Child of the Prophecy (65 page)

"That the two of you leave here together and travel quietly back to Kerry. You will preserve him that way; and he will have what he came for. You will both be well gone before this campaign commences. Safe."

"Safe?" I echoed with some bitterness. She was watching me closely, green eyes very intent. I hoped she was not reading what was in my mind. "That would not be safe at all, Aunt. It won't do. I must be here; I cannot return to Kerry. But Darragh must go. He does not belong at Inis Eala. He was never meant to be part of this. He just-he just put himself in it, uninvited. That's what he does."

"It seemed a sensible suggestion to me," she said mildly. "Darragh argued his case well. He loves you, Fainne. Can you not see that?"

"It's not love," I snapped. "It's just—it's just stubbornness. The boy doesn't trust me to look after myself. He doesn't understand what's good for him and what's not. He never has."

"And what about you?" Liadan asked. Her hands had ceased their work and now rested on the table before her. "Is it love that makes you so eager to see him gone, when he has risked his very life to be by your side?"

"Our kind do not feel love," I muttered, knowing as I said it that this was a lie. "It makes life too complicated. It—it stops you from doing what must be done. Like my father. Love ruined his life."

"He has a daughter," she said softly. "I imagine he feels great pride in you, my dear. You are clever, accomplished and—subtle, like him. And you're as bonny as Niamh was, in your own way. And as headstrong. Ask Ciaran if he regrets that he ever met my sister, before you dismiss love so lightly. Set it aside, and you will not live a life, but only the shadow of a life."

"Anyway," I said, not wishing to take this any further, "Johnny won't let Darragh go. He says he needs him."

Liadan sighed. "If you were prepared to go as well, I would speak to Johnny."

I shook my head. "I must stay here. I can't go home."

"Yes," she said wearily, and sat down on the bench. "I suppose I knew that; still, I wished to try. Darragh's a good lad, Fainne. He does not deserve this."

"It's his own fault," I said in a whisper.

She nodded. "Perhaps you are right. These men, they have a habit of putting themselves into the tale, where they've no right to be, and making themselves a part of it. It is pointless, maybe, for me to try to change the course of things, but I have never been able to—just to sit back and let it unfold, as my uncle Conor usually advises. It seems to

me one must seize hold, and move ahead, and make the tale bright and true, if one can. Darragh does so; he has great strength of will."

"He has no understanding of this," I said flatly.

"And you do?" Her voice was very quiet. It sounded almost as if she were sorry for me.

"At least," I whispered, "at least I know what must be done."

"And you will be there at the end," Liadan said in a tone that frightened me; a tone that spoke some sort of incontrovertible truth. "How, I cannot imagine, but Johnny will be there, and you will be there. I've seen it."

I turned cold all over. "What did you see? What of Darragh?"

"I do not tell of these things. It is too easy to misunderstand."

"Can't you tell me anything? Anything at all?"

"My son faced death. You wept. You wept as one weeps who has cast away her only treasure. Never have I seen such grief."

I swallowed. "I've seen that part too. If it's to come, it will come, I suppose."

Liadan nodded. "You should ask Coll to take you down to the north point some time," she said in quite a different tone. Our conversation was over, and I had lost my last chance to send Darragh away safe. "The season's turning; there will be clear days. You need time away from your tasks, fresh air and exercise. It'll do you good." She sounded quite ordinary, like someone's mother. Somewhere beneath the jumble of fears that crowded my mind, I thought that it might be quite good to have a mother who fussed about whether you were getting fresh air and exercise. Perhaps, if my mother had not died, she would have been Like that. Perhaps, if the Chief was right, she had never meant to leave us; maybe she had loved us and had hopes of a future. One day, if I were granted time, I would find out the truth about her death. I owed that to her. Meanwhile I would remember her, and I would remember Liadan's words. I imagine he feels great pride in you, my dear. I would keep these things in my heart, and I would make the tale as bright and true as I could; and never mind the tears. There was simply nothing else to be done.

Chapter Thirteen

Over and over they practiced the thing with the boat in the cur-rent and the swimmers. And now Darragh was among them

as they slipped over the side of the curragh and into the freezing grip of the tide. They did it by day. They did it by night, with lanterns on the prow. They took to doing it with the masks over their faces, and dark clothing close-fitting from neck to wrist to ankle, so that they did indeed resemble creatures of the ocean, some strange children of Manannan himself. They did it by moonlight and left the lanterns behind; I heard them as they came up the steps from the cove afterward, laughing. It seemed to me they were quite fearless, a band of comrades bound together by their unshakable belief in themselves and in each other. It worried me that Darragh had so soon become one of them. And it was not only my fear for his safety that gave me sleepless nights. It was something I was ashamed to admit even to myself. He was mine, and I did not want to share him. I did not want him to change, and become hard-jawed and ruthless like the rest of these warriors. Sometimes, it had only been the little image of Darragh, riding quietly along some sunlit pathway between rowans on his lovely white pony, and smiling his crooked smile, that had kept me going at all. Once that was gone, what had I left?

Then Coll fell sick. One day he had a slight headache, nothing much, just enough to make him grumble a little more than usual over his work. The next day he had a fever and could not get out of his bed. I did not go to see him. I stayed at my table, busy with quill and

ink, recording the medicinal uses of a herb named scrophularia, commonly known as figwort. I spoke to nobody.

Liadan was not present at supper, and neither was Gull. The Chief was very quiet, but that was nothing unusual. Johnny wasn't saying much either, and I thought he was watching me.

"Boy's been taken real bad," Biddy muttered to me. "Hot as a blacksmith's fire, and babbling nonsense."

I retired early to my sleeping hut, thinking, But for me this child would be well. This is my fault. How could I forget? How could I let myself make another friend? How could I be foolish enough to believe Grandmother would let me be, even for a moment? I had only just lit the lamp when they sent for me. In the infirmary they were waiting, Liadan sitting by her son's bedside as he lay sweating and mumbling and turning his small head restlessly from side to side, and both the Chief and Johnny standing grim-faced and silent behind her.

I am & sorcerer's daughter, I reminded myself as I stepped forward to face them. It didn't seem to help much.

"I'm sorry Coll is sick," I said as calmly as I could. "I hope it is only a spring chill, and that he'll be better soon." I clasped my hands behind my back to keep them still.

"Sit down, Fainne." Liadan's voice had lost the warmth of our last encounter. When I had seated myself on the other side of the boy's bed as indicated, I saw that her eyes were red and swollen, and her mouth tight. The Chief's expression was alarmingly fierce, Johnny's cautious, as if he were weighing a dilemma.

"I suppose you know why we have called you here," said Liadan as she wrung out a small cloth and used it to sponge Coil's burning brow.

"Perhaps you had best tell me." I managed to keep my voice under control, despite my thumping heart.

It was the Chief who spoke then, in a very soft voice, a voice designed to put fear into men. "My wife tells me such a fever, burning so hot in so short a time, is unlikely to have come about without some—intervention." There was a question in his tone, but I did not reply. "If my son dies, those responsible will not escape punishment."

"Coll was well yesterday," Liadan said, and now her voice shook. "He was running around and getting in everyone's way and he was quite well. There is no reason for him to be stricken thus. This fever does not respond as it should to the herbal drafts; he burns as if gripped in a fire-dragon's jaws. If this does not break soon, I do not know if he can withstand it. Fainne, have you done this?"

I flinched. Although I had been expecting blame, I had not thought she would confront me so directly.

"No, Aunt Liadan." Was it my imagination, or did my voice sound less than certain? Indeed, I had not done it; I had laid no spell on the child, nor would I ever have considered such a thing, even if Grandmother had bid me; even if she had threatened direst punishment. Coll was only little. I would never have hurt Coll. But I was guilty all the same. If not for me, my grandmother would never have noticed the lad. She would never have taken it into her head to hurt him. This was as much my doing as if I had indeed used the craft.

"I have not used any magic since I came to Inis Eala," I said as steadily as I could. "It's the truth. I would not hurt Coll. He's my friend."

"Wouldn't that be a greater test of will?" asked Johnny carefully. "A demonstration of strength? To hurt a friend, rather than a foe?"

I stared at him. "There's nothing wrong with my will," I whispered, shocked that he came so close to the truth. "I've no need to demonstrate it by hurting children." And then I felt a cold horror come over me, because of course there was Maeve, and the fire. Hurting children was something a sorceress could do with no hesitation at all; and I was a sorceress. I put my head in my hands, so they could not see my face.

"Look at us, Fainne."

The Chief must be obeyed. I looked up. It was like facing a brithem who has already decided you are guilty, without hearing the evidence. And it hurt. I did not want to be judged thus by these good people; my own people.

"I did not do this," I said in a small voice, rising to my feet. "That is the truth. Maybe—maybe it is just a spring fever. Maybe Coll will be better soon. I would help nurse him, if you wish. I would—"

"I don't want you anywhere near my son." Liadan's voice was harsh with feeling. "I saw what happened at Sevenwaters; I did not want to believe you responsible, but I know you can make fire when you choose. I know Ciaran allowed his mother to—to influence you. No wonder Eamonn was unformed clay in your hands. No wonder

your young man is so desperate to get you away. He recognizes the evil that you can do."

Her words turned me cold with anguish. Not so long ago, I had heard her speak with affection, as a mother would. So soon, my grandmother had turned that to bitter enmity.

"I didn't do it," I said again, feeling my head swim and my eyes tingle with tears that could not be shed. "That's the truth! I swear it!"

"You'd best go to your quarters, until we see what's to be done." The Chief spoke calmly, but I had seen the look in his eyes as he glanced at his small son. "Perhaps, after all, we must allow Darragh to take you home. You cannot remain among us, after this."

"But you've no proof! It's not fair! You can't send me away, you can't! Johnny? Surely you don't believe I would do such a thing?"

Johnny looked at me with a strange little smile, but he said nothing at all. The goddess aid me, it was all collapsing around me, every bit of it. A total failure; could my grandmother's wrath be far behind? "Oh, please," I breathed. "Oh, please. I swear I had no part in this. I didn't do it this time."

There was a moment of terrible silence. Then Liadan said, "What do you mean, this time?"

I made some sort of sound, halfway between a sob and a scream, and then I was bolting for the doorway, and I was out in the night, in the dark, and I was running, running as fast as my limping foot would carry me, away from the feverish child and the judging eyes of my family, away from the settlement of good folk with one bright purpose and one straight path before them, away from my friend who was caught up in something he could never be part of, away across the sheep fields and over the wall and beyond. I ran until my head throbbed and my heart pounded and my breath came in great agonizing gasps. The moon lit my path; my boots crunched on small stones and slid on great, wet rocks and sank in patches of soft sand. I ran up little hills and crashed down small valleys, I blundered into bushes and came mind-numbingly close to launching myself off a cliff into white water far below. An accident; still, as I teetered there I thought that would be one way out. But I fought for my balance and regained it. That was a weakling's solution, and, frightened and hurt and confused as I was, I would not take it. There was one good thing