Child of the Prophecy (37 page)

must be played out in accordance with the prophecy. That is as the goddess herself decrees. The Islands are the Last Place. There is preserved what is most precious. There it is guarded until the wheel turns, and the time comes again when man hears the heartbeat, and tunes to the life within. In the coming of the child of the prophecy, comes the keeper of truth, the Watcher in the Needle. This must unfold, or we are all lost indeed. Believe me, the Tuatha De would not seek the help of human folk unless they must. It hurts their pride sorely, to be forced to demean themselves thus. But it is only through humankind that the prophecy can be fulfilled, and the mysteries kept safe.

Just a moment. The Watcher in the Needle? I don't recall any mention of that before. What does it mean? You speak in riddles.

The mossy being widened its crevice-like mouth at me. Perhaps it was trying to smile. You should be used to that, child. Isn't your father a druid?

We cannot tell you what will come to pass, said the owl-creature. Prophecies and visions are never as simple as they seem. There's a battle, and blood, and death. There's sacrifice and weeping. That pan's obvious to all. But it's not the killing that's important. It's the keeping. The unspoken part. The keeping of truth, in times of darkness and ignorance. Without that, we're all gone, and you are right. The years of loss and pain will have been for nothing.

Why would you tell me this? I was shivering. If these words were true, then the quest my grandmother had set me was surely an abomination. You know who I am, and who my father is. You must know of my grandmother, and what she did. Are you not very foolish to trust me with your secrets?

You think so? The watery one spoke, its voice soothing and calm. Has it never occurred to you that every girl has two grandmothers?

Then, with a flurry of movement, a folding and concealment, they were suddenly gone.

"Did you see her?"

Sibeal's voice startled me so much I almost fell into the pool.

"See—see who?" I stammered.

"The Lady. Did you see her?"

"What lady?" I stared at her, wondering at the deep calm of her expression. Clearly she had been quite unaware of my strange companions.

"The Lady of the Forest. Didn't you see her at all? She was right there, just across the pool, on the other side."

I shook my head. "I saw no lady," I said. "Does she come to you often?"

"Sometimes." Sibeal got to her feet, brushing down her skirts. "She shows me pictures."

"Pictures?"

"In the water. I saw Maeve."

Fear gripped me. I did not speak.

"She was grown up, older than Muirrin. But I knew it was her. I could tell, because of her face."

"Her face?" I echoed stupidly, not sure I wanted to know.

"Yes, the scars. And her hands were still hurt, she had gloves on, pretty ones. Shall we go back to the others now?"

"No. Tell me the rest."

"What rest?"

"Maeve. Was she—was she all right? What was she doing? Was she happy?"

Sibeal glanced at me, apparently surprised. "She had a little baby. She was singing to it. Why do you ask?"

"Why do you think?" I exclaimed, exasperated, and forgetting she was only a little girl. "Of course I want to know! You see what's to come, don't you? This way we know she will live, and recover, and have some sort of a future! Of course I want to know!"

"Don't cry, Fainne," said Sibeal solemnly, and offered me her small linen handkerchief.

"I'm not," I said crossly, annoyed to have lost control so easily. Anyway, I could not have cried even if I had wanted to. With our kind, the tears just seemed to build up and build up inside, never to be released; an ocean of tears, flooding the depths of the heart.

"The only thing is," she went on as we began to walk slowly back up to the hazel thicket, "you never can be sure if what you see is going to come true, or if it's just something that might come true. Or it could be just a—just a symbol."

"You know what that means?" I queried, amused despite myself.

"Like a skull for death," Sibeal explained gravely. "Or a ring for a promise. Like sunlight for joy, or shadows for mystery."

"Forget I asked," I said. "Are you sure you're only eight years old?"

"I think so," answered Sibeal in puzzled tones.

I dined alone that night. Eamonn had waylaid me as I returned to my chamber to exchange my muddy boots for soft indoor shoes and attempt some tidying of my disheveled hair. As if he had sensed my presence, he stepped neatly out of the council chamber as I passed, and closed the door promptly behind him. But I had been trained in observation, and I registered a momentary glimpse of two men standing by the table within. I even caught a snatch of conversation. "It's the son who is the key," said the taller man, the one with flaxen hair braided back from his face, and shoulders set uneven, as if he bore an old injury ill healed. The other was shorter, older, with stern features and an iron-gray beard. The closing door shut off the reply.

"Fainne," said Eamonn amiably, looking me up and down. "You've been out, I see. Had a pleasant morning?"

"Thank you, yes." His scrutiny made me acutely aware of my flushed cheeks, my wild hair and crumpled gown, and the fact that I was still breathing hard after playing chase all the way back from the thicket. "The girls were climbing trees."

"Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough. Yourself?"

He grimaced. "Rest eludes me these days. It matters little. I suggest an early night tonight, Fainne. I cannot dine with you, I regret. We are in council as long as these men remain here. I must confess to a certain inclination to show you off. But under the circumstances that would be unwise. My guests will be gone in the morning. We might perhaps manage that ride I mentioned, if your cousins will spare you for the day."

"Maybe," I said, not sure if I was more relieved at the prospect of a relaxed early supper with the girls, followed by a good sleep, or alarmed at the idea of a day out in Eamonn's company. "You're busy. I'll leave you to get on with it." I turned to go, and felt his hand close around my wrist. For a man of his years, he was indeed quick.

"You are not angry? Not offended that I must exclude you?"

I spoke without turning back. "Why would I be offended? This is your house; this is your business. I have no expectation of sharing either." It sounded rather harsh, once the words were out.

"No?" said Eamonn softly, and released me. I heard the door open and close again behind me, and I fled along the hallway to my

own chamber, filled with confusion. What sort of place was this, that one moment you were out in the fields chatting to Otherworld creatures that seemed to tell you the end of the world was coming, and the next moment you were playing some sort of game you didn't understand with a man who was old enough to be your father? Why couldn't I be five years old again, and the biggest of my worries the need to move my legs fast enough to keep up with Darragh? Not that that had ever been a real concern; not once had he failed to wait for me. Not until the day I told him I didn't need him anymore, and sent him away.

So much for an early night and a good sleep. I was tormented by evil dreams; dreams from which I awoke with an aching head and a sweating body, dreams which I could not remember, save that they left me more wretched and confused than before. All I could recall was running, running as fast as I could, and never quite being able to reach what it was I was pursuing.

The day started well enough. If I had expected to ride out alone, just the two of us, I had not thought logically. There had to be guards, of course, men clad in green tunics who accompanied us in silence, at a distance. After all, there was a battle pending, and an alliance whose members scarcely seemed to trust one another, let alone the opposition. I had the same little horse that had brought me to Glencarnagh; with her, I found I could almost enjoy riding. We commenced a tour of the enclosed fields, the higher grazing lands, the neat small settlements each with its own well-manned fortifications. The country was mostly open: gentle hillocks, wide, grassy valleys, with here and there a waterway fringed by willow and elder. There were trees aplenty, but the place lacked the oppressive, smothering stillness of Sevenwaters, and I liked it better. I liked even more the fact that Eamonn seemed quite content to explain it all to me, with never a suggestion that the outing was intended for any other purpose than to show me what any guest might be shown. I was much relieved and began to enjoy myself, for it was a fine day, and a fine estate, and there was a great deal to catch the interest. We looked at hives and spoke with the beekeeper about the curative properties of different flowers, and how these might be preserved and concentrated in the honey. We inspected a little dam and a mill wheel. We stopped at one of the major settlements, a big rath with a sturdy outer wall of sharpened stakes, enclosing village and small fort. Here one of Eamonn's free clients, who was leader of the community, provided us with a repast of ale and fine loaves and mutton cooked with garlic, and gave us the chance to rest a little.

"You're limping," observed Eamonn as I seated myself on a bench, and eased my foot a little in its heavy boot. "Have you hurt yourself?"

"It's nothing." I could not avoid the curtness of my tone. I hated this foot, so twisted and ugly. And I hated myself for minding so much. But I would not use the Glamour to put it right. Not after that time at the fair. Not after Maeve.

"Are you sure? Perhaps we should return home straight away. I would not wish to tire you."

"I said, it's nothing. This foot is—is a little damaged, that's all. I do walk somewhat crooked. Had you not noticed?"

Eamonn just shook his head slightly, and gave a hint of a smile. Then he returned to polite exchanges of news with our hosts.

We were riding away from the settlement, and Eamonn was speaking quietly to one of his men-at-arms. Now he rode back to me.

"Would you like to see the waterfall?" he asked. "There should be a good flow after all this rain. Not too tired?"

I shook my head.

"Good. It's up the hill to the west there."

As we rode off in that direction I saw that all but two of our guards remained behind, seemingly under instructions to wait where they were until we returned. The path went up and up under the intricate network of bare birch and ash, and emerged onto an open, rocky slope. My little horse picked her way along the difficult track with delicacy. Above us the winter sky was cloudless, a huge inverted bowl of duck-egg blue, and I was aware of an immense vista to my right, fields and trees and stone walls and, far to the east, the blanket of dark trees that marked the border with Sevenwaters.

"Don't look yet," said Eamonn over his shoulder.

I was a little alarmed at the way the hillside sloped away on one side of the path, and sharply up on the other, and could only trust to the sound instincts of my mount. My anxiety drove other thoughts from my mind; and it was only when the sound of rushing water grew to a roar in the ears, and the path broadened to a wide grassy shelf edged by great rocks, that I realized the last guards had been left behind. Eamonn helped me down, and it seemed to me his hands lingered at my waist a little longer than was strictly necessary.

The noise of the water was everywhere, echoing from the rock walls, drumming in our ears, vibrating in the very ground on which we stood. There was a fine spray in the air, and a sheen of dampness on everything.

"Come and look," Eamonn said, raising his voice to be heard over the din. "Over here. But be careful. It's slippery."

Standing at a particular point on the slick stone surface, right at the edge of the level area, you could see it. The lip of the fall was just around the corner and about a man's height above us. You could watch the sudden violent descent, a whirling veil of water crashing and splashing its way down and down to some unseen pool far below. The cliff was softened by ferns and mosses and tiny plants clinging to its cracked and creviced surface. I stared at the spilling, spraying torrent, and all I could think about was the ledge in the rock above the Honeycomb, and my mother taking a single step into space, and falling, falling down through pitiless air to the rocks and the boiling surf below. I thought of the craft, and the trick I had learned with a glass ball. Drop. Stop. Now gently down. Nobody had halted her descent. No great hand had reached out to catch her softly in its palm, and set her sweetly back on the earth. Here is your second chance. Now live your life anew. Instead, she had been allowed to go. Perhaps what purpose she had was already fulfilled. To be a rich man's toy. To break my father's heart. To bear a daughter whose mind was as confused and unhappy as her own. Once that was done, what matter if she shattered her poor, beautiful, fragile self on the hard rocks of the Honeycomb?