Son of the Shadows (46 page)

Eamonn's hands were moving restlessly, as if itching to grasp a weapon and use it. "Your confidence surprises me, Liadan, in view of what has hap

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pened here. I will ride out with you myself, at least as far as the last settlement."

We could hardly refuse. We said our farewells to Aisling and rode away from Sidhe Dubh under a lowering, gray sky. When the time came for Eamonn to turn back, he drew me aside while Sean
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conferred with his men.

"I had hoped you might stay longer," Eamonn said quietly, "or let me come back to Sevenwaters with you. I bear the guilt for what has happened; I sh-should be responsible for telling them, for helping to explain—"

"Oh, no," I said. "Whoever bears the blame for this, it is not you, Eamonn. Do not add that to your burdens. You should go home now and put this behind you. You should move on." I did not like the intense, almost feverish light in his eyes.

"You are very strong," he commented, frowning. "But then, you always were. I have long admired that in you. There are few women who could speak with such courage so soon after losing a sister."

It seemed safer not to reply.

"This is good-bye, then," he said. "Please tell your parents that I wish— I so much wish ..."

"I'll tell them," I said firmly. "Good-bye, Eamonn."

I had expected to feel relief when finally I rode away from Sidhe Dubh and its mist-shrouded marshlands, knowing I was on the road for home. But as I turned my head and caught a glimpse of Eamonn's lone figure riding back into the heart of his strange, inhospitable territory, the feeling that was strongest in me was that I had somehow abandoned him, as if I had sent him back into his own dark place. This seemed fanciful, and I tried to dismiss it; but the image remained in my mind as we rode steadily on and the terrain became more thickly wooded, rising between jagged rocks toward the margin of the forest.

Sean halted his horse suddenly and motioned to the others to do the same.

"What—" I ventured.

"Ssh!" Sean raised a hand in warning. We all sat silent. I could hear nothing but the sound of birds and the spatter of a few raindrops. After a while Sean moved his horse forward again, but slowly, plainly waiting for me to catch up.

"What?" I asked, suspecting I knew already.

"I was sure I heard something," he said, with a sidelong look at me.

"It's been there awhile. As if we were being followed. But when we stopped, there was nothing.

Your ears are good. Didn't you hear it?"

"Only birds calling. There can't be anyone there. We'd have seen them."

"Would we? Perhaps I should have ignored your arguments and accepted Eamonn's escort.

There are few enough of us; an ambush would be a problem."

"Why would there be an ambush?" I asked, avoiding his gaze.

"Why did they take Niamh?" asked Sean. "There's no reason to any of it. Why do that just after he—"

There was a pause.

"Just after he what? You're not telling me he agreed to work for you?"

"Not exactly," said Sean carefully, "but he did say he'd consider it; he considers all offers. He said he'd let me know when he'd worked out the price."

I was speechless. What devious game was Bran playing? Surely my brother, the son of the despised

Hugh of Harrowfield, would be the last person he would wish to do business with. Such an alliance would be fraught with danger for both of them. That it had ever been seriously considered filled me with alarm.

"It would have been the turning point," Sean said, "the one factor needed to change the course of our feud with the Britons. He could have named any price; I'd have met it. So why ruin his big chance? Is the man crazy that he would do this to my sister on a—on a whim?"

"He never acts on a whim." I spoke without thinking.

Sean waited before he replied. "Liadan."

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"Mmm?"

"There will be no ambush?"

"Most unlikely, I should think," I said cautiously.

"Liadan, our sister is dead, and they were seen taking her away across the marshes. There were several witnesses. Would you protect Niamh's murderer by holding back your story?"

"No, Sean."

"Tell me, Liadan. Tell me the truth. You're playing with matters more dangerous than you can know."

But I kept my shield up and would not tell. Once, as we passed along a forest path damp with the decaying fabric of autumn leaves, I sensed a presence riding beside me, though this time I heard no fairy hoofbeats. I heard

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I!

the lady's voice, low and solemn, and saw without turning my head her deep, grave eyes.

You acted rashly. You let them guide you again. There must be no more errors, Liadan.

It did not seem an error to save my sister from a life of abuse

. I was angry. Was nothing important to the Fair Folk but their own long schemes, which we could barely understand? Around me, my brother and his men rode on oblivious. I glanced at Sean, and back at the lady.

Tour brother does not hear us. I have made him deaf to this. Now listen to me. You have been very foolish. If you could see what might come of this, you would know how wrong you are.

You put your child at risk

. Her blue eyes were chill.

You put the future at risk

.

What risk? I was never in danger. And I'm going back to Sevenwaters. The child will be born there. Isn't that what you •

wanted,?

Maybe your sister is dead

. She spoke coolly, as if this did not really signify a great deal.

Drowned. You might have risked all, for nothing

.

She's safe; I know it. The man who took her can be trusted.

Him? He's nothing. A tool, merely. His part in this is over, Liadan. There are only two things that need concern you now. You must not risk the alliance. Without the alliance, your uncle has not the strength to triumph. Without the Ui Neill, he cannot win back the Islands. Tour foolishness nearly lost him that chance. And you must protect the child. He is our hope. No more mistakes. No more going off on your own. Do not disobey me again. Once she knows of your son, she will seek to destroy him. The boy must stay in the forest where he can be properly protected.

She? Who?

But the Lady of the Forest simply shook her head, as if the name could not be put into words, and she faded slowly until I could no longer see her. And at last we came home to Sevenwaters with our terrible news.

It was to be a long secret, held through difficult times. Times that tested my will to the utmost, as I saw my mother's shrunken features and shadowed eyes, as I endured my father's tight-lipped silences. Winter came and we were cooped up inside together more than we wished, helpless to salve one another's hurts, feeling the fabric of our family stretching and tearing apart, not knowing where to start to repair such damage. Sean and Liam argued behind closed doors.

Liam spoke of vengeance; Sean now advised caution.

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Our strength should be held in reserve, he said, for the time when the allies would combine in a final attack on Northwoods's positions. Perhaps next summer; or if not, by autumn we would be ready. Why waste valuable men and arms pursuing the Painted Man? Besides, he was already beyond reach, so they said. Away to Gaul or even farther. Niamh was lost; no bloodletting was going to bring her back. It was an unusually restrained approach for my brother to take, and at length Liam was persuaded. We heard little from Eamonn, but I knew he would not put aside the quest for vengeance. I had seen the look in his eyes; it chilled the blood. There was death in that look, for one of them at least.

I longed to return to the secret pool in the forest, which Conor had shown me. In those still waters I

might find the answers I needed so desperately. I wanted to talk to Finbar, who seemed to know so much, and pass no judgments whatever, almost as if he were a creature of instinct, not troubled by notions of right and wrong. For my secret burdened me. I must protect my sister; I would not betray

Bran. But because I could not tell what I believed to be the truth, a heavy toll was taken on others I

loved, and I must live daily with their sorrow. There seemed no path to tread safe from guilt and regret.

The Sight is both a gift and a curse. It is at times like these that one needs it most. But it comes and goes as it chooses and cannot be summoned by an effort of will. I did try; I tried to see Niamh, where she

was, how she was, who she was with. I tried to touch Bran with my mind, but he was very far away, and it was only at dark of the moon that I felt his presence. And it was dim, faint, the merest shadow of the bond I had with Sean, who had lain next to me ten moons in our mother's womb.

I thought Sean knew. He never said; but the knowledge was there in his behavior. Why else would he talk his uncle out of revenge? Why else would he not announce to all and sundry my own link with the

Painted Man? He knew, or suspected, and he understood that I intended to keep my secret even from him. But he, too, saw our parents' grief, and he found it hard not to judge me, I think.

There was one reason to be glad and to look forward. Everyone fussed, as it grew closer and closer to my time and the child grew larger. Sean joked about my increasing girth but was always there when I

needed help with climbing a flight of stairs or negotiating the rough track to the settlement. For all her weakness, my mother watched me with a healer's sharp eye, prescribing doses of various pungent teas and insisting that I rest each after

I

noon, as the weather grew warmer with early spring and the first delicate leaves unfurled on the spreading beech trees. My father was worst of all, watching me to make sure I ate every mouthful put before me, interrogating me on how much sleep I was getting, escorting me on the slightest venture out of doors in case I overtired myself. Mother laughed at him, in that gentle way she had, saying he'd been just the same with her, both times. Then she fell silent, doubtless remembering her copper-haired firstborn, the bonny girl who had danced through the woods in her white dress.

Sevenwaters was a tight-knit community for all the vast spread of our lands, and it was hard to avoid the gossip. I found what I heard alarming. When I went to the settlement to visit the sick, which I did almost up to the end, there would always be a few folk who would stretch out a hand to touch my belly and smile shyly. "For luck, my lady," they'd mutter, or, "For good fortune, bless your heart." At first I had no idea why they would do such a thing. But I heard, eventually,
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the tale that they were putting about, a tale far stranger than the truth.

This tale neatly explained why I had disappeared so inexplicably and returned with a child in my belly. It explained why my father and my uncle had not sent me away in disgrace but had let me stay here at home and bear my fatherless child in the sanctuary of the great forest. The tale went that the Fair Folk had chosen me to bear this particular child so that at last the prophecy would be fulfilled and the Islands be saved. Then the lake and the forest would be safe, too. Was I not just like the girl of the old story, the daughter they called the heart of Sevenwaters? Who better than my child to fulfill the prophecy of the wise ones? And no wonder I would not name the father, for this would be a child of the Otherworld, only half mortal. Who knew what powers such a one might have? That was how they were telling it. I could have told them a few truths that would have shattered their bright vision, but I did not. Who would believe that the sheltered daughter of Sevenwaters, who had tended their ills with loving care, the reliable, domesticated Liadan, would choose to lie with, an outlaw and come home with his child growing inside her?

Who would believe that she would construct a web of falsehoods to protect the man who might or might not have been responsible for her sister's death? It is frightening how one lie is just the first strand in an ever-increasing fabric of untruth. And once this fabric is woven, it is very hard to unravel.

The seasons changed, and I had no news of Niamh. I had no news at all.

Mother taught Janis midwifery. Bony, angular Janis seemed ageless. It was hard to believe they had once called her Fat Janis, but so both my mother and Liam had told me. The hard winters in the time of the

Sorceress had taken their toll. But Janis had gentle hands, and I knew I could trust her. The babe seemed determined to lodge with his head upward; Mother said they could wait, for he still had room to turn

before the end. I was quite small, and a breech birth was best avoided in any case. I was easily tired now and spent the best part of the warmer days sitting on the mossy stone seat in the herb garden, soaking up the spring sunshine and talking silently with my child.

You'll like this garden

, I told him.

It smells good; and there are lots of little things. Bees, they're the ones with stripes and wings.

You need to be careful of them. When it gets hotter there'll be grasshoppers. Beetles, many shapes and colors, some shiny as precious stones. Caterpillars that creep along and eat your vegetables if you aren't careful. That's why we grow garlic next to the cabbages. When Mean Fomhair comes around again, you'll be able to sit up on the grass here and watch it all

.

Sometimes I told him about his father. Only sometimes, for I did not allow myself to feed on false hopes.

He's very strong. Strong body; strong mind; strong will. But somewhere he has lost his way. I named him after Bran the Voyager, and that was more apt than I knew. For Bran Mac Feabhail, the hero of the old tale, could never come home from his long and strange journey. When he sailed back to the coast of Tirconnell and one of his crew jumped from the boat to shore, at once the man withered away as if he had been long dead. Perhaps that magical voyage had indeed taken hundreds of years, though Bran and his sailors thought they had been away only from one summer to the next. So Bran told his tale, standing on the deck of his ship as it lay alongside the jetty, and then he sailed away without ever setting foot on his home shore. Not for him a wife's welcoming arms; not for him the joy of watching a son grow