Child of the Prophecy (30 page)

I watched as the little flickerings of uncertainty spread, as the wretchedness began to show itself in different ways, as the household shifted from the pure hope and inspiration of the Samhain ritual to a mood of anxious introspection. Mealtimes were subdued. Talk was sparse. Small disagreements flared which were not always resolved with speed. Sean was withdrawn and silent, and Aisling nervously

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busy. Conor remained but one day after the fire, and then departed for the nemetons, with four of his brethren bearing the body of the ancient one between them on a board. He must break the terrible news to his folk himself, he told Sean quietly, not leave it to reach them through idle talk. Their oldest must be sent on his way with the appropriate ritual, and his body laid to rest where it belonged, under the oaks.

It was clear Conor wanted to stay, for though some had recovered quickly, there were still three men remaining in Muirrin's care, and prospects for the youngest looked grim indeed, unless he could cling on until my aunt Liadan arrived. Their faith in her healing abilities astonished me. Liadan was only a woman, after all, Fomhoire blood or not. What could she do that Muirrin and her helpers could not?

He would return as soon as he could, Conor said. He knew his injured folk would be offered the sick-maintenance due to them both by law and kinship. Meanwhile he had obligations to those left in the forest, and these he must keep. The chill formality of his words set a distance between him and his nephew that had not been there before. I had thought Conor tireless. I had seen him endure near-drowning with an equanimity most men of one-and-twenty would be hard-pressed to summon. But the fire had shaken him. He walked out of Sevenwaters leaning heavily on his birch staff, his hood drawn up to shadow his features. There was no reading his expression. The small procession made its way down the path under the winter trees and away. Conor had not spoken to me since the night of the fire. Whether he knew, whether he guessed, or whether he had simply been too distracted to notice me, there was no way of telling.

Muirrin was a strong girl, though she was such a little thing. In the sickroom she ordered all, and there was constant activity. Women sponged fevered brows, changed dressings, brewed concoctions of herbs over the fire. Men brought firewood and carried buckets. But the place was quiet, save for the sound of painful breathing, or Muirrin's voice giving soft, precise instructions. As I passed by the doorway I closed my ears to the voice of the young druid, moaning in pain. I did not visit Maeve's sickbed. But the eye of the mind showed me her face, glistening with pus-filled blisters all down the left side, and her staring, terrified eyes.

The children were very unsettled, and Aunt Aisling seemed helpless to do much about it. Instead she moved through the strict routine of her household as if adherence to this would stop her from falling apart altogether. She did not weep, not where folk could see her. It was only when she had been sitting alone with Maeve, while Muirrin snatched a bite to eat or a brief rest, that she allowed the tears to flow. It would be visible later in her pallor and her reddened eyes.

The terrible thing I had done haunted my thoughts day and night. I had broken one of the most basic rules of the craft. I had been pushed into anger, and I had let it get the better of me. I knew it was wrong. And yet, I did not know what else I could have done. As time passed, the inner voice, the one I did not like to hear, came often to torment me.

You've grown up, it murmured. You've learned it's true. Our kind cam only tread the path to chaos and destruction. We are forbidden the light. Why are you surprised? You were told this. Even your father told you.

My father does not employ the craft thus, to awaken sorrow, I

told myself.

Do not make him your pattern. He lost himself, when he lost her. He is pathless. Hope was his weakness, and he let it destroy him.

Every night as I lay open-eyed longing for sleep, this voice whispered to me, harder and harder to ignore. It was as if I carried my grandmother inside me, a twin self, and I thought she grew ever stronger, and drew ever closer to snuffing out the other Fainne, the girl who had once brewed tea on a little fire, and sat quiet under the standing stones, and ridden on a white pony. I was losing that girl fast. The walls of Sevenwaters and the great blanket of the forest seemed to tighten on me day by day, and I felt the last little bit of Kerry being slowly squeezed out of me. It hurt. It hurt so much I did foolish things to try to make it better. I kept Riona by my pillow, wrapped warm in a beautiful shawl with moon-bright tassels. As I lay there I could touch its silken folds and dream of a future forbidden me. As I stroked the doll's woollen hair I could picture a past unknown to me, in which a young mother sewed a treasure for her small daughter, with love in its tiny neat stitches. My fingers moved against the fine, strong cord of Fiona's strange necklace, and something whispered deep within me, Hold on. Hold onto what you've got left. There was magic in this little token; not the skillful, clever magic I had at my own command, but a deeper, older kind which spoke of family and belonging. This cord with its curiously twined fibers of many hues and textures was full of power. I could feel it pulling me, coaxing me, tugging me gently toward a pathway I could not follow.

Not so long ago I'd have been glad folk were too preoccupied to bother about me. I'd have welcomed the chance to be alone, to recite the lore or meditate in silence or practice spells of transference or manipulation. But now I was adrift. I could not meditate. My mind refused to rid itself of unwelcome thoughts. The lore no longer seemed to help me. It reminded me of the druid lying in pain along the hallway, and the other gone to his long sleep. I vowed I would not exercise the craft, lest I discover again that I could use it only to destroy.

Nobody had time for me, and nobody had time for the children. The result was inevitable. I would be sitting alone, pretending to be busy with one thing or another, and they'd come creeping in on some pretext. Clodagh, wanting help with her penmanship. Deirdre, looking for Clodagh. Eilis, tears rolling down her cheeks, and a graze on her knee that Muirrin was too busy to look at. Sibeal like a little shadow, with no excuse at all. She would simply drift in and settle by me without a sound.

I was forced to dig deep. I'd learned a few stories on the road from Kerry. Not all were suitable for small girls' ears, so I made some adjustments here and there. My tales were well received, and I was obliged to invent more. I knew no games to speak of, but the girls taught me ringstones and some tricks with fingers and cord. They tried to teach me a song, but I pleaded that I had no singing voice, so they simply performed it for me instead. Together we wrestled with our sewing. Sheets were hemmed and gowns mended. Aunt Aisling thanked me for keeping them amused and out of everyone's way. I was able to say, quite truthfully, that I was happy to help. The day was full. The children's chatter shut out the voice of the mind. Their company exhausted me, and sleep became possible.

Still, I could not be with them all the time. Muirrin said little, but I knew Maeve was not improving, and nor was the young druid. I heard Sean say it was a miracle they'd managed to keep him alive this long, and he hoped Liadan would have some sort of answers when she got here. Muirrin was very pale, her eyes shadowed and a little frown always on her brow. When the girls were not sleeping or with me, they could usually be found in the hallway outside the sickroom,

standing or sitting in a row, quite silent. Once, I would have considered their solemn stillness a rare blessing. Now I was not so sure. It gave them too much time to think. They started to ask questions I did not want to answer. Why did such a bad thing happen to Maeve? When would she be able to come out and play again? Why was Mother angry all the time, and why did she and Father snap at each other?

In the end Muirrin ordered them not to wait outside the door. Maeve was too sick to be seen, and she was doing her best. They'd just have to put up with it, she told them quite sharply, and retreated back into the sickroom, shutting the door in their faces. Eilis burst into tears. Sibeal retreated into herself. Deirdre muttered. And Clodagh said, "Muirrin's never cross. Maeve must be going to die. And that man too."

On the fourth day after the fire it rained so hard I was reminded of my sojourn in the cave with Conor. There was no wind. The sky was gray as slate, and the water came down in a torrent, roaring on the roof, sheeting across the pathways, turning the fields to an instant quagmire. If Liadan were indeed on her way south, this was sure to delay her arrival at Sevenwaters. Spirits already low plummeted further. Eilis got it into her head that Maeve's sickness was somehow her fault, because she had once called the dog a big dirty brute that belonged in the stableyard. She began to cry, and could not be comforted by sweetmeats or stories or any sort of blandishments I could think of. After a while Sibeal's eyes began to spill sympathetic tears, and then the others started, until my chamber was awash with misery. Sorrow was a contagion that had spread to every corner of this great house. It crept into my own heart, where guilt and doubt already warred with the long purpose I was bound to follow. It sapped my strength and tore at my will. I thought I could scarcely bear to be a moment longer here in this family, here in this house, trapped by the rain, smothered by the forest, drowning in tears, incarcerated with the thing I had done. I thought I would give anything to get away, just for a little; just to breathe and grow strong again.

Rescue came from an unexpected quarter. The girls were working themselves into a state of complete misery, and I ventured out in search of something to distract them, for I was running short of ideas. I walked along the upper hallway, deep in thought, scarcely aware of

JULIET MARILLIER

where I was going. I went past the sickroom, and did not look in. But I heard sounds. One could not block them out, however hard one tried. As I reached the stairs my legs felt suddenly weak, and I sat down on the top step and put my head in my hands. If only I could stop thinking. If only I could shut out the voices that tormented me. We thought you didn't give a toss what casualties you left behind.

"Fainne?"

I took my hands away and looked up. Three or four steps below me stood Eamonn, dressed in riding clothes. His brown hair was dripping wet, and his face wore an expression of friendly concern.

"You don't look well," he commented with a small frown. "You must be exhausted. I heard you are helping with the little girls. I'm very sorry to hear what happened. I came as soon as Aisling's messenger brought me the news."

I found it hard to mask my surprise. "It's rather wet," I said bluntly. "I thought nobody would venture out in such weather. Aunt Liadan will be delayed. That's what they're saying."

There was a flicker of expression, gone too fast to be read. "I thought I might be needed here," said Eamonn.

"I'm sure Aunt Aisling will be glad to see you," I said politely. "She's been much upset. Maeve is very sick."

He nodded. "And are you glad to see me, Fainne?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," I said, and it was true. He was outside all this, the weeping, the stone walls, the stifling darkness of the forest. I could look at him and not be reminded of what I had done, because he had not been a part of it.

"Ah," he said, and he reached out his hand to tuck a wayward strand of my hair behind my ear, a curiously intimate gesture. "That's a remarkable thing about you, Fainne. You always say what you think, straight out."

I felt myself blushing again. "Perhaps I lack the refinement of manners a girl should possess in a household such as this. I do speak my mind. I have never learned otherwise. But I would not wish to embarrass you by saying something inappropriate."

"You don't embarrass me, my dear," he said with a half smile. "I like your honesty. Now come, you should not be sitting on this cold stone floor. Let us go in search of a fire, and some ale perhaps. And then I have a proposal for your consideration."

He put out a hand to help me to my feet, and I took it. His hand was dry and warm and his grip very strong. I had no idea what he was about to tell me, but anything was better than facing that little chamber full of weeping girls. Their sadness only compounded my shame for what I had done.

The kitchen was the only place that was really warm, so we settled there in a corner. It was hardly private; serving men and women came in and out, chickens were being plucked and puddings wrapped for boiling, and there was a steady stream of damp-looking men-at-arms passing through for a quick tankard of ale, a hunk of oaten bread, and a moment or two before the big fire. At least, with so much noise and activity, a quiet conversation might go unheard, if not unobserved. The old woman, Janis, sat exactly where I had first seen her, bolt upright on her chair, dark eyes sharp on everything and everyone. I poured ale from the jug, and put a tankard in Eamonn's hands.