Child of the Prophecy (55 page)

The idea Conor had put into my mind was so terrifying I wished with all my heart it had never been spoken. But once there it lodged firm and could not be shaken. Indeed, I realized the truth had been creeping up on me for a long time now. From the moment I had restrung Grandmother's little charm on that strange cord of many fibers, this new possibility had been growing in my mind. Something in that necklace seemed to work against the evil of the talisman, something bright and fine. Maybe it was love, or family; perhaps both. I was glad my grandmother had never mastered the art of look-

ing into a person's thoughts; the art my aunt Liadan was said to possess in abundance. For this was an idea my grandmother must not be allowed to see.

That night I put out the hearth fire in my chamber and sat shivering in the light of a single small candle, as shadows danced across the walls, keeping time with my thudding heart. It was snowing outside; the quiet was profound. I had believed I had no choice but to do as my grandmother wished: attempt a fearful task of grandiose proportions. Impossible as that seemed, I had planned to do it, for I was bound by fear, and by my belief that sooner or later, I could do nothing but work her will and follow the evil path to which my cursed blood bound me. Daunting, but in its way easy, because it was inevitable, and outside my own control.

But I had been wrong. The power of the amulet had twisted my mind and dulled my ability to reason. It had made me blind to all but what she wanted me to see. Through it she had worked her ill deeds, and made me believe they were my own. A powerful sorceress indeed. But maybe not so powerful. She had never explained why she could not simply kill the child of the prophecy herself and end this once and for all. All she had said was that events must unfold according to the ancient foretelling. And that night when I had taken off the amulet, she had come rushing to find out what I was doing. She really had been afraid of me; afraid of what I might do if I escaped her control. A momentous unfolding of events, my father had said, and something about finding the right purpose for my gifts. Very well, it seemed I had found that purpose now, though I trembled to contemplate it. I could give my father back his life. I could show him that our kind might indeed aspire toward the light. I could ensure these folk were not robbed of the chance to win their battle and save their Islands. They were my family: wise Conor, so disconcertingly like my father, and Sean, who seemed to want only the best for me. Aunt Aisling treated me as if I were her own daughter. Then there was Liadan, whose love for her sister still showed in her eyes, and Johnny, the perfect son. And what about the girls, now so much a part of my life I was hard put to imagine the time when their tears and chatter had not sounded like a sweet, discordant music through the quiet of my days? When this was over, whatever happened, there could be no place for me here among them, I knew that. And Kerry would be lonely now,

even in summertime. I could never make up for the terrible wrongs I had done. The past could not be remade. But I could tread a different path if I dared, from this point on. It would be a path of fear and sacrifice; in time, perhaps a path of redemption. The lady Oonagh was strong. I must be even stronger.

Chapter Eleven

My mind began to work very quickly indeed. She would come if she thought I was too slow, of that I had no doubt at all. I must act first. I must preempt her visit. I must summon her myself, though the prospect of her coming anywhere near Sevenwaters chilled me. I would take control; I would demonstrate my compliance. I wished her to be in no doubt whatever that I was still her puppet, and dedicated to work her will. It was a perilous way I contemplated; none must know the truth. Thank the goddess Darragh was safe back in Ceann na Mara, which was surely far enough away for my grandmother to forget him. As for my father, he trusted me to make my own decisions, and though this was the biggest decision of my life, the same rule applied. He had brought me up to do things without help, and I would be true to his teaching.

I would need some reason to summon Grandmother; a progress report, that should please her. The plan I had outlined for her involved spying for Eamonn, finding out the information he needed to destroy his old enemy, the one they called the Chief. What was the fellow's name? Bran? I must do it, and glean some news to show her I had not been idle. And I could not spy unless I could transform. It was time for an exercise of the craft.

"Good," said a strange little voice right behind me. I froze in shock, there where I sat before the cold hearth in the semi-darkness.

For a moment I had thought—I had really thought—but no, this soft hooting tone was nothing like my grandmother's.

"You think so?" I asked cautiously as my heart went back to its normal pace, and I turned to observe the owl-like creature as it stood round-eyed by my window in its feather cloak and little red boots. I must indeed have been absorbed in my thoughts if I had sat unaware while it flew in, and changed.

"I know so, fire child. I see it in your face. A different look. So what's it to be? A ginger cat, maybe, all hiss and danger? A flea? That would give you an intimate insight. You'll learn something tonight, for they all sit up by lantern light, behind closed doors. Best be quick."

I frowned. "Reading my thoughts now, are you?" I queried, wondering whether I might risk trusting this small personage which seemed to understand so much without being told.

A gurgle of laughter. "Not us. Just waited for you to work it out, that's all. And we're everywhere, though folk don't see us. We read it in your eyes. Took you long enough to find your way through this puzzle, and you a druid's only daughter."

There seemed no possible answer to this, save maybe a question. "Do you think—do you think my father intended— ?"

"You'd have to ask him that question. Now come on, time's passing. What's it to be?"

I shivered. "I must make my way unseen to the chamber where they meet, enter by a locked door in the dark, remain there unobserved, and return safely here. No cats, that's certain. A creature of night, quite small; one which can enter through the crack between door and frame."

"A cockroach?" the creature suggested helpfully.

"I thought, a moth," I said, my voice shaking with the very idea of it.

"Good idea. Go on, then."

I recalled, belatedly, that an owl was also a creature of the night, and I remembered the camp of the traveling folk, and a certain miniature predator swooping down on its prey with needle-sharp claws and snapping beak.

"I hope you're not here just for an easy supper," I said, frowning.

"I've eaten already, thank you," replied the creature politely. "Come on, hurry up. Can you do it or not?"

"I've never tried this before."

"We know. That's why I'm here. A watcher. You need one, the first time. This sort of thing's second nature to our kind. Be warned. You'll feel it afterward. Takes quite a toll. Be sure you're back in here before you undo the charm."

The first step. It was necessary to create a picture in the mind, a sort of map of what must be done, plain enough for even the smallest and simplest of creatures to retain. I closed my eyes and made myself visualize the path I must follow, out of my chamber, beneath the door where a gap admitted a chill of winter draft, along the dark passageway to the chamber where they would be meeting, a smallish, private room at the top of the stairs. I captured in my mind the faint outline of that doorway, light showing dimly from within. I must make my way through the crack at the top of the door, then simply cling to wall or ceiling, and listen until I heard something, anything I might use to convince my grandmother I was moving forward with my plan. Then I made myself feel and see the return journey, back through the tiny slot, along the hallway on rapid wings, coming to rest at my own doorway, creeping under, safe again. This pattern must be very clear in my mind before I began, and so must the charm of reversal. These two things I must hold, and my knowledge of myself, or be lost forever in that other form. My heart pounded in anticipation. I must do this. I would do this.

"Now," said the owl-creature.

The second step. I thought moth. I felt the shape, the lightness, the alteration of balance, so that instead of up and down, floor and ceiling, there were simply different sorts of planes, and different kinds of touching. I felt the power of the wings, and the strange pull of the light. I felt my consciousness dwindle and alter and focus into something far simpler and more direct. In my head I spoke the words, and changed.

For a moment there was only blind panic. I could not sort out legs from wings, my eyes did not seem to be working properly, I blundered and toppled and fluttered in helpless circles on the floor.

"Door," said a voice, and it scared me, but somewhere there was a pattern and I understood I must follow it. I flew erratically to the faint crack of light and crept through beneath the door. Brightness. Warmth. I wanted that. I wanted the light, and it was there, not far

above. I flew, more boldly now, drawn to its glow, knowing I must go to it, I must get closer . . .

"No, fire child. Not that. Remember who you are. Remember the pattern."

The voice. I should heed the voice. But there was the light. The light called me so strongly . . .

"You will burn if you fly into the lantern. Follow the pattern. Do not lose yourself."

Somewhere, the sense of self, deep within, my father's training. I was Fainne, daughter of Ciaran. This moth-form was only a shell, and I must disregard the way it pulled me toward that sweet glow of warmth. My fragile wings carried me high along the hallway, safe above the tantalizing flame of the lantern. I could not see my strange companion; perhaps the creature had stayed behind the closed door of my bedchamber. But its voice still guided me.

"Good, fire child. Remain yourself. Do not give in to that other mind, or you are indeed no more than an owl's next meal, and not much of one at that. Now go in."

I had reached the entry to the small council chamber. There was only just space enough to crawl between oaken door and frame. Inside there were lights again: two lanterns, and candles. They summoned me the way a stream of clear water calls to a thirsty man after a long day's journey. With an effort of will, I held myself on the wall by the door. My vision was strange: there were no colors, only light and dark, and I could see right around me, not just in front. I could scarcely begin to interpret what my new eyes showed me; to do so, I would need to learn to see all over again. I concentrated on hearing and, with an effort, made out the separate voices of Conor, Sean and Liadan, and, to my surprise, Johnny. It came to me that I owed it to Johnny that any part of the conversation was spoken aloud. But for his presence, they might have used the voice of the mind, and conducted it in total silence. None but a seer might have spied on such a council.

It was hard to listen and harder still to understand. Part of me heard only sounds, sounds of danger, and part of me saw and felt only darkness and light: the darkness of unseen predators lurking in the shadows, the coaxing, wonderful, flickering light there on the table that called me, called me so strongly. Focus. The words, the pattern. I must not lose myself in that other. The pattern was listen, door, fly, door, safe. Then the charm of reversal. First, listen.

"What it means, I cannot guess," Conor was saying gravely, as if he had just reached the conclusion of some narrative. "What influences there have been, I shudder to contemplate. The question is, what action do we take now?"

There was a brief silence.

"Are you telling us," Sean's tone was careful, "that you believe young Fainne has come here as an emissary of the lady Oonagh? That seems quite fanciful, and I cannot bring myself to believe it. I've never concurred with your doubts about the girl. She's a good child. Aisling speaks quite highly of her. She's had a strange upbringing, and is a little shy and awkward, but no more than that, surely."

"You forget the use of sorcerer's magic." Liadan's voice was chill. "We have seen that. She's strong; strong and able, like her father. And it would be just the lady Oonagh's way, would it not, Uncle, to seek to harm us by using as her weapon a child we long to take to ourselves, to love and to welcome? Niamh's own daughter. It's cruel indeed, and has the unmistakeable stamp of the sorceress on it. Did you not say Fainne knows how to conjure fire with her fingers? Doesn't that tell you anything?"

"You can't be suggesting—but that's preposterous, Liadan!" Sean spoke in a shocked whisper. I crept closer to hear, moving from wall to ceiling so that I clung upside down in the shadows. Below me, one of Sean's great dogs twitched its ears and began a low, ominous growling. I sensed the scurrying movement of other small creatures close by me; I felt a sudden terror without understanding its cause.