Child of the Prophecy (45 page)

"Give me your hand," he said.

I opened my mouth to argue, but found instead that I was putting my hand out, and he was taking it in his own. We both looked down.

"I don't believe you," said Darragh, as his fingers touched the little circle of woven grass I wore on my smallest finger; the tiny token my hands had encountered, as if quite by chance, in the most secret corner of my wooden chest, when I had thought to challenge my grandmother and had been defeated. This she had not seen, and never would, for it would be safe again in the chest before the amulet went back around my neck. This was a symbol of innocence; and I was no longer fit to wear it. Still, tonight I had borne it on my finger to prove that I had not forgotten.

"I don't believe you," he said again, and released my hand. "Now, it's almost dawn, and you'd better go in. Won't those guards see you?"

I shook my head. "There are ways of doing these things."

He frowned. "I don't like this, Fainne. I don't like to leave you here."

I said nothing. We stared at each other for a moment, and then I made to move away.

"Well, then," said Darragh gently, and his hand reached out to brush a wayward lock of hair back from my face. His fingers lingered by my temple, and withdrew. "Farewell, Curly. Keep out of trouble,

now, until—"

"No!" I exclaimed. "Don't say it! You cannot come back! Never,

you understand, never!"

And I turned away from him, fleeing as fast as my bruised body could carry me beneath the shadows of the elms, casting the spell as I went so the guards would see nothing but a trick of the dawn light, the merest trace of movement against the pattern of bushes and long grass, and I never looked back, not once. I ran past the hedge and across the garden, I slipped in by the kitchen door and away along the passage and into my chamber where the fire was out and the candle reduced to a misshapen lump of wax. The air was bitter cold, but not as cold as the deathly chill that gripped my heart.

I slipped the little ring off my finger, and thrust it away deep in the chest under the silken shawl. I would never wear either again. Then I took out my grandmother's amulet, the triangle of strangely worked bronze, and I sought for a cord or ribbon, any means by which I might put it around my neck, for I would not risk her return, not while Darragh still traveled within the boundaries of Glencarnagh. Once I wore the amulet, she was secure in her control of me. I need only perform her will, and my dear ones would be safe.

I remembered something. A cord, a strange one, that had adorned my doll, Riona. I had removed it for safekeeping, and the little white stone that went with it. Where had I put that? In the pocket of a gown, I seemed to recall. The russet-colored gown. I had it here, folded in the chest. Yes, there it was, a strong cord woven of many fibers, so strong it seemed unbreakable, its ends bound with leather. Before, I had found it difficult to untie. Now, curiously, the knot unfastened with ease. It seemed this thing which had been my mother's was not unwilling to bear such a perilous charm. I placed the small white stone away in the chest and strung the bronze triangle in its place. As I fastened the cord about my neck I found I was whispering, Sony. I'm so sorry. The amulet felt lighter now, as if the cord which bore it were of far stronger stuff than the one which had frayed and broken under such an ill burden. Perhaps, even at the darkest times, my mother's spirit watched over me. I shuddered. Better that

she did not watch; better that she did not know I was my grandmother's tool once more. For it seemed to me that from this moment on, my steps would follow the sorceress's path and my tale would be her tale.

Chapter Nine

I knew what to do. It was a matter of discipline. Control the will and concentrate the mind. Focus the energy on the task and let nothing get in the way. It should have been thus from the moment I climbed onto Dan Walker's cart and left the shores of Kerry. It was what I should have done in the forest of Sevenwaters, instead of letting the little girls slip under my guard and establish a place in my heart, against all sense. It was how I should have protected myself, instead of listening to a druid, and heeding the tales of those that called themselves Old Ones.

There was a strategy to be followed, and its first step was Eamonn. Eamonn was not so difficult, I told myself as I washed and dressed with unusual attention to detail, frowning at my ghost-white face and shadowed eyes in the mirror. At least I did not care about him, I thought, as I gave my hair one hundred hard brushes, and plaited it up on top of my head so I would look older, seventeen at least. It was just a matter of remembering what to do, and why I was doing it. Think of my grandmother's voice, saying, He'd as likely be murdered by the road, for his little pack of cheap goods. Think of that, and do her bidding with the sure hand of a sorceress.

I ventured out, knowing it was late and questions would be asked if I did not appear for a second day in a row. I was tired and cold and covered with bruises. I did not look as a girl should look who had been resting for a whole day and night. A little pallor was one thing; the appearance of complete exhaustion quite another. At least I was tidy. And I would not use the Glamour. If I must do this, I would do it as myself.

I was lucky. The girls were nowhere to be seen, and I found Eamonn alone, frowning over documents in very small script as he sat in an antechamber where tall narrow windows caught the cold sunlight of this winter morning. I stood in the doorway watching, thinking his face seemed worn and lined in the unforgiving light, noting his brown hair was touched with gray at the temples, reminding myself that I must learn that people were pieces in a game, no more, no less. I made no sound, but suddenly he was aware of me and sprang to his feet, almost as if on guard against an enemy.

"Good morning," I said politely. "I'm sorry if I startled you."

"Not at all." He recovered quickly, coming forward to guide me to a bench by the small fire. It was deathly cold; the tapestries stirred in the draft. I could not suppress a shiver.

"Come, sit here," said Eamonn. "You're still not well. Have you eaten?"

I shook my head, and immediately a serving woman was summoned and dispatched, and bread and cold fowl and an ale jug were brought on a tray and set by my side. The woman was dismissed. The door was closed.

"Please," I said, "I have disturbed you at your work. Please go on. Ignore me. I will be quiet. Or, if you wish, I can take this elsewhere. I did not intend—"

Eamonn gave a grim little smile. "Not at all. I'm making slow progress with this; the task is not to my liking, and I cannot concentrate today. The interruption is welcome. Besides, I was just about to send a woman along to see how you were. Here, let me pour this for you."

I waited silently while he did so, thinking of Darragh's fingers warm around my own, remembering him feeding me like a child.

"There," said Eamonn. "I've been concerned, Fainne. We did not have the pleasure of your company yesterday."

"As you see, I'm quite well now." I sipped the ale and crumbled the bread between my fingers.

"I—" Eamonn was unusually hesitant. "I did wonder if your indisposition was a result of—I thought perhaps I had offended you, distressed you. My behavior was not altogether appropriate, I realize that."

I looked up at him.

"It was not so much your behavior as—it was what you said. I was—I was somewhat upset, it's true. But as you see? I am recovered now."

"Then I did offend you. I regret that." He sounded sincere enough. He had seated himself on the bench opposite and was scrutinizing me closely. I sipped the ale. In fact I was quite hungry, for the oaten porridge had not gone far, but a hearty appetite was at odds with the picture I wished to create. I left the bread.

"We must discuss this," said Eamonn, his tone less than enthusiastic. "Still, I scarcely know where to begin."

I glanced up at him. He looked like a man who had gone without sleep, and I sensed the scrolls strewn on the table were the least of his worries. "You mentioned compromise," I reminded him. "I believe that's possible between us. But we won't speak of it this morning. I am still weary, and you appear somewhat distracted. If I might make a suggestion?" "By all means."

"Perhaps I might remain here quietly for a while. No need to speak of what occurred between us. I have some needlework with me; I will eat and drink, and occupy myself with that, for the light is good in this chamber, and I wish for no company but yours this morning. You can get on with your work, as if I were not here. Later, after supper perhaps, we might speak of other matters."

For a few moments he stared at me in silence. Then he said, "There was a fellow here asking for you yesterday. Rough sort of man. Rode straight in demanding to see you, and reluctant to take no for an answer." He was frowning. I exerted the utmost control over my features, and kept my voice calm. "Really?"

"Fine pony he had with him, too good a piece of horseflesh for such riffraff. Pure white. Fellow said he knew you, from Kerry."

"It would be one of the traveling folk, I suppose. They brought me north to Sevenwaters."

"Unusual arrangement," Eamonn said, scowling.

"Maybe. But safer, in its way, for a girl traveling alone than a more obvious escort. Folk let the travelers by unhindered. This man is related to a woman in my uncle Sean's household. That is all."

"And what is this fellow to you, Fainne? He was very persistent. Foolishly so. He seemed slow to understand, when I ordered him off my land. What's he to you?"

And all of a sudden there was a note in his voice, and a look in his eye, that made me very uncomfortable indeed. I remembered that this was the man who had nurtured his jealous resentment for eighteen years or more. This was the man who had said, A man who takes what is mine, pays in kind. I did not like that look, but my grandmother's voice was saying, Yes, oh yes. Play on that.

I attempted a sweetly dismissive laugh. "Him? Nothing at all. They're good folk, but simple. They've a habit of dropping in, asking after the welfare of a friend, riding away again. It means little."

"Friend? Surely a lady would not be classed as friend by such as this, a tinker's boy, no more?"

"There's no harm in it," I said, offhand. "Besides, I am not so much of a lady. You recognize that yourself, do not deny it. A man in your position could not consider such a girl as a wife, after all. A girl whose parentage is, at the very least, irregular. A girl brought up in isolation, knowing more of books and learning than the ways of a fine household."

"Fainne-"

"Ah. I broke my own rules. I'll tell you what we'll do. You'll sit down and continue deciphering that very small script. I'll eat what you have kindly provided for me, and get on with my sewing. And we won't talk. Not until later. Agreed?"

Eamonn gave a wry smile, and retreated to his seat by the table.

"Somehow," he observed, "I feel I am not being consulted here so much as instructed."

"This is not pleasing to you?" I inquired, my brows raised in imitation of my grandmother's style.

"I didn't say that."

I finished my breakfast and applied myself to needle and thread. It was just as well my grandmother had taught me how to sew. Perhaps the quality of my stitchery might not have satisfied her, but at least I was able to make a suitable picture of domestic competence. And the light was good. This man had spoken of white skin and red hair as if both pleased him well. I sat exactly where the winter sun would touch my pale cheeks with its brightness; I knew its rays would catch the burning flame of my hair and turn it to a dazzling halo. I concentrated on my work, my fingers moving industriously. I knew without looking that Eamonn's eyes were fixed more often on me than on the documents before him.

Time passed in total silence. All too soon the sun moved across the sky, and the best of the light was gone. It was not so long until midwinter. For a moment I allowed myself to think of Darragh, and Aoife carrying him back westward across the miles to Ceann na Mara. He would return to O'Flaherty's, and settle, and perhaps he would wed Orla and raise a brood of small dark-haired sons and beautiful blue-eyed daughters. All of them would swim like fish and ride as if born in the saddle. He would have his sister close by, when she married Aidan. Their existence would be simple and happy and full of purpose. He'd live to see his children grow.