Child of the Prophecy (68 page)

"Part of me is beset by fears, Fainne. I fear the howl of wild beasts; I fear the ice on the lake; I fear human touch. Your hand, in the darkness, would have been quite enough. But your face . . ."

"My face? Am I so monstrous?"

"I looked into your eyes and saw the eyes of the sorceress," he said in a shadow of a voice. "Without any need for light, I saw them right before me. That brought back a moment of terror which has never really left me; the moment of irrevocable change. The loss of human consciousness; the theft of young lives, and the destruction of my sister's innocence."

"I—I'm sorry," I said inadequately. "Maybe I do look like her. I'm sorry I frightened you. But—"

"I have learned to look deeper. Liadan was right to be wary of you. You have the power to make us or break us, I think; and it will not be until the last that you will choose which way to go."

His words shocked me, and I spoke without caution. "I have chosen. I will be strong enough. I must be. Anyway, you can hardly pass judgment on me. Your life seems that of a creature that hides itself away; wise, maybe, but a sad end for a youth who once burned bright with the will to make the world better. What became of that fire, that you lock it away here beneath the earth?"

I had startled him, no doubt of that. Probably nobody had ever spoken to him thus before. Indeed, I regretted it instantly. He had been kind to me.

408

Finbar pushed back the worn cloak to show the swath of white at his side. He looked down at the wing as if it were both a burden and in some way a familiar friend.

"I cannot go forth into the world of men," he said quietly. "Such a deformity brings not just unwelcome attention, but ridicule and scorn; a place, maybe, on the sidelines of a fair somewhere, for folk to gawk at me and let their children hurl soft fruit. I would be a millstone around my family's neck; no more than an embarrassment. Here, I can share what things I know, and I am out of folk's way. It's better thus."

"Nonsense!" I told him sharply. "What you call a deformity is a mark of honor. It is a sign of your strength and endurance, and singles you out for a great purpose. If you let that boy's dreams die, if you forget what you once were, then my grandmother has indeed triumphed over her old enemy. Here, you hide from life. And yet you bid me go forth and make the vision. What about your vision? We are family. Surely we all have a part in this."

There was a long silence. Finbar looked at me, and I observed how thin he was, wraith-like, the bones of his face jutting under the white skin. His strange, pale eyes were ringed with shadows, and his dark hair was matted and tangled, as if he had never thought to care for it.

"I'm an old man," he said eventually.

"In years, maybe. You don't seem so. Indeed, you look no older than my uncle Sean. You think to dwindle and die here in your prime. A terrible waste."

He did not answer me. No doubt I had offended him. My words had been scant recompense for his patience and understanding. I was framing an apology when a familiar voice was heard calling outside.

"Fainne! Fainne, where are you?"

I scowled. "What did they have to send him for?" I snapped. I had been so careful to avoid him, so careful, and now I would have to walk all the way back with him. "I could have gone on my own," I grumbled.

"Come," said Finbar quietly. "I'll take you back to the entry. Who is he?"

"A friend," I sniffed as I followed him out along the shadowy tunnel, barely lit by the faint creeping light of the dawn. "He followed me to Inis Eala, and now he won't go back. And he must go back; you know why."

Finbar made no comment, but after a while he said, "I expect he's here for a purpose. In any event, it may already be too late."

"Too late?"

'Too late to send him back."

We emerged from the tunnel's entry to a pale, clear morning. Long ragged strips of rose-tinged cloud spread across the sky, and the birds had woken and chorused energetically to the new day. And there was Darragh waiting for me, clad in serviceable gray of the very plain kind favored by Johnny's men. At least, I thought grimly, he does not bear the mark on his face. His honest eyes, his sweet smile, those are still his own.

"Fainne! You're safe, then." The relief in his tone was undisguised.

"Of course I'm safe. There was no need at all for you to come here."

"Thank you for coming, young man." Finbar spoke a little awkwardly, as if unused to strangers. "I am Liadan's uncle, and I can assure you your friend has been in good keeping. Now best go home, the two of you, and tell the little lad I'm thinking of him, and that I expect a visit as soon as he's better."

Then Darragh stepped forward and put out a hand in greeting, and Finbar, clearly startled, took it in his own.

"Thank you, my lord," said Darragh, smiling. He never once looked at the swan's wing; it was as if it were no different from any other part of a man's body. "Thank you for keeping her safe. She never did learn how to look after herself properly."

There was the tiniest hint of a smile on Finbar's austere features. "You intend to do it for her, I see," he observed dryly.

Darragh withdrew his hand. "It seems ridiculous, maybe, for a traveling man to mix with warriors, and lords, and seers. But I do what I must do. If the road brings me here, then this is where I must be."

Finbar nodded. He was not smiling now. "As long as you understand your own choice. A path of great difficulty; of strange perils and few rewards."

"That's not going to stop me," said Darragh.

Finbar turned to me. "Farewell now, Fainne."

"Farewell and—thank you."

"Perhaps I should thank you. A clarion call. That was not at all expected." With that, Finbar stepped back down the tunnel and was lost from sight.

"Best be going," said Darragh, suddenly restless. "Got your cloak? It's cold on the track, in the wind."

"Stop fussing, will you?" I said, as the calm and certainty of the lore began to fade from me, and the familiar fears and misgivings came crowding back. A long walk, out in the open, and still I wore the amulet. My fingers moved to check it; it seemed no warmer. Still, we must go as quickly as we could.

"I'll race you as far as those bushes," said Darragh unexpectedly. "Good way to get warm. Ready? One, two, three, go!"

Old habits die hard. I ran, limping, on the narrow stony track, knowing I could never outpace him. I pushed myself as hard as I could, not easy after a night of no sleep. And I hadn't had breakfast. His soft footsteps could be heard right behind me.

We reached the rocks together; together our fingers stretched out to touch the surface. Thus had all our childhood contests ended. I was quite out of breath; he, completely unaffected. He waited while I recovered myself. The wind whipped his dark hair back from his face; the gold light of early morning spread a glowing warmth over the smooth skin of his cheek and brow.

"I was worried," he said. "You ran away."

"What was I supposed to do? Stay there while they accused me of something I didn't do? They said I hurt Coll. It wasn't true. And now the Chief's sending me away."

"Got your breath back? Good. We'd best walk on."

"Darragh?" I whispered.

"What?"

"Coll. Is he-?"

His expression was grave. 'They weren't saying much. He still lives, I know that. We'll find out more when we get back."

I was silent, my thoughts full of shadows.

"I told them," Darragh said. "I told them you didn't do it."

"You what?"

"They were concerned when you ran away. Johnny came to ask

me where you might have gone. I wanted an explanation; he gave one. Then I went to see the Chief and your auntie, and I told them you'd never do such a thing."

I risked a sideways glance at him. "Why would you say that? You know better than anyone what I'm capable of. You're the only one I've ever told. Folk have died. Why would you stand up for me? You couldn't know."

"I did know," said Darragh very quietly, giving me his hand to help me over a low rock wall. "You didn't do it, did you?"

"Of course not!"

"Well, then."

"Anyway, why tell them so, even if it is true? Isn't that what you want, to get me sent back home?"

There was a little silence.

"Stop it, Curly," he said unevenly. "Stop fighting me. Maybe you think it doesn't hurt, but it does, and I don't think I can bear it much longer. I know you don't want me here. I know you're angry with me for coming. But we're still friends, aren't we? You shouldn't need to ask me these things. No matter what I want, I'm not going to stand by and let folk punish you for something you had no part of. Anyone can see you're fond of the young boy. I just told the truth, that's all, and I'm not sorry for that. It's best to tell the truth, even if it means you don't get what you want."

I said nothing. His goodness put me to shame. We walked on up the small hills, and down into the little gullies, and past sheep grazing on the scant tufts of foliage and goats making their way along precipitous tracks high above the sea. It was important to hurry, yet in a way I wanted to go slowly, for memories stirred in me, long-ago memories of times in Kerry when the world was a simpler place, and two friends could spend all day out-of-doors together with never a fear or an awkwardness between them. The first buildings of the settlement came in sight in the distance. We had been silent a long while. Now, both of us slowed our pace.

"Fainne?" Darragh sounded very serious.

"What?"

"You know I have to go away soon. That's what I'm supposed to be here for, after all. A warrior. There's a mission, and a battle. I want

you to give me your word you'll take care while I'm gone. Look after yourself, and think before you do things, and—and be safe. I want you to wait here on the island for me."

I stared at him, not understanding at all. "Wait for you? I don't think I can promise any such thing. Wait for what?"

His cheeks turned red. "I was hoping that—that when it's over, the battle and all, you might let me take you home. Back to Kerry. I'd like that. See you safe with your father again. I know I can't have everything I want; that's what he said, isn't it, the seer? But I'd dearly love to know you were away from harm, and back where you belong. Would you go with me, after the summer?"

He had offered once before, and I had said no, and thought my heart would break with the longing to be home again. Now I felt only a cold, hopeless finality.

"I can't promise. I don't know what is to happen; but I don't think I will ever return to the cove, Darragh. You made a mistake in coming here. You'll be disappointed, I think."

"Ah, no. I'm here, and you're here. Better than nothing, that is. And you're speaking to me today. That's an improvement. If I work hard enough at it, maybe by Lugnasad I might get a smile. That'd be a fine thing."

"I—I'm sorry. There hasn't been much to smile about."

"There's always something to smile about, Curly. Silly things; good things. The sound of a whistle in the evening; the candlelight on a girl's hair. A joke between friends. You've just forgotten, that's all. Ah now, what's the matter? I've upset you. I never meant to do that."

Stupid, how his words seemed to get into some little part of me that nothing else could touch, and stir feelings I wanted left alone, so I could just get on with what had to be done. The pain was so bad I had to put my hands over my face, for fear I might actually shed tears. They were there, not far from the surface. But a sorcerer's daughter does not weep.

"What is it, Curly? What's wrong?" Gently, his thin fingers came around my hands and lifted them away. "Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what it is."

"I—I can't," I muttered, unable to avoid looking into his eyes,

which were full of concern and something else I did not want to interpret. "I can't tell you."

"Yes, you can. Now come on. We're friends, aren't we?" One hand came up to brush the hair back from my temple, and stayed there, stroking softly.