Muse (Tales of Silver Downs Book 1) (37 page)

"I would have done things differently had I known. Told different tales." I didn't even try to mask the bitterness in my voice. "Nobody
had
to die."

"We made a mistake. I know. The day you announced you were a bard, my heart sank down into my boots and it's stayed there ever since. But by then, we had spent so many years pretending you wouldn't be a bard, we didn't know what to say. We hoped the curse had ended with me, that since it had been so many years since I last told a tale, somehow you would be free of it. And when you first started telling your tales and nothing happened, we thought you were safe."

We sat in silence for some time.

"Did you figure it out?" he asked at length.

"Emotion," I said. "That's what brings the tale to life. When I tell a tale while I am filled with emotion, it comes true. There might be other ways but I've not explored them. I don't intend to either."

"I should have known. It explains… It explains what happened for me."

"Your brothers?"

He closed his eyes. And I knew. He didn't have to say it.

"That was the last tale I ever told," he said. "I knew about my — our — ability. My father warned me long before I was old enough to tell a tale. He never told a single tale himself. He was too afraid. His own father had died when he was merely a babe and his grandfather was already dead. It was his grandmother who told him and she knew very little, only that there was a strange ability passed down from seventh son to seventh son. There was nobody left by then who knew how it worked.
 

"I didn't believe him at first, just as you didn't believe me. And for a long time, nothing happened, so I felt safe. I became confident, cocky even. Thought my father had been mistaken.
 

"I had argued with my brothers. They were jealous of the bard son who seemed to do nothing all day while they were busy making a living, supporting the family, supporting me. I didn't have any great renown so I contributed no income from my tales. My eldest brother, Eremon — your brother was named for him — he said he would no longer support a brother who did not contribute to the family coffers. I was bitter. Jealous they all had destinies that allowed them to contribute. Angry they weren't prepared to be patient while I learnt my craft.
 

"The tale I told was based on the Children of Lir. I spoke of a bard who cursed his six older brothers and turned them all into swans. The brothers remained swans for three hundred years and then they returned to their original forms, still the same age as they were when they changed."

My heart stumbled. "So your brothers… they're still alive? Still swans?"

"I saw them change." Papa's eyes held the most terrible sadness I had ever seen. "It was the first time one of my tales came true, and the last tale I ever told. They flew away and never returned. I hope… I hope they are alive and safe and that they will return one day. I deeply regret I will not be here to tell them how sorry I am."

"Have you tried to find them?"

"For many years, any time I saw a swan, I spoke to it, apologised. There was never any indication the swan understood. Whether any of them were my brothers, and whether they still retained any part of their human mind to understand my words, I'll never know. But in my tale, the swans returned and became men again. I pray that my brothers will also return, whole and sane."

"Do you think they will come home?"

He shrugged. "Where else would they go? As long as Silver Downs belongs to our family, it is still their home. Your brother, Eremon, knows, and he will ensure his heir also knows. The knowledge will be passed down from father to son and when three hundred years has passed, I trust that my brothers will be welcomed home as family."

Papa said nothing for some time after that. Occasionally he passed a hand across his eyes, as if to sweep away tears. Eventually he continued.

"Our father died shortly after. He couldn't live with the loss of six sons. So Silver Downs came to me, and I've kept myself busy ever since, running the estate the way Eremon would have. I wasn't supposed to be the heir and I had to learn fast. And that's what you need to do now. Find something else and learn it. Just because you were meant to be a bard, doesn't mean that's all you can do."

"But I don't know who I am if I'm not a bard."

"You'll figure it out," he said. "Trust me, son. There's something else out there waiting for you."

A few days later, a messenger arrived. He was a rugged man, travelling on a sturdy horse. They both looked well accustomed to lonely journeys across the country. Papa took the man into his study and closed the door. They remained in there for only minutes before Papa showed the man to the kitchen and then returned to his study alone. He didn't come back out again until dinner time and then his face was grave and grey.

My stomach was growling at the smell of soup thick with spring vegetables. But Papa looked solemnly around the table and my insides went cold.

"A messenger came today," he said. "From Caedmon's commanding officer. Caedmon did not return to the campaign front."

My stomach clenched. For a moment I couldn't breath, couldn't see. I clutched the table, my knuckles white in clenched fists.
 

"We mustn't think the worst." Papa looked everywhere but at me. "Perhaps he has been delayed. He may have fallen ill and stayed somewhere to recover."

"Then why would he not send a message?" Eremon asked. "Either to us or to his officer?"

"Perhaps he is so ill," Marrec said.

"That he doesn't recall who he is," finished Conn.
 

Eremon shrugged and looked away. It was clear he didn't agree but was reluctant to argue. Of all my brothers, he was the most like Papa in that regard. Only now I understood why Papa held his words in such tight reserve.

We all pretended to be busy with our meal after that. The soup curdled in my stomach. Mother stared intently into her bowl, stirring her soup but seemingly eating none. Her face was composed but the knuckles on the hand gripping her spoon were as white as mine.

Another life ruined. If I hadn't told that wretched tale about the soldier and his wife, Caedmon would have made it safely back to the campaign.
 

"Where are Eithne and Grainne?" I asked, suddenly desperate to know. "Are they safe? Is Eithne… is Eithne well?"

Silence. Mother continued to stare into her soup but now her hand shook. My brothers looked to Papa and it was clear nobody would tell me if he didn't. Papa put down his spoon.
 

"They have gone away," he said, finally. "On a journey, of some sort. Exactly what, we don't know. Fiachra said only that they will return if they can."

"Did he say nothing further?" I asked.

"He hinted that someone — something — might pursue them, and it was better if we knew no details."

"Was Grainne injured?" I stared into my soup, ashamed to ask, but I had to know.

Papa looked to Mother and it seemed this answer was hers to give. Mother's chin wobbled and she nodded slowly.

"Badly?" My voice cracked.

"She was…" Mother's voice failed. She licked her lips and tried again. "She was beaten. She refused to say who did it. She was still recovering, still fragile. She was not fit to undertake a journey and Fiachra knew."

"So why did she go?"

"The journey was Eithne's," Papa said, "and we know no more than that. Grainne went with her, out of love and friendship."

I had not known Eithne and Grainne were so close, but then I knew very little of Grainne. I had been too mired in my own discomfort with women and my jealousy towards Caedmon to get to know her. But I knew Eithne and I remembered the man who had attended Caedmon and Grainne's handfasting, the one who stood off in the trees and did not mingle with our family and friends. Now that I had seen more of the fey, I recognised the pale skin and blood-red lips. Who was he to Eithne? Did he have something to do with this strange journey of hers?

All this talk of journeys made me think of Brigit. She had never said why the fey had wanted her to go with me, only that whatever their aim was, it had been achieved. Did I dare hope that their aim was to bring the two of us together? What purpose could the fey have for such a thing? But if their aim was achieved, did that mean she cared for me?

Staring into my soup, I saw not vegetables and broth, but Brigit's face, or rather, a meld of Brigit's and Bramble's features. It was as Bramble that I first loved her and I couldn't not see the shaggy white terrier any more than I could not see Brigit herself. I had tried to forget and slide back into my old life but I wasn't the same person as the one who first set out to find Ida. I could no more forget Brigit than I could forget Ida.
 

If it was true that I had killed Caedmon, I would regret that for the rest of my life. I would regret also that Grainne had been injured so grievously but I could no longer affect those events. However the way I had left things with Brigit was something I could still change, if I chose.

It seemed I faced a new decision. I could stay in a world I no longer belonged in, or I could seek out a new life for myself.
 

It took me until morning to decide what to do.

I knew Diarmuid was coming for the visions showed me. I recognised the gentle hill he rode up and the stand of silvery birch he paused to rest his horse beside. I knew the day's eye bush there in a hollow and the rock that looked like a giant frog. The thought of seeing him again made me want to run in circles and bark madly. For long how would my first reaction be that of Bramble rather than Brigit? Perhaps some lingering sense of Bramble would stay with me forever.
 

The Sight showed me myself, throwing my arms around him and weeping, although I knew not whether it was with joy or grief. Of course, being as stubborn as I was, I resolved there would be no embracing or weeping. I would greet him coldly, somewhat disdainfully, hear him out and then send him on his way again. Anything I might have once felt for Diarmuid was gone. I had had my taste of adventure, mystery and danger, and would learn to be a good wise woman, like I was supposed to. Perhaps I would never have the romance I once desired but one cannot have everything. I had achieved three of the things I once wanted more than anything else, and if my heart beat a little faster at the thought of Diarmuid's arrival, and my breath caught in my throat, it was of no consequence, for he meant nothing to me. Truly.

I searched the visions for clues as to when he would arrive. The birches still bore patches of winter bareness. The day's eyes were only just beginning to bloom. I examined the bush near our front door. It was a tight mass of buds with few flowers unfurling. He would come soon.

Diarmuid's arrival would almost be a relief for the visions tormented me all night. I had slept little and by mid morning couldn't keep my attention on the task at hand. I knocked over a bin of flour and smashed a jar of preserved berries before Mother sent me out to work in the garden.

The sun was warm on my arms and spring was everywhere I looked. In the trill of the swallow, in the pale new shoots of garlic and onion, in the clear sky wearing nothing but a single cloud. My mood lifted as I lost myself in my work, pulling weeds, thinning some early carrots, and turning over the soil in preparation for planting the cabbages. At length, I paused to rest and stretch my aching back. It was then I saw the horse and rider.

They were still some distance away, far enough that I could only make out the shape of a body on horseback. But my soul knew it was Diarmuid and already my heart beat a little faster. I could almost feel the tail I no longer had begin to wiggle. I wished I was not wearing my oldest dress, entirely suitable for gardening but perhaps not what a woman would choose to wear as she faces one who might, under other circumstances, have been her husband. I wished I did not have dirt up to my elbows and all over my apron but then I hardened my heart. I had no need for nice dresses and frippery for Diarmuid meant nothing to me. I would give him the courtesy of hearing him out and then send him on his way. No weeping. No embracing.
 

I caught myself touching my damaged ear. Bramble's fight with the boar had left that ear twisted and misshapen. The skin was thickened and still tender. I often found myself touching it in moments of uncertainty. It reminded me of the tenacity of a little dog who refused to be a boar's breakfast and the memory gave me strength. If Bramble could escape the boar, I could face Diarmuid.

I returned to my chores and tried to forget the approaching horse. But I felt him draw steadily nearer. He was still some way off when he reined in his horse, pausing for so long that I expected him to turn and leave. But soon enough he was right in front of me, silhouetted against the sun. I wiped dirt-covered hands on my apron and squinted up at him.

Diarmuid dismounted. His face was schooled to what he probably thought was blankness but his eyes were full of hope. They showed anxiety too. He was uncertain of his welcome.
 

Good,
I thought.
You will get no welcome here.
I stifled the urge to lift my lips and snarl.

"Bramble," he said. "I mean, Brigit."

My resolve softened ever so slightly, for his closeness made me feel like Bramble again, unsure of my own form and my mind. Craving his presence and his touch. Wanting nothing more than for him to see me as I really was. Well, this was what I really was. Covered in dirt and with my hair in disarray, this was me.
 

"Diarmuid," I said.

He hesitated and his gaze darted around as if looking for escape. He was uncomfortable, a contradiction as ever: the bard who could tell a tale to a roomful of strangers and yet couldn't speak to a woman without blushing and stuttering. Not that it mattered how much he blushed and stuttered because this woman didn't have the slightest interest in him. If my fingers longed to reach out and touch his face or stroke his hair, that didn't mean anything. If I craved the touch of his hand on my ear or my neck, it was merely a lingering memory of being Bramble. I crossed my arms across my chest, lest I accidentally reach out for him.