Child of the Prophecy (70 page)

forty was too old to get up to such nonsense, and didn't deserve a good woman keeping his bed warm for his return.

Still, this time was something more. Never before, since they had come to the island and built their school and their community, had so many gone forth together on such a mission. Their job now was teaching the arts of war, not making war themselves. The word was, the Chief hadn't wanted them to take part in this undertaking. He was a landowner now, with responsibilities of a different kind, and settled at Harrowfield. He maintained his interest in Inis Eala because he couldn't help himself; it was in his blood. Still, he had wished to stay outside this particular venture. But Sean of Sevenwaters was family, and they owed him something. It had been Sean who had helped them get established; who had put the word about that if you wanted your men well trained, Inis Eala was the place to go. And Sean was Liadan's brother. Besides, there was Johnny, who was the heir to Sevenwaters. There was no denying a prophecy. So they went, all of them save the very old and the very young, and those whose trade meant they did not bear arms. All of the fine young men who had guarded us so silently and cleverly; all the strange and skillful band with their odd names and motley garb. Even young Cormack was going; he was indeed a warrior.

There was a feast, with the mutton, and chickens stuffed with garlic, and a pudding with spices and fruit in it. There was ale, but not in abundance; clear heads were required for a dawn departure. Afterward there was music. Sam and Clem played their hearts out; the woman with the harp excelled herself, first with jig and reel, and then a slow air floating from the strings as sweetly as a faery tune. When she finished that, someone called for dancing and the band struck up again.

Tonight, touching seemed to be allowed, and glances, and whispered words. Their men being fully occupied with whistle and bodhran, Brenna and Annie danced together, giggling. The young men were on their feet, and in a flash there was scarcely a woman in the hall who was not out there on the floor twirling and clapping her hands to the sound of an energetic tune and a thundering beat. Nor was the activity confined to the youthful. Big Biddy danced with tall, lanky Spider; the girl who reared chickens circled with the ferocious, battle-scarred Snake, resplendent in his tunic of serpent-skin. Gull took Liadan out on the floor, the two of them laughing like old

friends. The Chief did not dance. He sat very still, his gray eyes never once leaving his wife's slender, plainly dressed figure as she passed under Gull's arm, or circled gracefully around him, or wove a pattern with him between the rows of dancers. I understood the Chief's look, intense, hungry. He was storing up memories, to last until he might return and take her in his arms once more.

Johnny came over, grinning, and asked me to dance, and I said no, politely. Then Gareth tried, falling over his words and blushing, and I said I was too tired. Corentin looked at me, his dark brows crooked in a frown, and he looked at Darragh, but he did not come over. Darragh was not dancing. He sat near me, but not too near, and I could see from the way his foot tapped and his fingers snapped that he was itching to be part of it. He'd music in every part of him, that boy. But he didn't get up, and nor did I. The reel finished and Liadan came back, flushed and smiling, to sit by the Chief again. They did not look in each other's eyes; simply, his hand came out to clasp hers as she sat down by his side, and their fingers twined tight together. Tonight they were less careful of what folk might see, for time was very short.

"Play another!" demanded tow-haired Godric, who had claimed Brenna as his partner. This showed some courage, as her beloved Sam would be watching every move as his blacksmith's arm drew a throbbing pulse from the bodhran. But the harper was weary, and wanted a rest and some ale, and Clem said it was time he had a dance with Annie.

"Hey, Darragh!" called Godric, not to be thwarted. "Didn't you say you could play the small-pipes? How about a tune, then!"

Darragh gave a slow smile. "Packed away, they are," he said.

"Well, go on then, fetch them! Nothing like the pipes for a bit of a dance."

That was true enough. I could see from the looks on their faces that they half-expected rough, untutored playing, the fumblings of a lad who has picked up his skills in dribs and drabs, by copying something heard on occasion, or by guesswork maybe. I could have told them different, but there was no need. Soon enough Darragh had the bag inflated and tucked neat under his arm, and his long, thin fingers began to fly over the holes in the chanter, and a stream of melody poured forth into the air, hushing every voice in the long hall. All

stood still and quiet, until Sam took up the beat for the jig, and the older folk started to clap in time, and the dancing began again.

Storing up memories. The Chief wasn't the only one who could do that. He'd need his until the end of the campaign. I thought mine would have to be forever. But I didn't need to look at Darragh to see what I knew I could not have. I could shut my eyes, and let the sound of the pipes make the image for me: the dark-haired lad on the lovely white pony, and above them the pale, wide sky of Kerry, and the soft air, and the sound of the sea.

"All right, lass?"

I blinked, and looked up. Biddy stood by me, panting from her exertions, her broad, sweet face flushed, wisps of fair hair giving her a shining halo.

"You're looking pale as milk; not coming down with the fever, I hope."

"I'm fine." At least, I was until Darragh brought the frenetic jig to a close and, with a sidelong glance in my direction, began a slow lament. The dancing ceased; the laughter and talk died down. Folk stood hand in hand, or sat quiet, and their eyes softened, and here or there a tear fell as the melody soared and dipped as gracefully as a swallow, the intricate pattern of decorations clothing it in a fine filigree of light and shade. A good tune, like a good tale, speaks to every listener at once, and to no two does it tell the same story. It brings forth what is deep inside the spirit; it awakens what we scarcely know was there, so buried it was by the clutter of our daily living, our cloaks of self-protection. Darragh played from the heart, as always, and in the end I found I simply could not bear it. Any more and I would weep, or scream, or tear off the amulet and shout that I couldn't do it, and nobody was going to make me. But I had been well trained. I got quietly to my feet and went outside, not far. I sat on the wall by the kitchen garden, under the pale moon. Inside the lament rang on; a song of love and loss; a song of farewell. It spoke of what might have been. I clenched my teeth, and wrapped my arms around myself, and reminded myself that I was a sorcerer's daughter, and had a job to do. I must forget that I was a woman, and Darragh was a man, and remember that tomorrow I must be a creature of the air, flying high above treacherous seas. I must remember my grandmother and the evil she had wrought: a family near-destroyed, a household shattered. Finbar, a fine young man turned into some walking wraith. The death of my mother's hopes, my father's dreams; all had begun "with her. I must remember what she had made me do, and what she would have me become. If that did not give me the strength I needed, then we were indeed lost.

The music ceased. The lights were dimmed; folk streamed out of the long house and away to their beds. I would wait, I thought, until Brenna and the others were abed, and then slip in quietly. I had no wish for talk. I needed to be strong tonight, full of hope and confidence. Instead, I felt alone and helpless and afraid. How could I transform if I had no faith in myself? Now that the music was over, I must breathe deep as Father had taught me: in slowly, fully, from the belly; out in three stages, like the cascades of a great waterfall. And again. Control was everything. Without control I was at the mercy of feelings, and feelings were nothing but a hindrance.

"Fainne?"

I jumped. He was right in front of me, and I had neither heard nor seen him.

"There's no need to creep up on me like that! Anyway, you shouldn't be here alone with me, not at night. It's against the rules."

"What rules?" said Darragh, hoisting himself up on the wall beside me. "Now, we'd best have a talk. No time in the morning. Upset you, haven't I?"

"Of course not."

"You went out. I thought you liked to hear me play."

"It made me sad. Darragh, you must go, or I must. There are still lights on, and folk abroad. Someone might see us."

"Just two friends having a bit of a chat, that's all. Where's the harm in that?"

"You know that's not all. Now go away, please. Don't make this any harder than it is already." My voice shook. It was taking all my strength to sit still and not look at him. Darragh said nothing for a while. Then he slid down from the wall and turned to face me where I sat, his eyes on a level with mine, so I could not avoid them.

"What do you mean, that's not all?" His voice was very soft in the darkness. Behind him, through the half-open door, I could see the

glow of lamp light, and hear the voices of Biddy and Gull as they moved about tidying up.

"Nothing. Forget I said it. Please."

"What did you mean, Curly?" He put out one long hand and curved it around my cheek, and the look in his eyes made me feel very odd indeed. It made me want to do things I knew I must not do.

"I can't tell you." I looked at him, and kept my hands quite still in my lap, and made my breathing into a pattern: in, two, three; out, two, three. Control. I managed not to reach up and touch. I managed not to put my arms around his neck, and lay my cheek against his, and give in to the great wave of warm longing that flooded through me. It was cruel. In an instant, I could have achieved what I had wanted so much. I could have smiled as I had smiled at Eamonn, and bid him shut his eyes, and kissed him in the way Grandmother had taught me, a way that made a man burn for a woman, so that he would do anything to have her. I could have made a little noise, and brought Gull or Biddy out to catch us. Then they would have sent Darragh away, and I would have saved his life. But I could not do it; not even for that. This was my friend. He was the only person in the world I could trust, besides my father. I could not bring myself to cheapen what was between us. And yet, what I longed for then, with every single part of me, was to hold him close and to bid him goodbye as a girl farewells her sweetheart, with tender words and the warmth of her body. I kept very still. I said nothing. But I could not school my eyes.

"Curly?" said Darragh very carefully, as if he had just seen something he could not quite believe.

Touch me again, something inside me said, despite all my efforts at control. Put your arms around me and hold me close. Just once. Just this once.

But Darragh turned his back, and shoved his hands under his arms, and his voice, when it came, shook with some sort of feeling I had no hope of understanding.

"You'd best go," he said. "Go on, Fainne. It's late. Best leave now."

I slid down off the wall, suddenly cold. What had I done wrong? He seemed angry; yet I had thought. . .

"Go on, Fainne." Still he had his back to me, his arms tightly folded, as if the very thought of looking, or touching, was suddenly repugnant to him. I could not believe how much it hurt; it was as if the last, sweet remnant of my childhood were turned suddenly to ashes. I reached out my hand, and for just an instant it rested against his sleeve.

"Best not," he said in a choked sort of voice, and edged away like a nervous horse.

"Good night then." I forced the words out, fought to recover my breathing. I must be strong for the morning, strong for the journey. I could not afford this. It was wrenching me in pieces.

"Farewell, Curly. Keep out of trouble, now, until I come back for you." Still he would not face me. But his voice was the same as I remembered it from long ago, strong and true. I fled, before I said something I would regret forever. I ran through the long house, where Gull and Biddy now sat before the embers of the fire, talking softly together. All must make a farewell, but I thought none was more terrible, or more final, than my own. I reached my little sleeping hut and went in quietly, and I lay down on my pallet open-eyed. Two of the girls were gently snoring already. Brenna's voice came in a whisper.

"Are you all right, Fainne?"

"Mm," I said, and pulled the blanket up over my face. I was not all right, and it seemed as if I never would be. I had got so many things wrong. I had hurt so many good folk on the way, just as the owl-creature had said. It seems to us you don't give a toss what casualties you leave behind. But I did care, that was the problem. That was what held me back. Feelings. Friendship. Loyalty. Love. So much easier for a sorceress to be like my grandmother and not give a fig for what was lost on the way. All that matters is power, she would say. I could almost hear her saying it now, deep inside me: a small, dark voice long silent, and now awake once more. As long as you understand that, Fainne. I fell asleep with my jaw clenched tight and my eyes screwed shut, and my body curled into a little ball under the blankets. I dreamed of fire.