Child of the Prophecy (58 page)

Her lips curved, showing the lines of neatly pointed teeth. "How long he can endure," she said. "More important, how long you can watch without helping him. If you are both strong, the final conclusion of our venture will be so much more satisfying, Fainne. So much. Indeed, I can hardly wait to watch that. Very well, a bellyache it shall be; you'll know all about that, since I've demonstrated it to you myself in the past. Rows of little teeth gnawing their way through living flesh, a pain that makes the nerves jangle and the sinews tremble, an agony that makes a man dream of death as a blissful release. And just remember, there's no expectation of you at all, my dear; only that you watch and not act. Only that." I nodded, trying not to shiver.

"You won't see me," Grandmother said. "But I will see you, Fainne. Make sure you act as I have instructed." "Yes, Grandmother," I said.

"Don't worry," she went on, "I'll let the fellow recover in time. I want him well enough to take his place in the final battle, after all. I want these folk to savor the taste of success until the very last moment. Then we'll snatch their victory away, only then. Human folk and Fair Folk will go down together, before our very eyes. What a sight that will be! I'll probably add a few little touches of my own, I think. I won't be able to resist."

"I will do as you bid me," I said. "And my plan will work with Eamonn, I promise you. But I'll be a long way away. You may not hear from me now until the last."

"I'll know where you are, and what you're doing," said the lady

Oonagh. "I always do."

Not quite always, I thought. "Farewell then," I said.

"Farewell, child. I have great hopes for you. Don't disappoint me. Don't forget your father, and that other one who's never far from your thoughts."

"No, Grandmother." I made my words firm and sure as the flames died down, and the glowing eyes faded quite away, and the evil voice fell silent.

I waited a long time, and when I judged it safe, I went to the chest and took out Riona, and I lay on the bed hugging her like a child. I could not stop shivering, even with a blanket over me, and after a time I got up and went to stand by the window, watching the gentle fall of snow through the shadowy air of the winter night. I thought of my father, all alone in the dark halls of the Honeycomb, and I spoke softly, using the tool he had given me to maintain my courage; to focus on what was and is and must be.

Whence came you?

From the Cauldron of Unknowing.

What do you seek?

Wisdom. Understanding. I seek the way to the Light.

It was a strange time of year to travel, the weather inclement, the days at their shortest. I asked no questions about that. A message had been sent to Eamonn, along the lines Johnny had suggested. It was anticipated the recipient might be less than pleased with this missive, and waste no time in paying a call, and asking questions. Our departure, therefore, took place on the day this letter was dispatched. By the time Eamonn could ride to Sevenwaters I would be well gone. This was not stated in so many words, but I understood it. Maybe I should have made a show of protest. But my mind was taken up with other things, and I let it pass.

To my astonishment the girls were distraught that I was leaving. Eilis wept. I had never thought the child had much regard for me; after all, I was a hopeless rider. Perhaps her tears were no more than habit. But Clodagh hugged me, and so did Deirdre, and their expressions were identically woeful.

"Come home safe," said Clodagh.

'We'll miss you terribly," sniffed Deirdre. "It'll be so boring here when you're gone."

"Goodbye, Fainne," Sibeal said gravely. "You'll need to watch out for cats." I stared at her, understanding she had seen ahead, perhaps to a time of transformation. I could not ask her what she meant, not while the others stood close by, but I nodded acknowledgment. Muirrin kissed me on both cheeks, and gave me a gown of soft gray wool, which she said would be nice and warm, for the winds bit hard up there. Muirrin was not weeping. My aunt's apprentice healer, Evan, was to remain at Sevenwaters in the period before the campaign, since he'd the strength for bone-setting and a skill with surgery my cousin lacked. I had seen the way the two of them touched hands and exchanged shy glances when they thought nobody was looking, and understood the glow that brightened Muirrin's pale features. As for Maeve, I had made that farewell in private, and the little last tale I told her was just for the two of us. The image of this child's injuries, and her courage, was lodged deep within me; now I would use it to give me strength.

Before we left I made myself go to the kitchen and seek out Dan Walker's old auntie, Janis. She sat in her chair by the hearth as always, like an ancient guardian of this domain, a kind of house-spirit watching with benign discipline over all. That was fanciful; this was no Otherworld creature, but a mortal woman of advanced years. The wrinkled skin and sunken cheeks told me that; the knobbly hand clutching a stick confirmed it. But her dark eyes were still bright and shrewd.

"Well, child. Going away, I hear? So what do I tell our lad when

he comes after you?"

"He won't," I said decisively. Perhaps great age made one bold. She certainly had a way of coming out with whatever she had to say, however unpalatable. "He knows that. He's not to come, not anymore. Anyway, he's settled in the west. I told you."

"A traveling man never settles. What do I say to him? No message? Or shall I make it up? Tell him what I see in your eyes, maybe?"

"He won't come. But if—but if he did, I would tell him . . ." The words I needed fled. The only message that was in my heart was one that was all wrong; one that could not be spoken. Darragh must not know it; he must be given no reason to come after me, not while my grandmother might work her evil magic against him. "If he did," I made myself say, "I would tell him, indeed I would command him

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to return home and never come back. I would say, he and I are no good for each other, and never will be. If he follows me it can only lead to pain and sorrow. Tell him, I will look after myself. It's better that way."

"Anything else?" Janis had pursed her wrinkled lips, and raised her black brows. Clearly she was unimpressed.

"And—and tell him," I whispered, "tell him I haven't forgotten. Tell him I'm trying to do what's right."

There was silence between us, amid the creaking turn of the spit where a whole side of mutton roasted, the clatter of dishes, the laughter and joking of warriors as they snatched a moment of warmth and company before returning to the endless drills and sorties of campaign preparation.

"It's a lonely way you've chosen," observed Janis quietly. "And you not sixteen years old; a child still. A long, lonely way."

"I'm used to that," I said fiercely. Perhaps it was the look in her eyes, perhaps it was the kindness in her voice, I cannot say. But it brought back images of time past, sharply, and if I could have wept then, I would. "I have memories," I told her. "There's always those."

"Not a lot, to build your life on," said Janis.

We rode north. From the moment we departed the keep of Sevenwaters, Johnny became one of the guard, the uniform dark hood rendering him indistinguishable from his fellows. All seemed well. My grandmother's small voice had been silent since the night I had summoned her and heard her plans for Johnny. All rode on swiftly; none showed signs of illness or pain. There was no telling when she would strike him down, though the amulet felt warm all the time now, and I took this as a sign that she watched me. Our guards maintained their silent, vigilant presence around me and my aunt Liadan as we traversed wooded slope and wide forest way, by frozen pond and icy streamlet. They led us across narrow tracks in a marshy wilderness; through high passes where great hunting birds soared overhead and the ground was iron-hard with frost. They camped with us in a place of standing stones, where we slept in the shelter of an ancient barrow marked with secret symbols. All the way they kept their masks on, except to eat. There was no knowing one from another.

"A form of protection," Liadan explained. "Necessary, in view of the markings they wear."

"If those are so dangerous, why adorn themselves thus?" I asked.

Liadan smiled. "A symbol of pride; of belonging. Our warriors consider it a great honor to be allowed the mark. Not all are accepted into this band."

"What are the—prerequisites? Noble blood? Brave deeds?"

"Each man is unique. Each brings his own qualities. If he has something to contribute, something of which we have need, he will be accepted as long as he passes the test."

"Test? What sort of test?"

"A test of skill and of loyalty. It varies. You'll find folk of many kinds at Inis Eala. Men of all sorts; all colors and creeds."

"And women?"

"Ah, yes, a few of those as well. It takes a very particular breed to live in such a place, Fainne. A special kind of strength."

"Aunt Liadan?" I said as we settled to sleep in the strange arched space of the old barrow. "This place here. Have you read the signs? The inscriptions?"

There was a pause.

"No, Fainne," she said in an odd sort of voice. "This is a language more ancient than any I have learned to decipher. I cannot read them." There was a question behind her words.

"You understand," I said, "that this is so old no living man or woman knows the tongue. But I grew up in a place of standing stones; the markers of the sun's path were the daily companions of my childhood. Some of these signs I recognize."

"I know it is a place of the Old Ones," my aunt said softly. "A place of great power and wonder." She hesitated, then went on. "They spoke to me here. The Fomhoire."

I stared at her. "You mean—you mean those creatures that seem part rock, part water, part furred or feathered thing? Those small beings that call themselves our ancestors?" Perhaps I spoke incautiously. Here in the belly of the earth, it seemed safe.

"I never saw them," Liadan said in wonder. "I heard voices, only. Deep, dark voices from earth and pool, guiding me. Somehow I never thought them small. They seemed huge, old, and immensely powerful. And they bade me follow my heart; follow my instincts. It was here in this place that. . . that decisions were made of great import, decisions that changed the path of things. Have you seen these folk, Fainne, that you speak of them thus as familiar beings?"

I nodded. "The signs tell of an ancient trust. They speak of blood and darkness. And they speak of hope. That much I understand."

My aunt stared at me in silence. Our lantern glowed softly in the darkness of this subterranean space. Farther down the huge empty chamber, some of Johnny's men had settled to sleep, and we kept our voices low. After a while Liadan said cautiously, "Do these same folk guide you, my dear? Do you believe them—benign?"

This was dangerous territory. I could not know, at any time, if my grandmother were listening or no. It seemed a safe place; but nowhere was safe while I wore the amulet, and to remove it was to summon her instantly. "They have their own theories about how things should be. But they have a habit of not explaining, of leaving me to work out what things mean. What happened with you? Did you follow their directions, or make your own choices?"

Liadan sighed. "Both, I think. It was others' orders I disobeyed. What of you, Fainne? Whose path do you follow?"

A perilous question. "A lonely one," I said. "So I've been told."

"Like Ciaran's?" she asked me softly.

"I don't wish to speak of my father." I lay down with the blanket over my face. The weight of the amulet was heavy on me; its small, malign shape seemed to burn most of the time now, as if I could not avoid my grandmother's scrutiny however well I played this new game. I wondered if she had heightened its power somehow, now that we were coming close to the end. Perhaps what I had suspected was true. Perhaps she feared me. I disregarded the burning. Pain was nothing. My father had taught me that lesson early.

I learned soon enough that Johnny was not simply a kind young man who rescued blundering insects and held the hands of sick children. It was the habit of our silent guard to ride two ahead, two behind, with several men on each flank, not always in sight of us, but close enough to be quickly by our side if need be. Liadan and I were clad in plain dark cloaks, serviceable tunics and skirts and sturdy winter boots. She rode a brown mare, I the small gray which Eamonn had lent me. Liadan had no qualms about that.