Child of the Prophecy (5 page)

There was a sadness in his eyes, and in the set of his shoulders, but I did not know how to comfort him. Peg and Molly and the others, they were free with hugs and kisses, with tears and laughter, as if such matters were simple. It hurt me to see my father's sorrow; it hurt more that I was powerless to mend it.

"Good night, Father," I whispered, vowing inwardly that I would work harder than ever, and do my best to please him by mastering whatever skills he chose to teach me.

I was deeply shocked by what my father had told me, and inwardly much troubled. Still, a year was a long time. Anything could happen in a year. Perhaps I would not have to go. Maybe he would change his mind. Meanwhile, there was nothing for it but to continue with the practice of the craft, for if the worst happened and my father did send me away by myself, I wanted as much skill as I could master to help me. I put aside my misgivings and applied myself to work.

The weather was quite warm, but Father still had a persistent cough and a shortness of breath. He tried to conceal it, but I heard him, late at night when I lay awake in the darkness.

I was practicing without the mirror. Gradually I had reduced the incantation to a couple of words. I made my eyes blue, or green, or clear winter-sky gray. I shaped them long and slanted, or round as a cat's, thick-lashed, bulbous, sunken and old. As the season passed I moved on to the other features: the nose, the mouth, the bones of the face. The hair. The garments. An old crone in tatters, myself in future guise, maybe. A fishergirl with her hand on her hip, and her come-hither smile, white teeth flashing. A Fainne who was like myself, almost a twin, but subtly changed. The lips sweeter, the brows more arched, the lashes longer. The figure slighter and more shapely. The skin pale and fine as translucent pearl. A dangerous Fainne.

"Good," said my father, watching me as I slipped from one guise to the next. "You've an aptitude for this, there's no doubt of it. The semblance is quite convincing. But can you sustain it, I wonder?"

"Of course I can," I responded instantly. "Try me, if you will."

"I'll do just that." Father was gathering up a bundle of scrolls and letters, and a tightly strapped goatskin bag whose contents might have been anything. "Here, carry this. The walk will be good for you."

He was already making for the passageway to the outside, his sandaled feet noiseless on the stone floor.

"Where are we going?" I was taken aback, and hastened after him, still in the guise of not-myself.

"Dan heads back north in the morning. I've business for him to conduct on my behalf, and messages to be delivered. Stay as you are. Act as you seem. Maintain this until we return. Let me see your strength."

"But—won't they notice that I am—different?"

"They've not seen you for a year. Girls grow up quickly. No cause for concern."

"But-"

Father glanced back over his shoulder as we came out of the Honeycomb onto the cliff path. His expression was neutral. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

"No, Father." There was no problem. Only Dan and Peg and the other men and women with their sharp looks and their ready comments. Only the girls with their giggling whispers and the boys with their jokes. Only the fact that I had not once gone right into the encampment without Darragh by my side, not in all the long years Dan Walker's folk had been spending their summers at the bay. Only that going among people still filled me with terror, even though I was a sorcerer's daughter, for my clever tricks scarcely outweighed my limping, awkward gait and crippling shyness.

But then, I thought as I followed my father's striding, dark-cloaked figure along the path and down the hillside toward the cove, today I was not that girl; not that Fainne. Instead, I was whatever I pleased. I was the other Fainne, the Glamour wrapping me in a soft raiment of gracefulness, smoothing my curls into a glossy flow of silk, making my walk straight and even, drawing the eye to my long curling lashes and my demure, pretty smile. They would see me, Dan and Peg and the others, and they would admire me, and never notice that anything had changed.

"Ready?" Father asked under his breath as we came along the path and caught sight of the cluster of folk preparing livestock and belongings for next morning's early departure. Dogs were racing around yapping, and children chased each other in and out between carts and ponies and the legs of men and women about their tasks. As we came closer and were seen, people drew back as was their habit, leaving a neat untenanted space around my father. He was unperturbed, striding on forward until he spotted Dan Walker making some fine adjustments to a piece of harness. A couple of lads were bringing their ponies up from the shore, and they glanced my way. I put a hand on one hip, casually, and looked back at them under my lashes as I had seen that girl do, the one with the teeth. One lad looked down, as if abashed, and moved on past. The other one gave an appreciative whistle.

"And drop this off at St. Ronan's," my father was telling Dan Walker. "I'm grateful to you, as always."

"It's nothing. Got to go that way regardless, this year. It's close enough to Sevenwaters. Can't pass those parts without calling in on the old auntie, I'd never be forgiven. She's getting long in the tooth, but she's a sharp one, always has been: Got any messages for the folk up there?" The question was thrown in as if quite by chance.

Father's features tightened almost imperceptibly. "Not this time."

I took a step forward, and then another, and I was aware that Peg and the other women were watching me from where they hung clothing on the bushes to dry, and I saw that now Dan's eyes, too, were fixed on me, appraising. I looked away, down toward the sea.

"Girl's turned out a credit to you, Ciaran," Dan said. He had lowered his voice, but I heard him all the same. "Who'd have thought it? Right little beauty, she's turning into; takes after her mother. You'd best be finding a husband for her before too long."

There was a pause.

"No offense," Dan added without emphasis.

"The suggestion was inappropriate," my father said. "My daughter is a child."

Dan made no comment, but I could feel his eyes following me as I walked over to the line of ponies tied up loosely in the shade under the trees, cropping at the rough grass. I could feel many eyes following me, and they were not amused or pitying or scornful, but curious, admiring, intrigued. It made me feel quite strange.

I reached up a hand to stroke the long muzzle of a placid gray beast, and the lad who had whistled before appeared at my side. He was a gangling, freckled fellow somewhat older than myself. I had seen him many times with the others, and never exchanged so much as a word. Behind him a couple more boys hovered.

"His name's Silver." This was offered with diffidence, as if the speaker were not quite sure of his possible reception. There was a pause. Some response from me was clearly expected. It was all very well to maintain the Glamour, to keep myself as this not-quite-myself that they all seemed to want to look at and talk to. My techniques were well up to that. But I must also act in keeping; find the words, the smiles, the little gestures. Find the courage. I slipped a hand into the pocket of my gown, repeated the words of an old spell silently in my head, and drew out a wrinkled apple that had not been there when we left home.

"Is it all right if I give him this?" I asked sweetly, arching my brows and trying for a shy smile.

The boy nodded, grinning. Now I had five of them around me, leaning with studied casualness on the wall, or half-hiding behind one another, peering around for a better look without being conspicuous. I put the apple on the palm of my hand, and the horse ate it. His ears were laid back. He was uneasy with me, and I knew why.

"Is it true you can make fire with your hands?" blurted out one of the lads suddenly.

"Hush your mouth, Paddy," said the first one with a scowl.

"What are you thinking of, asking the young lady something like that?"

"None of our business, I'm sure," said another, though doubtless he, like all of them, had exchanged his fair share of speculative gossip about what we got up to, those long lonely times in the Honeycomb.

"It's my father who's the sorcerer, not me," I said softly, still stroking the horse's muzzle with delicate fingers. "I'm just a girl."

"Haven't seen you out and about much this summer," commented the freckled boy. "Keeps you busy, does he?"

I gave a nod, allowing my expression to become crestfallen. 'There's only my father and me, you see." I imagined myself as a dutiful daughter, cooking sustaining meals, mending and sweeping and tending to my father, and I could see the same image in their eyes.

"A shame, that," said one of the lads. "You should come down sometimes. There's dancing and games and good times here in the camp. Pity to miss it."

"Maybe—" began the other boy, but I never heard what he was about to say, for it was at that point my father called me, and the lads melted away quicker than spring snow, leaving me alone with the horse. And as I turned to follow my father obediently back home I saw Darragh, over on the far side of the horse lines, brushing down his white pony. Aoife, her name was; he'd argued long and hard with Dan to be allowed to keep her, and he'd had his way in the end. Now Darragh glanced at me and looked away, and not by so much as a twitch of the brow or a movement of the hand did he give me any recognition.

"Very good," my father said as we walked home in the chill of a rising west wind. "Very good indeed. You're getting the feeling of this. However, this is just the beginning. I'd like you to develop a degree of sophistication. You'll need that at Sevenwaters. The folk there are somewhat different from these fishermen and simple travelers. We must begin work on that."

"Yes, Father." For all his words of praise, he seemed tired and sad, as if something weighed on him. I saw a look in his eyes that I recognized well, a look that told me he was planning, calculating, seeing things so far ahead I could not hope to understand. What was it he wanted me to do at Sevenwaters? Was it so dangerous there that I must cloak myself in magic every waking moment? I wished he

would explain. But that was never his way. If there was a puzzle to be solved, I was expected to do it myself.

"We might start sooner than planned, I think. As soon as Dan's folk are away we'll take the next step. You can have one day's rest. You've earned that much; we cannot afford more. Use the day wisely."

There was no choice in it; there never had been. "Yes, Father," I said, and as we made our way up the cliff path and into the dark tunnels of the Honeycomb, I let the Glamour slip away and was once more my limping, clumsy self. I had done what my father asked. Why, then, did I feel so unhappy? Hadn't I proved I could be what I pleased? Hadn't I shown I could make people admire me and bend them to my will? Yet later, lying on my bed, I stared into the darkness and felt an emptiness inside me that bore no relation whatever to spells, and enchantments, and the mastery of the craft.

It was a night of restless dreams, and I awoke before dawn, shivering under my woollen blanket, hearing the howl of the wind, and the roar of the sea as it pounded the rocks of the Honeycomb. Not a good day to be abroad. Perhaps Dan Walker and his folk would decide to stay a little longer. But it never did happen that way. They were as true to their time as birds flying away for the winter, their arrivals and departures as precise as the movement of shadows in a sacred circle. You could count your year by them. The golden times. The gray times. It seemed to me the voice of the wind had words in it. I will sweep you bare . . . bare ... I will take all. . . all. . . And the sea responded in kind. I am hungry . . .give me. . .

I put my hands over my ears and curled up tight. It was supposed to be a day of rest, after all. Might I not sleep in peace, at least until the sun rose? But the voices would not go away, so I got up and dressed, not sure what the day might hold, but thinking I would make myself very busy indeed, and try to ignore the sick, empty feeling in my stomach. It was as I pulled on my boots that I heard, very faintly through the blast of the wind, another sound. A note or two, fragments of a tune over a steady, solid drone. The voice of the pipes. So, they were not gone yet. Not stopping to think, I grabbed my shawl and was away, out of doors and up the hill toward the standing stones, my hair whipped this way and that in the wild weather, the

sea spray pursuing me as far from the cliffs as its icy fingers could stretch.

Darragh stopped playing when he saw me. He'd found a sheltered spot among the stones, and sat with his legs outstretched and his back to the great dolmen we called the Guardian, not disrespectful exactly, just blending in as if he belonged there, the same as the rabbits. I stumbled forward, pushing my hair back from my eyes, and sat down beside him. I clutched my shawl closer around me. It was still barely dawn, and the air held the first touch of a distant winter.