Child of the Prophecy (52 page)

"Careful now," Muirrin cautioned. "It's only for a moment, then she's to go straight back to bed."

There were smiles and tears all around. I stood back, for I had no part in this. I waited for them to be finished, so I could go to my

room and shut the door and be alone. So I could go somewhere and not see. Saving one child did not cancel out harming another. It was not so simple.

The girls were beaming. And Deirdre was blushing. The widest smiles, the most effusive greetings were not in fact for Aisling, or for Maeve, but for someone else entirely. Close by the family stood two more of Liadan's men in their plain dark-colored clothes, though these two were not masked. I had thought them guards. Both were young; one took the eye immediately, for his skin was as dark as fine oak, and his hair was in small braids like a druid's, but decorated with bright beads and scraps of feather at the ends. He stood by Maeve, supporting the child with his arm. I saw Muirrin whisper something in his ear, and he smiled, a quick flash of white teeth.

But it was the other young man who had my cousins' attention, though I could not for the life of me see why. He was an ordinary enough sort of fellow, pleasant-featured, shortish but strongly built, his curling brown hair severely cropped. He turned slightly, and I saw to my surprise the markings on his face, a delicately incised pattern of some subtlety which encircled one eye and swirled boldly onto brow and cheek. It was very fine work; there was a slight suggestion of beak, and feathers, no more. Around us, the men who had , made up our guard had dismounted and in turn removed their mask-like hoods, and I saw that every single one of them wore some similar marking on his face, mostly quite small, a few more elaborate, no two quite alike. Each had the hint of a creature about it—badger, seal, wolf, stag. I was the only one staring. To the others, this band of painted warriors must be a familiar sight.

"Fainne." It was Clodagh, who had appeared at my side, and was tugging my sleeve. "This is Johnny."

The ordinary-looking young man was standing behind her, with a friendly grin on his patterned features. I gaped. This was Johnny, the fabled child of the prophecy? This unprepossessing young fellow who seemed no different from one of his own guard? Surely this could not be right. I had expected—well, I had at least expected a warrior of formidable stature, or maybe a scholar steeped in craft and learning. Not—not someone who might just as well be a stablehand or a kitchen man.

"So many cousins," Johnny said, "and all of them girls. I am glad to meet you, Fainne. Maeve has spoken a great deal about you, and told us all your stories." He reached out and clasped my hand. His grip was warm and strong. I looked into his eyes, and realized on an instant that I had been quite wrong. His eyes were gray and deep. They assessed me quickly, recorded what they saw, and put it away for future reference. The man was clever. He was a strategist. And his smile was hard to resist. I found myself smiling back.

"That's better," he said. "Now, here's my friend Evan. Evan's Mother's apprentice. She'll tell you he has the makings of a first-rate healer. He and Muirrin have done wonders with young Maeve. The two of them make a fine team."

He grinned at the dark-skinned man, and then at Muirrin. Muirrin blushed; Evan looked down at the ground. Then Liadan said Maeve should be back in bed, and in the flurry of getting indoors and sorting out baggage, I was able to flee upstairs and into my own chamber, where I bolted the door behind me, though against what, I hardly knew.

I won't like him, I seemed to be saying to myself. I can't like him. That makes it too hard. I sat on the floor before the hearth, but I did not light the fire, for all the freezing chill of the winter day. I feared what visions I might see in its heart, the evil things that lay before me, those I might do myself, and those I might be powerless to stop. It should be easy, I told myself. It's a game of strategy. Like brandubh. You know what must be done. Just do it.

Easy enough to say. Things had indeed changed here at Sevenwaters, and it was not solely that Liadan had come, and that Maeve was now improving faster than anyone had dared to hope. It was him, Johnny. You could see it in the way the men came to him for answers, and the way he spoke to them, friendly, respectful, but confident, as if he were a far older man, seasoned and wise. You could see it in his smile and in his bearing; in the way he wore his plain clothes with pride, as if being part of a team gave him greater satisfaction than any mark of leadership. Yet he was a leader. Older men fell silent to hear him speak. Women hastened to provide his meal or refill his goblet, and blushed when he offered a kind word. He was everywhere, drilling Sean's men in the yard, inspecting the building of a new barn, chatting to Janis in the kitchens. Often enough he could be found by Maeve's bedside, telling a story, or listening as she whispered confidences. It was his sweet smile that had warmed these halls; his ready offers of help that had brought the color back to Aisling's wan face; his counsel that Sean sought in the evenings, as the men talked long over maps and diagrams. Because of him the household had regained the sense of strength and purpose which had vanished at Samhain, the night of the fire. I had brought the darkness. Johnny had restored the light.

It was close to Mean Geimhridh. Often, at the cove, the weather was so wild in this season that the day could not be read from the stones; all was in shadow as clouds blocked the midwinter sun. Still, I would know; I would go up the hill in rain or gale, and sit beneath the dolmen looking out to the west, thinking if I could see far enough I might catch a glimpse of Tir na nOg, isle of dreams. But I never did. Then I'd just sit, cloak up over my head against the wind, feeling the strength of the rock at my back like a great supporting hand, and I'd dream my own dreams of summer. Summer would always come. It was just a matter of waiting and being strong. That was all finished now, of course. I had said goodbye to the cove, and to my father. I had sent Darragh away, far away where he could be safe, and for me there could be no more summers.

It was necessary to practice. To do what I must, an exercise of the craft was required which went far beyond what my father had allowed me to do. Indeed, he had expressly forbidden it, and with good reason. So, I must sharpen my skills again, discipline my mind and make myself strong. Then, only then might I attempt a transformation from human girl to wild creature and, still more difficult, a return to myself. The prospect terrified me. What if I had overestimated my own ability? What if I condemned myself to life as a duck or a toad, or worse still, found myself trapped between one form and another? Then I would indeed be powerless to protect those I sought to shield from her. This was a potent charm, one of the most challenging forms of the craft; it drained the strength and taxed the mind. My father had not thought me ready to try it. What if that were still so? Time was passing quickly; already, in the chill of the solstice, it seemed men gathered for some imminent departure, and Aunt Liadan spoke of returning home. Even in winter's darkness, these folk set their gaze on summer's victory. It was not so long. I must prepare.

But how might I rehearse this skill here at Sevenwaters? There was no solitude, no privacy save within the confines of my own chamber, and even there I was constantly interrupted. The house was full, the family busy, and my help in great demand for a variety of tasks, not all of which I was accustomed to. I learned things, but they were the wrong things: how to sew tucks into a bodice, how to preserve apples in honey and to make jellied pigs' tongues, how to pluck a goose, the best way to doctor a sprained wrist.

In the evenings it was difficult to escape unnoticed. With the coming of Johnny and his band of painted warriors, supper had become a more festive occasion, followed as often as not by the telling of tales and the singing of songs. One of the young men had a fine voice, and another was not at all bad on the whistle. There was a small, finely carved harp in the household, and both Deirdre and Clodagh could coax a voice of some sweetness from its delicate strings. In Dan Walker's camp there had been something of the same sense of well being; the same joyful fellowship. Strange, though. These were my own kin, yet I felt less a part of this than I had of that simple, colorful family of traveling folk. I thought more kindly of Peg, who had given me a kerchief and her smile, than of Aunt Liadan with her searching eyes and her silences. I heard their music of celebration and longed for the solitary lament of the pipes.

I considered the forest. Out there, surely many places were open, untenanted: clearings amid winter trees, deserted stretches of lake shore, great lichen-encrusted stones. Those were places well suited to the secret practice of the craft. But I had no druid to walk by me, and the guards were many. Besides, who knew what strange beings looked on in that dark wilderness, all too ready to spy out my secrets and anticipate my moves? I could not go there.

I was beset by doubts and terrified by my own lack of progress. If I left it too long, if I let myself think too hard about what I intended to do and what it meant, then I knew I risked losing the will to act at all. Now, when I touched the cord around my neck it did not seem to focus my mind on the task ahead, but whispered a different message: You are a child, of Sevenwaters, it told me. You are one of us. But I had not forgotten my grandmother's warning. She wanted to see progress. If there was no progress, then she would come back, and she would make others pay the penalty for my disobedience. Yet, when I put my mind to it, it seemed to me that no matter what I chose to do, the folk of Sevenwaters were doomed. I might protect the innocent from my grandmother's wrath by obeying her commands. If I did that, there would be no more fires or unexpected falls, or those other things she had listed such as poisonings or disappearances. Those I sought to protect would be safe, here at Sevenwaters and in Kerry and far west in Ceann na Mara. I might achieve that. But, in the long term, if I carried out her quest the battle would be lost, and the Islands as well, and this family would be plunged into chaos and despair. Was not that a catastrophe far greater than the personal losses I sought to prevent? Indeed, if I heeded the voices of those who called themselves Old Ones, the failure to win the Islands, this time, would signify no less than the passing of the great races of Erin: the Fair Folk, the older folk, the many and strange Otherworld dwellers beneath the surface of things. As for the human kind, they would lose forever the mysteries of the spirit. What sort of man or woman could you call yourself, without those? They would cease to be guardians of earth and ocean, and become no more than parasites living off them, with no heed for what it meant, with no regard for the sacred trust laid on them. Could it be true that this was my grandmother's intention? The choice I faced was no choice at all; both ways ended in darkness. It was no more than I could expect, with the cursed blood that ran in my veins, and in my father's; tainted blood which meant we could never walk the paths of light. I was no child of Sevenwaters. Whichever way I went, I could do no other than destroy my kinsfolk and what they sought so hard to keep safe.

I practiced as well as I could within the confines of my chamber late at night. In the mornings I would emerge white-faced, yawning and ill-tempered. Aunt Liadan watched me, her small, sweet features giving away nothing at all. Aunt Aisling watched me too, frowning, and ordered me to rest in the afternoons, and her daughters to give me a little peace and quiet. I snatched the time gratefully and used it for more practice. I did not dare attempt the full transformation, not yet, but I grew ever closer. I warmed up with other things: the manipulation of objects, which had become easy for me, the dropping and catching, the subtle moving, the cunning adjustments of shape and size. I gave myself a fright once with a giant cockroach; fortunately I was able to reverse the charm with a click of the fingers. I lost one spider, making it so small I could not see it to turn it back. I had not yet mastered the knack of performing this trick blind. I rehearsed transformations before the mirror, easy ones at first, since time was always limited: the prettier, more graceful girl of the fair; a very plain version with a squint and sparse, frizzy hair; a matronly one with a child in her belly and wrinkles on her brow; an ancient crone who bore an uncanny resemblance to my grandmother. I did not keep that guise long, for it chilled me to think there might be a future in which I was just like her. Then, somewhat more difficult, a Fainne who was about eight years old, the same size as my cousin Sibeal. This child stared at me from the polished copper surface of the mirror, her features innocent, unformed; her hair flowing across her small shoulders like a cloak of fire. On her finger she wore a little ring made of wild grasses. And behind her, instead of the dark stone walls of my chamber, I saw the cliffs of the Honeycomb, and the waves of the southern ocean, and the cloud-tossed sky of Kerry. I thought I heard my father's voice saying, Well done, daughter. You've an aptitude for this. I made the change back to myself abruptly, too abruptly, for I came close to fainting with the sudden loss of energy that accompanies such transitions, and when I looked back in the mirror, I saw myself wan and drained, like some shadow-girl. Day by day, night by night I polished these skills. Soon, very soon, I must take that last step, girl into wild creature, wild creature into girl.

A letter came from Eamonn. Not to me; that would have been inappropriate, and Eamonn believed in abiding by the rules when he could. The letter was to my uncle Sean, and it was a formal request for my hand in marriage. Such a letter could not be ignored, nor might it be dismissed with a straight refusal, not if the writer were a kinsman and ally. It did not seem to make any difference that Eamonn had already been told such a match was out of the question. Indeed, the man did not appear to understand the word no. He made his request with courtesy, indicating that there was no expectation of a dowry, my circumstances being what they were; he added that, in view of the impending risks of the summer, it was his preference that the marriage take place in spring, at Imbolc maybe. There was