Child of the Prophecy (33 page)

much. His boots were nearly worn through. Back at the encampment, his folk counted the days as they passed.

" 'Boy's a fool,' said his dad. 'I told him he'd never break that pony. Anyone can see she's crazy.' His mother didn't say anything. She had her own opinion, but she kept it to herself.

"Darragh was exhausted. He'd run from dawn till sundown, and his ankle was hurt, and there were blisters on all his toes. Many days had passed since he first set out from home, and now they were back on the hillside where it had all started. The pony was watching him, and he was close, very close to where she stood. He could almost hear what she was thinking: that she found his behavior very strange indeed, and could not understand what he wanted of her. That she should be over the hill to the east, with the herd, but for some reason she was here with him. She should go, the others were waiting, but. . . but. . .

" 'Well, then,' said Darragh, and he took one step forward, and laid his thin, brown hand very gently on the white pony's neck. ' I'm off home. You'd best go back to your own folk. Keep out of trouble, now.' And with that, he turned and was off down the hill to the

camp."

I paused. All was still in the room; even the voice from the neighboring chamber had ceased its steady cadence. Outside, birds were calling.

"That can't be the end," said Muirrin.

I glanced down at Maeve. She was still awake, her face turned expectantly to me.

"Indeed no," I said. "Darragh went home, and soaked his feet in a bucket of warm water, and ate a big bowlful of stew, and then he rolled up in his blanket and slept from dusk until well after cockcrow. His sister, Roisin was her name, had to wake him up, so sound was he sleeping after all that running, and all that sitting quiet, and all that trying to think the way a pony would think.

" 'Get up, Darragh,' she hissed in his ear. 'Look. Look over there.'

"He rolled out of his blanket again, blinking and rubbing his eyes. And there, delicate and graceful in the morning sunlight, stood the white pony, waiting for him on the far side of the camp among the baskets and barrels and bits and pieces. She put her beautiful head a little on one side, and looked at him with the eyes his father had

JULIET MARILLIER

called crazy, and she gave a soft whinny, as if to say, I'm here now; what comes next?

"The summer after that, Darragh's father asked him if he planned to sell Aoife, for so the white pony had been named. He'd get a good price for her at the fair, for she was a creature of exceptional intelligence, though in truth, she was only at her best when Darragh himself was on her back. Still, he'd taken a girl for a ride on her once, and her manners had been perfect. But Darragh wouldn't part with her.

" 'I can't,' he told his dad. 'She's not mine to sell.'

" 'What nonsense is that?' his father queried. 'You caught the creature, you tamed her. Of course she's yours. I know five men who would pay in good silver for such a mare.'

" 'That's not the way of it,' Darragh answered, stroking Aoife's snowy coat with gentle fingers. 'I chose her, and she chose me. There's no catching about it, and no owning. She's free to go if she wants. Besides, I could never part with her, not now. She's my luck.'

"As time passed, Darragh became much sought after for his way with horses. It's not everyone has the ability and the patience to tame a wild creature with love alone. He never parted with Aoife, nor she with him. They became a sort of legend, the two of them. People would point and whisper as they saw the dark young man with his little gold earring, riding by their cottages on the beautiful white pony.

" 'That boy's half horse himself,' somebody would say.

" 'Not what I've heard,' said another. 'They say the creature's a faery pony. Turns into a beautiful girl at night, and back into itself by day. No wonder he wouldn't give her up.'

"But Darragh only grinned his crooked grin, and nudged Aoife's flank softly, and the two of them moved on into the dusk. And that's the end of the story, for now."

Maeve seemed to be asleep, her breathing quieter, and Riona still clutched tight in her arms. I tucked the coverlet over her small form.

"Is that a true story?" asked the big serving woman with some hesitation. She had sat entranced throughout my tale.

"True enough," I said, thinking it was just as well my kind could not weep, or I would be making quite an exhibition of myself by now. "Indeed, I rode on that pony myself once. She's every bit as clever and as lovely as the tale describes."

"You tell it well." Muirrin got up from her chair and stretched

wearily. "It makes you sound like—like another person entirely."

I did not reply. All the fine tales in the world, all the sweet memories, could not make things right again. Not for Maeve; not for any of us. I was glad Darragh had gone away. I was glad I would never see him again. What boy in his right mind would want someone like me for a friend?

"Muirrin," I said, remembering belatedly why I was there. "You heard we are all going to Glencarnagh, the girls and I?"

"I did," said Muirrin with a wry smile. "A surprise, that was. I wonder what inspired Uncle Eamonn to this sudden gesture of family support?"

"I think he's just trying to be helpful," I said. "That's as may be. The girls have never gone there before except on formal visits with Mother or Father. Uncle Eamonn is a stickler for everything proper. He always works by the rules."

"This isn't breaking any rules. He is their uncle, after all." "Mmm," Muirrin regarded me quizzically. "As long as you know what you're up to."

"I—I must ask you a favor," I said. "The children want to see Maeve before they go. It seems to be important. I was sent to persuade you to let them in, just for a little."

Muirrin frowned. "It will only upset them, and that will upset Maeve. Perhaps you do not realize how sick she is, Fainne. She has been badly shocked, and is quite weak. I don't want to risk further contagion in these wounds; that could finish her. Forgive me for being blunt, but I must do everything I can to help her hold on until Aunt Liadan arrives. This is not a good idea."

"Please let them visit." I used the craft, as subtly as I could, to make my words sound convincing. "I don't wish to distress you, but—but Sibeal said, what if Maeve dies, and we're not here? They are thinking of that. I'll warn them to keep their comments to themselves, and not to upset her. Please, Muirrin."

Now Muirrin was looking at me very closely indeed, and she had a strange expression on her face, as if she were trying to puzzle out a page of words written in a language both familiar and

unknown.

"Very well," she said after a moment or two. "I can hardly say no when you put it like that. I'll send for you when she wakes. The girls

must leave before the bandages are changed again. They can't be here for that. Fainne—" She bit back her words.

"What?" I asked.

"You seem—different, that's all."

"What do you mean, different?" I was alarmed. Surely she had not noticed my use of the craft?

"I don't know," Muirrin said. "It's as if sometimes you were one person and sometimes another. As if there were two of you. Sounds silly, doesn't it? I must really be tired."

"Isn't one of me enough?" I said lightly, but I knew I had been careless. I had overlooked the strange powers some members of my family possessed. I had forgotten about the Fomhoire streak. From now on I would be more watchful.

As if to ease the way for our departure, the clouds dissipated and the sun rose on a clear, cold morning. Horses and ponies were readied before the main doors, and a great many men-at-arms, whose dark green tunics blazoned with a black tower marked them as of Eamonn's household, assembled themselves into an impressive escort. This time, it seemed, none of the men of Sevenwaters were to ride with us. Eamonn was family and so, I assumed, was spared the indignity of being seen across the borders by my uncle's guards. Family could be trusted. So Darragh would have me believe; the message had been implicit in his blithe talk of the joys of growing up surrounded by sisters and brothers. It just went to show, I thought bitterly, how little I was really accepted here; Eamonn might pass as he liked, but they would not even let me take a stroll into the forest without an escort of armed men. Yet I was blood kin, and Eamonn was not.

The little girls were very quiet indeed. Visiting Maeve had been difficult for them; holding back their comments and their tears of dismay, even harder. They had done bravely, the four of them, and I had made sure I told them so, later, when the door was closed on their sister's pain. There were tears enough then, but they were as much in anger as in sorrow.

"It's not right!" Clodagh had muttered, frowning furiously as she

stared down at her clenched fists. "Such things should not be allowed to happen. How can the gods let it happen?"

"It's not fair," Deirdre had added, glaring at nobody in particular.

The smaller ones had nothing to say. Sibeal was a shadow of a child; Eilis sucked her thumb. In the morning they came down in their cloaks and riding boots, and were helped onto their ponies, and soon enough we were on our way deep into the forest and headed for Glencarnagh.

Chapter Seven

Anything I knew about horses I learned from Darragh. But I had not always listened to his tales as attentively as I might, and so I did not know much. The little mare that carried me safe to Eamonn's house was very old in horse years, but still as steady as a rock. I knew she was old because Eilis told me so. You could tell by the teeth, she said. The horse was silver-gray, and gentle of eye, and like Aoife, she seemed to know where she was going without being told. She did not tremble and edge away from me as the other creatures in my uncle's stable had. Of course, now that I had shed the Glamour any animal would have been more ready to trust me. But I thought it was more than that. This mare seemed in some way different, special.

"Where did you get her?" I had asked Eamonn early on, wondering whether a great lord and owner of wide lands would travel to a horse fair, or send a man to drive bargains for him, or shun such commonplace events entirely and simply breed his own fine stock.

"She was left behind, a long time ago." Eamonn rode beside me, as if to make sure I did not stray. Perhaps he doubted my ability to handle even such a well-trained creature as this. "By a lady. She's a fine beast, and remarkably sound for all her years. Under-used."

"Has there been no lady to ride her, until now?" I ventured.

He glanced at me. "That is indeed true. For many years there has been no mistress at Glencarnagh. And since Aisling wed your uncle, my other holding at Sidhe Dubh has been a place of men. It is a long time now."

"Why did you not return the horse to her forgetful owner?" I

asked him.

I thought he was not going to answer. His mouth tightened, and the brown eyes turned chill. Once again I had blundered into forbidden territory.

"There was no opportunity," he said at last. "She never came

back."

I did not press him further. He had the same look on his face that had appeared when I spoke the name Liadan. I wondered if the horse had been hers.

Glencarnagh was a pretty place. I had not noticed much when I had camped here before with Dan Walker's folk, save that the house was solid and fine, and extremely efficiently guarded. Then, my head had been full of thoughts of Sevenwaters and what I might find there. Now, I had time to observe and listen.

This house had been fitted well for a family. Eamonn's own mother had grown up here, until she was wed to his father and went away to Sidhe Dubh. Later, there had been a bride in the house, the young wife taken by Eamonn's grandfather, Seamus, in his old age. There had been a child; but it seemed he had not lived to see his seventh year, and the old man had never quite recovered from the sorrow of that. When Seamus died his wife had gone back to her own folk. Now both Glencarnagh and Sidhe Dubh belonged to Eamonn himself: a middle-aged man with no wife and no heirs, and seemingly no inclination to acquire either. That was strange. Even I knew enough to realize the sudden demise of such a man, always possible in the nature of things, would lead to a time of immense instability and great risk to his neighbor, Sean of Sevenwaters, whose own lands were near-encircled by Eamonn's. There would be chieftains and petty kings from all over Ulster claiming some form of kinship and vying for the tuath. In the midst of preparation for their great battle for the Islands, that would be the last thing they needed. Besides, what of Eamonn himself? Did he not care that he had no son to inherit his vast holding, his two fine houses, his personal army of warriors, his grazing lands and his various other enterprises?