Child of the Prophecy (54 page)

patiently as I recounted the small events of my day. I had longed to make his world right, and had known I could not. My love for him had colored my life then, and it did so still. It was my grandmother's strongest weapon, and it bound me to a future of shadows and

betrayal.

I could not escape Conor. He found me before supper, as I undertook an errand for Aunt Aisling. I was in the kitchens, where there was another set of eyes that I'd sooner have avoided. The old woman, Janis, had not said much to me since I returned from Glencarnagh, but what she had said had made me more than uncomfortable.

"I always knew," she remarked, fixing her dark, probing gaze on me, "that your mother would invite trouble. And she did. Seems as if you're no different."

"What do you mean?" I snapped, outraged at such a ridiculous

accusation.

"Did he find you?" was her next effort.

"Who?" I glared at her.

"Who do you think?"

There was a pause. I realized I had clenched my hands tight. I forced myself to relax them.

"I didn't see him," I told her coolly.

"Didn't, or wouldn't?"

"What's it to you?" How dared she interrogate me thus?

"Lass, I'm old enough to speak the truth without fear. Maybe you won't listen. Niamh didn't care to listen, if what I had to say didn't suit her. You'll do a thing you regret forever, if you break that boy's

heart."

"That's nonsense," I said, shivering, but my tone had lost its certainty. "Hearts, and the breaking of them, don't come into this. Darragh is—was—my friend, that's all. He's gone away now. He has a sweetheart in Ceann na Mara, a lovely girl who knows all about horses and has a rich father. It's—it's very suitable. There's no hearts in it, not for him and me."

Janis sighed, and gave a little smile which had no joy in it at all. "I saw the look in his eyes, lass. Seems to me you don't know the worth of what you cast aside. Seems to me you can't see your way at all."

"I can," I whispered, wondering why it was I stayed by her listening, letting her hurt me so much with her words. "It is—it is just

because of this, because I do know these things, that I must do as I do. It is better this way. Better for Darragh. Better for everyone."

Janis was scrutinizing me closely. "That's not the way it works, lass," she said quietly. "You can't order other folks' lives, and their feelings, to suit what you think's best. Grew up with Darragh, didn't you?"

I nodded, tight-lipped.

"Mm. He told me. And did he ever once let you make his choices for him?"

I shook my head.

"Well, then."

"I know what's best," I said fiercely.

Janis reached out her knobbly old fingers and took my hand. Her touch was surprisingly gentle.

"There's a lot of weeping in it, lass," she said.

All I could do was nod, for her words brought back the little image I had seen in my dreams, night after night, ever since the day I turned a girl into a fish and let her own mother make an end of her with a kitchen knife. I saw myself racked by such anguish it threatened to tear me apart.

"I can't help that," I said in strangled tones, and then I fled.

After that I did my best to stay away from Janis. Still, there were errands, and it was unthinkable not to do them, for in this household Aunt Aisling's word was law. So I was there in the kitchen, asking the cook to send some men down to some barn or other to collect chickens, and Janis sat silent by the fire, watching me. And on the other side of the hearth was Conor, doing just the same.

"Ah," he said with a smile, "the very girl I need to see. Come, Fainne, let us take a short walk together. I've a proposition for you."

There was no refusing. I found a cloak hanging near the fire; Conor put his hood up. It had been snowing again, and we left the mark of our boots in the pristine white as we walked down the track toward the forest. There was that strange sort of warmth in the air which presages more snow before nightfall. I waited for the druid to speak. I tried to anticipate what his questions might be, and to form convincing answers in my head. He might ask me about the fire and my part in it. He might speak of deaths and injuries. He might ask

me, again, why I had come here. Perhaps it was of my marriage he would wish to speak; to tell me how impossible it was.

"We celebrate Mean Geimhridh tomorrow," said Conor. "You proved an able assistant last time, Fainne. Will you perform this duty

for me again?"

I struggled to find a reply. "I—I cannot imagine why you would want me to do so. It would not be at all appropriate."

"No?" asked Conor, smiling a little. "And why would that be?"

I could not tell the truth: that my acting thus would be a travesty. On the night of Samhain I had let myself pretend that I was one of the family. On the night of Samhain my grandmother had come, and I had made the fire.

"I can't," I said bluntly. "You know I can never belong to the order of the wise ones. You knew my father could not, but you lied to him and let him think it was possible, all those years. That was like— it was like promising someone a wonderful prize, if they worked hard enough for it, and then, when they'd earned it, snatching it away. No wonder my father still speaks of you with bitterness. I cannot be a druid, Uncle. I cannot do these things. I am not fit for it."

It was a long time before Conor replied. If I had upset him, I told myself I did not care; it was time he faced the truth of what he had done. He sat down on the stone wall, near the place where the track made its way under the leafless trees into the shadows of the forest. I stood by him looking out over the lake.

"I remember your grandfather rebuilding this wall, stone by stone," he remarked eventually. "A wise and patient teacher, was Hugh of Harrowfield. He taught the men here the right way to do it, but he played his own part; always, he showed by example. There's a trick to it, a knowledge. You have to run the stones with the length of them across the wall line, and their thinnest section must be laid horizontal; that way the stones support one another, and do not break under pressure. Like a great family, these stones; the strong support the weak, but each plays its part in the enduring whole." I made no comment. It seemed this was a learning tale. "What you said is not correct, Fainne," Conor said gravely. "I understand why you might think it so, for it was what your father believed: that because he was the son of a sorceress, he was forbidden

the powers of light, the higher practice of the craft. Once that idea was fixed in his mind, no argument could shake it. I tried to tell him, that night when he came to the house and we let him know the truth about his parentage. But he would not listen."

"How can it be wrong? Our blood is evil. No matter how hard we try, all of our choices lead to darkness. There's no controlling that. I know."

Conor sighed. "You're very young, Fainne. How can you say this with such certainty?"

"Because—because that's what happens to me," I whispered. "There's no point in pretending any differently."

"I cannot believe that, child."

"It's true, Uncle. It's not just what my father chose to believe. It's an old, old thing. The tale of what we are. We are descended from one of the Tuatha De, the Fair Folk; from one who was cast out for practicing a dark form of the craft. She summoned up something evil and let it loose in the world. So the Fair Folk banished her, and forbade her the higher magic. It is so for all her descendants."

Now Conor was looking at me very intently indeed. "An interesting tale," he said. "But just a tale, after all. Where did you hear this, Fainne?"

"My . . . my father said it is so."

"And where did he hear it, I wonder? One can choose to believe such stories or not. But I will give you a counter-argument which you cannot but believe, for it is based on proven fact."

I waited.

"Now tell me. Have you ever seen your father employ the craft for an ill purpose?"

"No," I replied reluctantly. "But that's different. My father made a choice. He told me. He said, our kind are drawn to evil. But one can always choose not to use the craft."

Conor nodded gravely. "So, he does not exercise his skills at all?"

I frowned. "He practices; for what, there is no telling. Perhaps merely to challenge himself; to fill the empty days. He used to demonstrate, in order to teach me. But—he did use it once." I glanced at the druid. "He saved the folk of the cove, when the Norsemen came. They still tell of it."

"So," said Conor, "the only time he used it, it was to do great good."

"Folk died," I said. "There was a flaxen-haired warrior, washed up on the shore among the splinters of the longships."

"It's a complicated business. Sometimes it's hard to extricate right from wrong, Fainne. And you are young yet, and barely started on your training."

"What does that mean?" I snapped, somewhat affronted that he considered me a mere beginner.

"We've spoken of your father. But what of you? You say you can only walk a path into darkness, because of what you are. I tell you that is wrong. You do have the choice. Yes, you are the granddaughter of a sorceress. But your other grandmother was my sister Sorcha, whom they sometimes call the daughter of the forest. She was the strongest of women; great of heart, pure of spirit, well-beloved in this household and this community. Your grandfather, Hugh of Harrow-field, was a stalwart and admirable man, for all he was a Briton. You carry that heritage too, Fainne. You are one of us, whether you wish it so or not. And you're wrong about the craft. Liadan told me what happened with Sibeal, on the way from Glencarnagh. You used your skills for good, then. I'm sure there have been other times."

I felt as if I were going to cry. "I've done some very bad things, Uncle." It felt as if the words were being squeezed out of me despite myself. "Terrible things that I cannot tell you. If the family knew these things, I would be cast out as my father was."

"Ciaran was never cast out." Conor's voice was calm, but the shadow of an old pain still lingered there. "He chose to leave. He chose a perilous path. I believe he sought her out. The lady Oonagh."

"The lady Oonagh?"

He raised his brows. "His mother, the sorceress."

"Is that her name? I always just called her Grandmother." Sometimes, you say something, and once the words are out, you know they should never have been spoken. But it is too late to unsay them. I watched Conor's expression change; saw the serene confidence vanish to be replaced by a pallid tightness that almost suggested fear. I wrenched my gaze away, looking again down to the empty waters of the lake, today gray and sullen under the heavy winter sky.

"You—" he ventured, and cleared his throat. "Tell me, Fainne," he said with more control, "was—was your grandmother present, during your growing years in Kerry?" I thought he chose his words with the utmost care. As for me, I had let the conversation stray into very dangerous waters. I had lost control of it, and of myself. That was druids for you. With my upbringing I should have known better.

"No, Uncle. She was there for a little. I grew up with just my father, as I told you."

"If he believed the craft would lead you into evil, why did he teach you thus?"

I had no answer for this.

"Come," he said. "It grows chill. Let us walk back."

"Yes, Uncle."

We made our way up to the keep in silence. I was torn by conflicting feelings, chiefly fear of my grandmother's fury if she had observed this interchange. But beyond this fear there was a terror far stronger, that perhaps Conor might be right. Was it possible that, after all, I might not be evil through and through, but might aspire to something different? That thought was cruel. Surely it was no more than the vain hope that had once been dangled before my father, then rudely snatched away. And yet—and yet, I had saved Sibeal. I had done good without even thinking about it. As we made our way up to the main door, where boys were busy sweeping snow from the pathways, and girls well wrapped in scarves and shawls were hanging garlands of greenery about the entry, I remembered that time at the fair. There had been no reason to stop that fellow from playing his nasty tricks; no need to release his furred and feathered captives, beyond a sense of what was right. But I had done it. I had been wearing the amulet and still I had done it.