Child of the Prophecy (42 page)

"I'm sorry, Fainne," said Sibeal in a little tiny voice. "He went west, I think. Before sunset. He said he had to get back quickly. But he wanted to wait until you were better and could come down to talk

to him. Uncle Eamonn made him go away. Uncle Eamonn was really angry."

"I—was he—was Darragh well? Did he talk to you?" Let her tell me everything, every word, every gesture. Not that it would ever be enough.

"He gave me a message for you," said Sibeal solemnly. "He made me practice it."

I waited.

"He said, Say farewell to Curly for me. Tell her to keep out of trouble until I come back. He wanted me to get it exactly right."

"But he mustn't come back!" My voice shook as fear seized my vitals anew. "He can't! I can't let him come back!"

"What's wrong, Fainne?" Sibeal's colorless eyes scrutinized me, their expression anxious.

"Nothing," I muttered. "Nothing. It's all right, Sibeal. You have done well, very well. I am in your debt. Now, it must be past your bedtime, and you're cold. Off you go, back to the others. And, Sibeal?"

She turned her small, pale face up toward mine.

"Don't talk about this. Please. I don't like asking you to keep secrets. But don't speak of this to your uncle, or to the others. It's very important."

She gave a little nod, and slipped silently out the door.

I had one night. Only one night before I must slip the talisman around my neck and be my grandmother's creature again. Darragh had come, and I had missed him. Darragh had said he would come back. He must not come back. I had until dawn to find him and tell him so. After that, I could have no more secrets from my grandmother. After that, it would not be possible to have friends.

A good pony can travel a long way between sunset and bedtime. Across open land, when her rider is in a hurry, she can traverse many miles. Beyond the borders of Glencarnagh, Aoife might be, and still moving westward, westward to the barren shores of Ceann na Mara. One thing I knew for certain. I could not ask Eamonn for help. A man who takes what is mine, pays in kind, he had said. I heard Sibeal's serious little voice. Uncle Eamonn was really angry. There would be no going along the hall and asking politely for the loan of a horse and a couple of men with torches. I must make this journey alone and

unobserved, and be back in my chamber before dawn. Somehow I must cover the miles, and I must find him.

A great sorcerer like my father would have used the Glamour; used it fully, to effect a total transformation. He would have run through woodland and pasture as a fleet-footed deer, or flown on strong wings as an owl or some other bird of the night. I knew, in theory at least, how this was done. But my father had forbidden me to try it. It was too dangerous. One might make the change and be unable to return. One might be trapped in the altered form forever, or, disastrously, left as neither one thing nor the other. And it depleted the craft; sapped the strength. All the same, time was passing and I was almost desperate enough to try. My heart thumping, my blood racing, I stood by my window looking out into the night, and wondered if I dared span the distance from woman to bird, from earthbound human creature to winged being of the air. What if I failed, and dropped from the sky to crash on the stones below? But how else could I be there in time?

The moon peered between clouds. A breeze rustled through the hedges, stirring the bare branches of the old elms that sheltered the garden's orderly beds and ink-dark fishpond. Out there, close by the hedge, a horse was standing. The moon caught the shadow-gray of her coat, lighting it to a delicate pearl. Perhaps the hand of the goddess was on me this one night. I moved as swiftly as I could. A dark cloak; my outdoor shoes in my hand, for quiet. Then a spell. Not to alter my form, not much anyway. A half-change: merely a shadowy effect, so I might pass unnoticed if I were lucky. I moved on silent feet along the hallway, past the chamber where Eamonn sat alone. I went out by the kitchens, ducking into a small alcove as the guards passed by laughing and joking on their way to a late supper and good ale. I slipped away before the next shift came on duty. I followed the line of the hedge until there she was, the little horse I had ridden before, now waiting in the night for me placidly, not at all startled as I appeared right under her nose. How had she escaped her stable and made her way here unnoticed? Perhaps she was an Otherworld creature, for was she not already far older than any horse had a right to be, and still so bright and eager? She had once been Liadan's, after all, and Liadan was said to possess some powers beyond the ordinary. At any rate the

mare was here and seemed willing. That did not solve the problem of how I was going to get up on her back, and ride without saddle or bridle. It did not help me know which way to go.

"Come," I whispered. "Come on. Hurry."

Now she was moving away from me, down the line of the hedge, blending into the shadows.

"Wait." I hastened after. By the stone wall that kept wandering pigs from the kitchen garden, she halted.

"Good," I muttered. "Good. You know how it's done, I see that." Pulling on my shoes, I scrambled up on the wall and thence to the horse's back, where I perched precariously without saddle or blanket, without bridle or rein to help me. "All right," I said softly. "I'm going to need all the help I can get here. You'll have to travel fast. And quietly. And not let me fall off. Understand? Now find Aoife. Find Darragh for me." I put my hand against her neck, willing her to hear me, willing her to know what must be done. Foolish, really. It was not I who could whisper in a horse's ear and win her lifelong friendship. It was not I to whom a wild creature would return, for love alone. But the gray horse lifted her head and pricked her ears, and she moved off steadily westward, past the hedges, across a little bridge, by the hazel trees and out into the shadowy night. I twisted both hands into her mane and gripped on with my knees. I would not fall off. I would not. I would get there and back by dawn. I must. When I found him I would tell him he must go straight home to O'Flaherty's and never come near me again. I would tell him that, and bid him goodbye, and then I would ride back to Glencarnagh. It was simple, really.

Time passed and the horse moved onward into the night, at first steadily, as if the moonlight were enough to show her the way. It was cold. It was so cold, I could not unbend my fingers for the cramp. My feet were numb and my ears ached with the chill. I could feel spasms of shivering through my body, like waves of icy water on a bone-cold shore.

Just as well she seemed to know where she was going, I thought grimly, wondering how long I might last before my frozen body lost the will to cling on, and I slipped from her back to the hard ground. One thing was certain. If I fell off there was no way I could summon the strength to get back on.

At first the world of night had seemed a silent one. But as we traveled onward into the west, I became more and more aware of subtle sounds. Over the quiet footsteps of the gray mare came a rustling and a creaking, as if the trees bent to observe our passing. Once I thought there was a distant howling, as of hungry wolves. I told myself I was mistaken. Something hooted in the dark branches above. A croaking chorus greeted us as we passed a darkly shining stretch of marshland. Once, there was a sudden whirring of leathery wings, and a high-pitched ringing as bats flew over our heads and away to some subterranean cavern. I was so cold I could barely stay awake, for all the urgency of the journey. I was so tired I thought I might stop pretending I could hold on, and simply curl up in the bracken and sleep. A nice long sleep. After all, who'd miss me?

The horse had slowed. Her head turned one way and then the other. She took a step and halted. She took another and paused. I was abruptly awake again, my heart thumping with alarm.

"You must know the way!" I said to her sharply. "You must! Why come so far, to give up now? Can't you follow Aoife's tracks as a hound would? What's wrong with you?"

She trembled a little, standing there in the night. We were on the verge of open ground; the moonlight showed gentle hillocks studded with groves of small trees.

"Go on!" I hissed. "Quick, before we both freeze! Don't you know we must be there and back before morning? Go! Please!"

I kicked her sides with my feet and squeezed with my knees. I had so little strength left, I doubt she noticed. "Oh, please," I whispered into the darkness, but the mare stood unmoving. My mind pondered, on some distant level, what explanation I might give Eamonn when I was discovered out here in the morning, half-frozen, with a horse that did not belong to me. Maybe I would die of cold. At least that would save having to make up excuses.

There was a hooting overhead, and something dark flew by with a sudden whoosh of wings. I thought I felt a small feather drift downward past my nose. I sneezed. There was another hoot. The tone of it sent a clear enough message. Come on then, stupid. We haven't got all night.

The little horse moved forward. Ahead of us the owl flew from side to side, waiting on a low branch, on a stone wall, on a rocky

outcrop. Impatient. Come on. Can't you go any faster? The horse began to trot, and then, when we emerged onto some sort of real track, to canter. I was bounced up and down like a sack of grain. I gripped her mane anew and bent forward, willing my knees to keep hold. Pain arched through my legs and back. I clenched my teeth tight.

The owl flew onward, and the mare followed. I was put in mind of Fiacha, the raven. Just so was his manner of flight: a little in front, a little behind, a pause on one side or the other, giving the distinct impression that he thought humans unbelievably, tediously gradual, but that his job was to keep an eye on them, so he had better do it. I wondered where Fiacha was now. Did he perch on a ledge above the Honeycomb and watch the sorcerer Ciaran as he coughed out his lifeblood among the shattered tools of his ancient craft? Or had he been banished by my grandmother, leaving my father quite alone? Why did they come, these creatures of the Otherworld that guarded us and guided us as no simple owl or raven had the wit or the will to do? The bird flew onward into the night, leading my horse forward up hill and down glen, through marshland and woodland and safe beyond the borders of Glencarnagh.

At last, under bare-limbed apple trees, we halted. The owl sat above us, perched on a moss-covered branch, silhouetted against the moon. I saw her reach down, fussily, to adjust her plumage. I felt as if I had been picked up, and shaken like a churn of cream, and set suddenly down again. Every bone in my body ached.

The woodland around us was still. The mare stood immobile. The owl made no sound. They were waiting for me to do something. I forced my body to move, and half-slid, half-fell from the mare's back to the ground. My legs were like jelly. I stayed on my feet only because my hand still gripped her mane. She stood steady, unperturbed; a rare gift of a horse, this one.

Down a gentle slope before us there were more trees, and water glinting silver in the soft light of the moon. And there was another small light as well, a warm, flickering sort of light. I detected a faint smell of something savory in the chill air: surely it could not be oaten porridge? Then the mare gave a little whickering sound, and from down the hill there was a reply, a soft whinny. I saw a figure rise to his

feet beside the glowing camp fire, and turn slowly toward me. Leaning heavily against the horse's shoulder, I stumbled forward.

Then a lot of things happened quite rapidly without a single word spoken. Soft running footsteps and a sharp intake of breath. An arm around me, supporting my faltering progress to the fireside. A cloak over my shoulders, blissfully warm. I could not sit down, my body was too sore; a folded blanket smelling strongly of horse was produced, and I was eased to a half-lying position, as close to the fire as was safe. There was a tiny clank of metal, as of a pannikin being used to fill some other vessel. Then a hand curled my frozen fingers around a cup of something hot and fragrant. Tremors coursed through my body, my teeth chattered, I could not have uttered a word even if I had known what to say. Darragh busied himself building up the fire, throwing on a log or two, blowing on the coals. The flames licked up; my face began to thaw. I took a sip of the beverage he had provided. It was a tea, very hot and very sweet. I had never tasted anything so good. At last Darragh settled himself across the fire from me, and looked at me direct.