Child of the Prophecy (44 page)

"Forget O'Flaherty," he said. "Don't concern yourself with that. I'm offering to take you home. You're tired, you're scared, you don't rightly know which way to turn. I shouldn't think your father would be happy to see you thus."

I forced myself to speak. "I can't go back." My voice was as cold as the chill that numbed my heart and froze my unshed tears. "You

must go. You and Aoife. I must stay here. I know what I'm doing, Darragh."

Then he said nothing for a long time, and as the silence drew out I began to yawn, and my eyelids began to close, despite the cold, and I thought dimly that it was rather a long time since I had slept. But I must not allow myself to sleep. I still had to ride back to Glencarnagh, I still had to ...

"Here," said Darragh. He'd found another blanket, not much more than a strip of sacking, perhaps used to keep Aoife warm, for like the other, it smelled strongly of horse. "Best rest awhile. You're weary to death. Come on, lie down and I'll cover you up."

"I can't," I protested through my convulsive yawns. "Told you . . . back by dawn . . . long way ..."

"Aoife's quick," said Darragh. "We'll have you back in plenty of time. I'll wake you."

"No—you don't understand ..."

"Yes, I do, Fainne."

"But. . ." The blanket felt good, so good. I put my head down and closed my eyes even as I mumbled my protest.

"Hush now," said Darragh. "I'll keep watch for you. Rest now."

Sleep rolled over me like a great wave, sudden and unstoppable. Once or twice I half-woke, aware of the winter cold that pierced through blanket and cloak and gown alike to touch the very spirit with its frosty fingers; aware that I was trembling and shivering again, despite the still-glowing coals and my efforts to curl up on myself as tight as possible. And then suddenly I was warm, wonderfully warm, and I was safe and well and somewhere in the back of my mind the sun was shining down on the sparkling water of the cove, and it was summer. Later still I stirred again, knowing the night was passing, but unwilling to wake fully lest this fair vision be lost forever. There was an arm across me, holding the cloak around me; and the same old blanket covered the two of us. Darragh lay behind me, his body curled neatly against my own, his living warmth a part of me, his slow, peaceful breathing steady against my hair. I kept quite still. I did not allow myself to return to full consciousness. I thought, if it all ended right now, I wouldn't mind a bit. Let it end now, so I need never wake. And I slipped back into sleep.

"Curly."

I hugged the blanket around me, and screwed my eyes shut.

"Fainne. Wake up, sweetheart."

I put the blanket over my face.

"Fainne. Come on, now."

I blinked, and stretched, and gave a groan. I sat up with some difficulty. It was still dark. Across the fire, Darragh was moving about, and I could see that Aoife wore her saddlebags and the folded blanket on her back. The gray mare stood by her quietly. The brightness faded from my mind as if it had never been.

I tried to get to my feet. It wasn't easy. The ride had done me more harm than I realized.

"Darragh."

"Mmm?"

"I meant what I said. Go back to O'Flaherty's. I'll ride to Glencarnagh by myself."

"Uh-huh."

"Stop saying that!" My voice was as weak and wobbly as a weeping child's. What was wrong with me? "You can't come. I'll go by myself."

"Let's see you walk over here, then."

"That's not fair!" I took a step, and pain lanced up my back. "I can go. I will go."

"Sit down, Fainne. If you insist on going back, Aoife and I will take you. I told you."

"Why won't you listen to me?" I protested, sinking awkwardly to the ground again, for my legs would not carry me. "You cannot come. You cannot be seen with me. Not at Glencarnagh. Not anywhere."

"Embarrass you, does it, to be seen in company with a traveling man?" He had his back to me, tending to the mare.

"Of course not!"

"You might be stupid enough to try to ride. I might let you, because I was tired of fighting with you. But you can't ride this mare all the way to Glencarnagh. She's old, and she's gone a long way for you tonight. She's not fit to carry you back, not in the dark. I'll take you. Don't worry, I won't shame you by showing my face before the great man himself. Wouldn't want to spoil your prospects, now would I?"

I said nothing. What was the point? I would do what I must do, and every moment of it I would thank the goddess that he was far away in the west, and could not see me. Every day I would give thanks that I had been granted this one chance to send him away safe from my grandmother's eyes. But I needed his help to get back to Glencarnagh. I would have to accept it, this once.

"Well, now," he said pleasantly after a while. "We'd best be off."

"I'm sorry," I said in a small voice.

"For what?"

"Sorry that I made the mare go so far in the dark, in the cold. Sorry I tired her out. I didn't think. All I thought about was . . ."

"Don't trouble yourself with that," said Darragh. "She's a little weary, but nothing a rest and a warm stable won't mend. Not used to such excitement, poor old thing. But she's a sound creature. Don't fret over her. She'll make her way back easy enough, following Aoife's tracks. Seems to me you've enough troubling you already, without adding to it."

Then he lifted me onto Aoife's back, and got up behind me, and we set off into the night.

It was a strange ride; silent for the most part, and quicker than my journey here, for Aoife moved both swiftly and smoothly, with little apparent need for directions. In her wake the gray mare followed, some distance behind. At one stage Darragh said, "There's an owl there. Following, or leading. Do you see it? Puts me in mind of that raven that's always near your father, wherever he goes. Like a guardian."

I nodded in the darkness. "Another of the same kind," I said.

"I see. Fainne?"

"Mmm?" I was refusing to let my mind go forward beyond the moment; beyond the pony's steady pace, and the white gleam of her coat under the moon, and Darragh sitting behind me with his arm around my waist and his own warmth flowing into me, thawing the chill in my heart. I felt safe. I thought, foolishly, I will hold onto this as long as I can; for this will be the very last time.

"I know you won't come with me. I know you won't go back to Kerry. You've told me I'm not welcome here. But. . ."

"But what?"

"I wish you would heed an old friend's advice. I wish you would at least not stay at Glencarnagh. You'd be safer back at Sevenwaters. There's good folk there. Your uncle's a fine man. My father has great respect for him, and for all that family. And—and you should take your time, before you make any choices. You're young yet. You have all the time in the world."

Oh, no. I haven't. I have until summer. No more than that. My fate is measured out over two seasons. But I can buy a longer span for you.

"Finished?" I asked him.

He did not reply.

"Not so long ago you were advising me to find a husband and rear a brood of children, I seem to recall," I told him. "Now you're telling me to wait. Which is it to be?"

"Don't mock me, Fainne. If you must wed, at least choose a kind man."

I was silenced. Somehow, he had a knack of saying the simplest things, and turning me to joy or misery on the instant. We rode on, and I thought I could see the very slightest lightening of the sky, as if dawn were not so very far off. The frost began to creep into my spirit once more, as if the best and truest friend in the world no longer had the power to stay its icy fingers.

"Darragh," I said quietly, and even to me my voice sounded strange, as if I were fighting tears. But my eyes were dry. I was a sorcerer's daughter, and strong. I would not weep.

"Yes?"

"If you knew the things I have done, you would not want to be my friend. If you knew, you would understand why I ask you to stay away from me. Terrible things. Evil things that don't bear speaking of."

"Why don't you tell me, and let me judge?"

My heart gave a thud of alarm. "I can't. I can't tell you."

"I could guess."

"No, you couldn't. Nobody could guess. It is—it is beyond the imagination of ordinary folk. Just believe that you are better off well away from me. Please believe that."

Aoife moved steadily forward, and now there was a distinct gray-ness to the sky, a change in the pattern of shadows around us.

"I could guess," said Darragh again. His hand was relaxed on the reins, his arm around me steady and sure. "There was a fire. Auntie

told me. A man died, and another was hurt. A child was injured. Freak accident. You were always good at making fires."

I said nothing.

"You're right, that was a terrible thing to happen. You might persuade me, without too much trouble, that you had something to do with it. You'll never convince me that you'd do such a thing on purpose. Hurt the innocent, take the life of a holy man. That I'll never believe."

'There's more," I whispered.

Darragh waited.

"That girl, in the cove. The fishergirl, the one who disappeared. Remember that?"

He was silent.

Every word was a trial. I forced them out one by one, my heart hammering. "I—I used the craft, Darragh. Used it wrongly. I changed her, and she died. Something went wrong, and she died. I never told anyone, until now. After that, surely you cannot be my friend."

And now he would go, gladly. He would despise me, and leave me, and I would not have to worry anymore, because he would be safe. Too bad if this hurt, too bad if it felt like a knife in the heart, twisting and turning. I could never suffer enough to make up for the things I had done, and the things I must go on doing.

"She was a good little lass," said Darragh quietly. We came down a gentle slope, and between tall elms, and there in the dawning light was the long, low house of Glencarnagh, and there, not so far away at all, were two guards in green tunics with weapons at their belts. Aoife halted.

"You must go now," I hissed. "Leave me here, I'll make my own way to the house. You've come too far already."

Behind me, Darragh did not move.

"Darragh!" I whispered urgently. The sky was growing ever lighter. I must be back indoors, with the amulet around my neck, before day. That was what I had promised Grandmother. And Darragh must be gone before we were seen. I feared Eamonn's anger.

At last Darragh stirred, slipping from the pony's back, reaching up to help me down. My legs were unsteady, and he held me by the arms, frowning as he scrutinized my face in the pale predawn light.

"Maybe I'll ride to Kerry myself, and fetch your father," he muttered. "Maybe that's what I'll do."

"No!" I gasped. "No! Don't do that! Just go, just go and leave me! How plain do I have to put it, to make you understand?"

"You need looking after. That's what I always said, and it hasn't changed. You're mixed up in something that's too big for you. It's not right, Fainne."

I took a deep breath. "Don't be stupid," I said, and I made my voice as cold as I could. "This is quite simple. I want to forget you. I want to wipe every trace of you from my mind. I wish you would go away, and I would never see you again. Believe this. It's the truth."

Darragh went very white, and he took his hands slowly away from where they held me. I found I could stand without support, just. His gaze remained steady on my face. His brown eyes, looking into mine, were deeply searching.