormed out of the place all those years ago. He repudiated all of us, and the brotherhood as well, as soon as he learned who he was. He set the seal on that decision in taking Niamh for himself, even after he understood that was against natural laws. In doing so he effectively cut her off from all of us. Why would he choose, now, to throw his daughter on our mercy? Even as a child Ciaran was a subtle thinker. There's a plan in this somewhere, and it's not a simple wish to see his daughter wed to some likely nobleman."

"With respect, Uncle, I think you're wrong. I think Ciaran is doing exactly what Niamh would have wanted. My sister loved this place and her family; she also loved the life it offered her, the fine things, the music and dancing, the company and festivity. Niamh was no hermit. It grieves me that I will never know if my sister forgave what we did to her, if she died still bitter that we chose so ill for her. Could not Fainne's presence here be seen as a kind of forgiveness?"

"You wish it could be so," Conor said quietly. "You overlook what the girl is, I think; what legacy she bears. She is Niamh's daughter, certainly; I see that in the toss of the head, the sudden silences, the quickness to take offense. But she is Ciaran's daughter too. You know what that means. Keeping Fainne here may be a risk to us. We must tread cautiously, I think."

"Come now, Uncle, Fainne has some skill in magic, that is true, but any druid could do what she did that day in the forest. Growing up alone with her father all these years, it is not surprising she has gleaned some knowledge from him. There's more of a danger on another front; Eamonn's been asking me questions I don't know how to answer."

"What questions?" Conor's tone was suddenly sharp.

JULIET MARILLIER

"About the girl's father, who he was, his background. The answers I gave Aisling did not satisfy her brother; he would not accept simply that the man was a druid of good parentage. He pressed me for more."

"Hmm," said Conor. "Why would this interest Eamonn, do you think?"

"Everything interests Eamonn. He makes a point of knowing all there is to know, just in case it may come in useful someday. No doubt that is how he's made himself a man of such wealth and influence."

They were moving away along the path again. Soft as a whisper of breeze, I rose and kept pace with them on my own side of the hedge. I was well practiced at walking silently, limping foot or no.