Child of the Prophecy (8 page)

Autumn advanced into winter, and the lessons went on at a relentless pace.

"Very well, Fainne," Grandmother said one day, quite abruptly, as we sat in the workroom resting. All afternoon she had made me turn a spider into other forms: a jewel-bright lizard; a tiny bird with fluttering wings that blundered, confused, into the stone walls; a mouse that came close to making its escape through a crack until I clicked my fingers to change it into a very small fire-dragon, which puffed out a very small cloud of vapor, flapping its leathery wings in miniature defiance. I was exhausted, as limp in my chair as the spider which now hung, still as if dead, in its web high above me. "Time for a history lesson. Listen well, and don't interrupt if there's no need of it."

"Yes, Grandmother." Obedience was the easiest course to take with her. She was ingenious in her methods of punishment, and she disliked to be challenged. I far preferred Father's methods of teaching which, though strict, were not unkind.

"Answer my questions. Who were the first folk in the land of Erin?"

"The Old Ones." This type of inquisition was easy. Father had imparted the lore over long years, and he and I were fluent in question and answer. "The Fomhoire. People of the deep ocean, the wells and the lake beds. Folk of the sea and of the dark recesses of the earth."

Grandmother gave a peremptory nod. "And who came after?"

"The Fir Bolg. The bag men."

"And after them?"

"Then came the Tuatha De Danann, out of the west, who in time sent the others into exile and spread themselves all across the land of Erin. Long years they ruled, until the coming of the sons of Mil."

"Very well. But what do you know of the origins of our own kind?" Her eyes were sharp.

"Our kind are not in the lore. I know that we are different. We are cursed, and so we are ever outside. We are not of the Tuatha De. Neither are we mortal men and women. We are neither one thing nor the other."

"That much you've got right. We're outside because we were put there. One of us transgressed, long ago, and they never let us forget it. Know that story, do you?"

I shook my head.

"We're their descendants, whether they like it or not. Fair Folk, or whatever they choose to call themselves. Gods and goddesses every one, superior in every way, drifting around as if they owned the place, as they did, of course, after packing the others off back into their nooks and crannies. But someone dabbled in what she shouldn't, and that started it all off."

"Dabbled? In what?"

"I said, don't interrupt." She glared at me, and I felt a sharp, piercing pain in my temple. "Back in those first days we could do it all, had every branch of the craft at our fingertips. Shape-shifting, transformation. Healing. Mastery of wind and rain, wave and tide. We were gods indeed, and no wonder the Old Ones crept back to their caves with their tails between their legs. But there are some byways of the craft that should not be tampered with, not even by a master. Everyone knew that. It's perilous to touch the dark side; best leave it alone, best stay well away. Unfortunately there was one who let curiosity get the better of her. She played with a forbidden spell; called up what should have been left sleeping. From that day on there was an evil let loose that was never going to go away. So she was cast out, and part of her penalty was to be stripped of the ability to use the higher elements of magic: the powers of light, the healing, the flight. All she had left was the dross, sorcerer's tricks: she could meddle, and she could perform transformations, a frog into a man maybe, or a girl into a cockroach. She had the Glamour. Precious little, compared with what she'd lost. She attached herself to a mortal man, since none of the high-minded ones'd have her, not after what she'd done. And you know what that means."

This time an answer seemed to be expected. "That she herself would become mortal?"

"Not exactly. Our kind live long, Fainne; far beyond the human span. But it did mean she in her turn would die. She would survive to see her family perish of old age before she herself moved on. Her descendants bore the blood of the cursed one, through the ages. Every one of us has her eyes. Your eyes, girl. Every one has the craft, but narrowly, you understand. Some things will always be beyond us. That rankles. That hurts. It should be ours. The punishment was unjust; too severe."

I opened my mouth, thought better of what I was about to say, and shut it again.

"Thinking of your father, are you?" she said, unsmiling. "Thinking he seems to manifest a somewhat wider range of talents than those I described? You're right, of course. I chose his father well: no less than Colum, Lord of Sevenwaters: They're druid folk, that family. Look how they live, shut away in their precious forest, surrounded by those Others. They've got the blood of the Old Ones, mixed with the human strain. Ciaran's different. Special. He should have ruled there after Colum. Isn't he the seventh son of a seventh son? But I was foiled. Foiled by that wretched girl and her cursed brothers. They're the ones you need to watch out for. The ones with the Fomhoire streak in them."

I frowned in concentration. "Why would that be dangerous, Grandmother? The Fomhoire were not users of high magic."

"Ah. There's high magic, and there's sorcerer's magic, and there's another kind. You might call it deep magic. That's what the folk from Sevenwaters have, and we don't, child. Not all of them, mind. Most of them are simple fools like your mother, weak-willed and weak-minded. How my son ever fell for that empty little featherhead, I cannot understand. Niamh ruined his life; she weakened him terribly. But now there's you, Fainne. You're my hope."

I had learned that snapping back was pointless, though her dismissal of my mother wounded me. "Deep magic?" I queried. "What is that?"

"The magic of the earth and the ocean. That's where those folk came from, long ago. That's why they cling to the Islands. They are no sorcerers. They don't work spells. But some of them have the ability to speak to one another in the mind, without words. You don't know how hard I tried to develop that. Wore myself out. Either you have it or you don't. One or two of them can read the future. Powerful tools, both of them. And some of them have healing skills far beyond a physician's."

"Is that all?"

"All, she says!" Her laugh mocked me. "Isn't that enough? Those gifts shut me out of achieving my goal for nigh on two generations, girl. They took my son from me and turned him soft. But now it's different. I have you, Fainne, and I have a new goal, a far grander one. You've got a little bit of everything in you, thanks to your mother. That was the one good thing she did for you, pathetic wretch that she was. I've never understood it. If Ciaran had to throw himself away on one of the Sevenwaters brats, why not choose the other sister? A child of that liaison would have had rare skills indeed. Never mind, Fainne. You bear the blood of four races. That has to count for something."

This time I found it impossible not to challenge her. "I don't like you to speak of my mother that way," I said, glaring.

"No? I speak only the truth, child. Besides, what would you care? You scarcely remember her, surely. But I suppose all your attitudes come from your father. He'll hear no ill spoken of his beloved Niamh. To him she was a princess, a creature of perfection who couldn't set a foot wrong. He let losing her eat him up. Now, Fainne." Her tone had changed abruptly. "You've done quite well so far, child; we should be ready in time if you keep your mind on learn-

ing. Tomorrow I'll outline what is expected of you at Sevenwaters. All this, you understand, the airs and graces, the easy conversation, the skills of the bedchamber, all this is only a tool, part of the means to an end. Tomorrow I'll begin to explain what that end is. You've quite a task ahead of you, granddaughter. Quite a task. Now, off to bed with you, you'll need all the rest you can get."

That night, alone in my chamber with a candle for company and the ocean roaring outside, I opened the wooden chest and brought out Riona. She seemed a little crumpled from being squashed under blankets, and I thought I detected a trace of a frown on her neatly stitched features. I untangled her yellow hair and refastened the ties at the back of her gown. Tonight, suddenly I did not feel so grown-up anymore, and as I blew out the candle and lay down on my bed I kept Riona by me, something I had not done for a long time.

"Is it true?" I whispered into the darkness. "Is that all my mother was, a stupid girl who blighted my father's life? Is that why he doesn't want to talk about her? But he said he loved her. If he would talk about her, then maybe I would remember her. Maybe I would remember something. Some little thing."

Riona did not reply. Her presence by me was comforting, nonetheless. My fingers touched the strange woven necklace she wore, stroked the cool smooth surface of the white stone threaded on it.

"Perhaps it's best," I said, to her or to myself. "Perhaps it's best that I don't know. She was one of them, the human kind, the family of Sevenwaters. I am of the other kind; I am my father's daughter. Best if I never know." But my hand brushed the soft silk of Riona's skirt, and as I fell asleep I was seeing my mother's fingers, the swift flash of the needle as she sewed the little gown with tiny, even stitches. A gift for her daughter, to remember her by; a small friend to comfort me in the darkness when she was gone.

The next morning Grandmother set things out for me.

"Now, Fainne," she said, watching me very closely as I stood before her in my plain gown and serviceable shoes, my hands clasped behind my back. "Why do you think your father wants you to go to Sevenwaters? Is not that the one place he longs to obliterate from his memory, yet cannot? Why would he send you there, his only daughter, into the heart of his enemy's territory?"

"I am the granddaughter of a chieftain of Ulster," I told her. "Father said the folk of Sevenwaters have a debt to repay. He thinks I must learn to move in that circle, since there is no real future for me here in Kerry." A shiver went through me. It occurred to me for the first time that I might never return to the Honeycomb. The thought terrified me. "I trust my father," I went on as steadily as I could. "If he wishes me to travel to Ulster, then that must be the right thing."

Grandmother grimaced, awakening a network of deep wrinkles in her ancient skin. "Your confidence in Ciaran's judgment is touching, my dear, if ill founded. His decision is sound enough, it's his reasons that leave something to be desired. I put that down to his druid training. That wretch, Conor, has a lot to answer for. He and those brothers of his robbed my son of his birthright, and muddled his head with foolish ideas, so he doesn't know what's what anymore. They should never have survived what I did to them. But that's beside the point. Your father only told you half the truth, Fainne. Ciaran's sick. Very sick. He's sending you away because he sees a day, quite soon, when he'll no longer be here to provide for you."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "What?" I whispered foolishly.

"Don't believe me? You should. I'm in the very best position to know this. Ciaran won't leave his precious little apprentice here with the fisherfolk, to become another wife with a gaggle of squalling brats at heel. He can't leave you with me; I come and go as I please. So he's left with only one option. Your uncle, Lord Sean of Sevenwaters; Conor, the archdruid; the elusive Liadan; those are the only family you've got. Your father sees no alternative."

"You mean—you mean this cough, this pallor, you mean he is— dying?" I forced the word out. "But—but how can this be? Our kind are not like ordinary men and women, we live long—how can he be so sick? He said he was well. He said there was nothing wrong—"

"Of course he said that. But there are some maladies beyond mortal remedy, Fainne; some sicknesses that can strike even the most powerful mage. He didn't tell you the truth because he knew you wouldn't agree to go, if you knew."

"He was right," I said, gritting my teeth. "I won't go. I cannot leave him. How could he not tell me?" The two of us had been so close, had shared such long times of perfect understanding, of wordless cooperation. Hurt lodged deep within me like a cold stone.

Grandmother was calm. "Let me explain something to you," she said. "It's not the human folk of Sevenwaters that matter, child. It's the power behind them: those Otherworld creatures with their fancy manners, and their grip on the rest of us. You will go to Sevenwaters, if not for your father, then for me. I've a task for you to undertake, a mission for you to complete. This is big, Fainne. Far bigger than you imagine."