Child of the Prophecy (77 page)

might be Darragh. Generations of men had been slain for these islands; the brothers of Finbar and Conor, the brothers of their father, who, strangely, had been my own grandfather. These were my people; but so were the others, for my lineage was that of Harrow-field as well as Sevenwaters, and Harrowfield was kin to North-woods. I flew through the night, heedless of danger, and alighted on the wall of the British fortress. And there, not far away, perched a great dark bird, its eyes fixed on me, fierce and bright.

I discovered I was no longer afraid of Fiacha. Fear seemed suddenly a waste of effort. My grandmother had won; I was powerless now. Surely there was no more to do but watch, and grieve, and wonder only that the lady Oonagh had not come to gloat, now that the final victory was hers. So I sat quietly by the raven on the wall, looking down into Northwoods's encampment. I heard them talking; I saw them grieving. There were many dead, and even more wounded. And they had another problem. In this outpost, long thought safe, several men had wives and children with them, a whole small settlement. Now their leaders, gray-faced, stood around their fire debating a terrible choice. If the savages of Erin should triumph, and breach their fortress walls, what of the women? There would come a point, maybe tomorrow, when they must decide whether to put their own wives to the sword, or leave them to the mercy of the invader. Best, perhaps, to let the women go armed themselves, and trust each had the will to plunge a dagger in her own breast, or her child's, before they could fall victim to the horror of rape, or the brutality of torture and slavery. They spoke of my uncle's men as of monsters. I thought of those bright young warriors, of Johnny and his companions. I thought of kindly, capable Sean of Sevenwaters, of courteous, smiling Gull, and of the Chief, a hard man maybe, but in every choice a fair one. This was all wrong; this long feud had bred a terror based on ignorance and misunderstanding. Did not these grim-faced Britons comprehend that all Sevenwaters wanted was for the Islands to be left alone? Did none of them understand what it had been all about?

I would have flown away, thinking to find some place of shelter and keep sleepless vigil until a blood-red dawn, but Fiacha's gaze was intense. Something in his manner held me where I was, looking down on Edwin of Northwoods, and a broad-shouldered young man

who seemed to be his son, and the four or five others with them. One was a Christian priest, tonsured and robed, a cross about his neck. One was old, gray-bearded, stooped; too ancient for such a place of danger. It seemed they had made their decision. The women would remain in the tower with Brother Jerome. They would be given knives. When the time came they would make their own choice.

"Now, to what rest we can find," Edwin of Northwoods said gravely. "Tomorrow we fight on. We fight until the last man falls. I will not see my name set down as the coward who let the islands go. Pray, friends, that the Lord will be with us. Pray for a miracle."

At that moment there was a sudden flare of light at the far side of the enclosure, close by the around tower which was their last bastion of defense, and a small group of men came into view. One bore a flaming torch; two held between them a young warrior clad all in black, a man whose skin showed chalk-white in the torchlight, whose face was bruised and swollen, whose eyes glowed with defiance as they brought him forward to stand before Edwin of Northwoods. The British leader stared at the captive; stared into the fierce gray eyes, whose youthful intensity was heightened by the delicate pattern marked on the skin of brow and cheek, on the left side; the sign of the raven.

"Look what the tide washed up, my lord," someone said.

"Perhaps," Edwin said softly, "our miracle is here. With such a prisoner, who knows what bargain may be struck?" He turned to his captains. "You know who he is?"

There was a murmur of acknowledgment. They might not have seen the man before, but it seemed he was well enough known by description.

Johnny spoke. His voice was very soft; I could barely make out the words. His clothing was dripping wet, his flesh starkly pale. I wondered how long he had been in the water, before the sea cast him up into the hands of his enemies.

'They will not deal," he said. "My uncle will not compromise the mission for my life, or my safety. This is not our way."

"You think not," said Edwin quietly. "Perhaps Sean of Sevenwaters will not do so; but what about your father?"

Johnny was silent; he could not quite conceal the shock in his eyes.

"Oh, yes," said Edwin. "He fights there among the others; he

wields the sword against his own countrymen. Will he see his son perish before his eyes for the sake of a principle, do you think?"

"He will not make bargains with you; not for me, not for anyone."

Edwin folded his arms. "We'll put that to the test in due course. I think you may be surprised." He turned to the men who held Johnny. "Lock him up for the night. Set a strong guard. Give the fellow a blanket, he's wet through."

"He's hurt, my lord," said someone hesitantly. "Bleeding from a flesh wound; broken a rib or two as well. And he's half-drowned. A wonder he survived so long; cast up on the rocks, from the looks of it, and somehow crawled to safety. Found him by accident."

"Will he die before morning?"

"No, my lord."

"Very well then. As I said, give him a blanket, and lock him up. Tomorrow is a new day."

I watched them drag the captive away; and I watched as Edwin and his men departed to rest, their faces alight with a fresh hope. I looked at Fiacha, and he looked at me. Then he spread his wings and flew away from the island, swift and straight, making a path south-westward in the darkness. I had never liked his way of doing things.

I came very close to mindless panic that night. Johnny was alive; against all odds, the child of the prophecy had survived. That made my heart thump with joy; it awoke new hope in me. And with that hope came the terror. After all, it was not yet finished. I had a chance to win, to make it all right again. But before it was ended, I knew she would come, and I must face her and hope I would be strong enough. The final battle, the only one that counted, was still before me. Fiacha was gone; my Otherworld friends seemed to have deserted me. I would not seek out Finbar. I would not reveal myself to Conor, or to my uncle Sean. There would be no more victims scattered by the wayside. I would bring my grandmother's wrath down on nobody but myself. I must wait until it was light, and change my form, and hope to regain my strength again quickly. For there was no doubt in me that I would not defeat the lady Oonagh without using every scrap of craft, every morsel of will, every single element of control my father had taught me.

Fire child I might be, but my upbringing had ensured I was a creature of cliffs and rocks, of caves and secret places, and it was to such a wild corner of the land that I retreated to seek a place for changing. I had not forgotten last time, and the crippling weakness which had followed the transformation. I must be out of sight, out of the path of battle, and pray that I regained my strength before my grandmother realized the end was almost upon us, and hastened to witness her final victory. Then I would—I would—I was not sure exactly what I would do, but I knew I must do my utmost to turn the tide of things before she noticed and came rushing to force me to her will. When she came, I must stand against her and hope some aid would be forthcoming, whether from human world or Otherworld. Increasingly, as neither Fair Folk nor Fomhoire showed themselves, it seemed I might have to do this all by myself. I must trust that when the time came, my path would be clear to me. Focus. That was what my father would have said. Make your mind empty, your spirit receptive. Then you will find the answers.

There was a place on the south coast of Greater Island, not far from the British fortress, where the land rose in sheer cliffs from the sea, stark and treacherous. Earlier in the day I had seen a refuge here as I flew overhead. A little way down from the top, just for a short length of the cliff, there was a narrow ledge, and this held indented hollows like shallow caves, where clinging creepers softened the rock walls and the pebbly ground allowed a space just wide enough for a man or woman to sit in relative safety, looking out over the wide expanse of water below and beyond. There were few places of concealment on this featureless island, but this was one, and I chose it as my place of transformation because of that. Here I could wait out the time of weakness if I must; here I could make some decision about what to do, and when, and how. One thing was certain: nobody must see me in my true form until the moment when I stepped forth and played my part in the end of things. Act too early, and all that would happen was my uncle Sean sending me back to the boats with orders to keep out of harm's way. Once I was a girl again I could not move about freely. There was indeed but a single chance to make things right.

It all hinged on Johnny. He was a captive; he was crucial to the outcome. Northwoods would use him to try for a bargain, and probably as soon as possible, before more men were lost. Soon after dawn, I thought. What would the deal be? Johnny's life in return for an Irish retreat? If that were so, my uncle's forces had quite a dilemma before them. They knew they could not win the battle without the child of the prophecy. To sacrifice him was to admit defeat, and fight on with only death ahead. The prophecy was quite clear about it. But I did not think they would be prepared to give up the struggle in order to save him. As Johnny had said, that was not their way. I had seen the light in their eyes as they charged into battle; the look on their grim faces as they followed the banner of Sevenwaters into the fray, screaming their leader's name. Somehow, retreat did not seem an option.

I must act early, then, before my grandmother saw, and knew, how easy it might be for her to win. The child of the prophecy was a prisoner; how simple for me to end his life and their hopes in one swift, spectacular act of magic. How simple to take the easier way, and let Northwoods do the job for me. For she had been quite right; all centered on Johnny. I had better work the charm now, in the dark, here in this small depression in the rocks with the sea frothing in and out far below. I had better move in closer to the cliff face, just in case. There would be time, surely; time to recover myself and make my way out to the center of things by dawn. I moved cautiously along the narrow ledge on my little bird-feet, seeking the place where the crevices were deepest and afforded best shelter. I took one step, two steps, and a hand came out of the darkness to close around me. My heart hammered with fright, and I let out a strangled chirrup.

"Ah, now, no need for that." The voice was soft; this was the tone that had so often soothed frightened creatures. "Hush, now. See, I'll let you go, if that's what you want. I didn't mean to scare you. Found the same hiding place, didn't we? Fine spot this, good for time on your own, or with a friend. Quite like Kerry, with the sea and the sky, this is." Darragh withdrew his hand slowly and settled back, cross-legged on the rock shelf. It was not so surprising, perhaps, that each of us had sought out this corner of the land which was so vivid a reminder of the carefree summers we had spent as children. In just such a refuge we had once whispered our deepest secrets.

I knew I should go and seek some other place for my purpose. The last thing I wanted was for the lady Oonagh's attention to be drawn to Darragh. Why else had I tried so hard to send him away, time after

time? But I could not make myself move. Here in the dark, perched high up above the treacherous sea, with him by me, at last I felt safe.

"Curly?" Darragh said quietly. I could not answer, but I settled on the rocks near where he sat. "I want to tell you something," he went on, and I could see, in the darkness, that he was twisting his hands together, and frowning. "I saw some terrible things out there. I suppose you saw them too. Things I couldn't have imagined in my worst nightmare. And I did some things I'm not proud of. Proved I could be a fighter maybe; but it doesn't feel right to shed a fellow's blood, just because he's a different kind." He looked down at his hands. "I always thought we'd go home, you know, go back to Kerry, when this was all over. I thought I just had to wait, and stay by you, and hold on. But—but this is different, it's not what I expected at all. In the morning there'll be more killing, and I'll go out and join in because that's what I'm here for. And I have a feeling that this time there might be no tomorrow, Curly. I don't like to ask you this, but I'm going to ask it anyway, because it seems to me there's nothing more to lose. If I have to die, if that's the way of it, I'd—I'd dearly love to see you one last time. I mean, see you as yourself, as a girl. Say goodbye properly. There's things I'd like to tell you; things I can only say if—but I shouldn't ask. It wouldn't be safe for you, I can see that. I don't want you risking yourself."

This had always been my weakness, and my folly. I had tried to fight it, but now I could no more resist the gentle, hesitant coaxing of his voice than could the wild white pony he had brought down from the hills. There was a longing in me to feel his touch, to comfort him with mine, to be by him once more in silent companionship, as so many years ago. I ruffled my feathers, and in my mind I spoke the charm of transformation, and changed.