Son of the Shadows (50 page)

The water went dark again, and I thought that was all. But there was one more image to come.

They were back in that place again, the place of the ancient ones, and the two of them were outside on a warm spring night, keeping watch while the others slept in the shelter of the barrow.

Maybe it was now. The moon was full, and I could see their faces clearly, dark and light.

"You were unfair," Gull spoke without emphasis. "What Otter said, that was no more than the truth. You should never have let her go."

"Don't presume to offer me advice," Bran snapped. "At least I did not silence her with the knife.

You know as well as I that there is no place for a woman here."

"This is different, isn't it?"

"How can it be? How could she live as we do? Besides, she is the daughter of Sevenwaters. Her father turned his back on his land and his people. For his own selfish reasons, he was not there to protect them.

Ironic, isn't it? I owe to him my complete failure to be a suitable mate for his daughter. He little knew what he did when he walked away from Harrowfield."

"So you care nothing for her, is that it?"

"I don't need another lecture," Bran said wearily.

"And that's why we went racing back the moment you believed her in danger?"

There was no reply to this.

"Well?" Gull was not going to give up.

"You presume too much. There was a job to do, and we did it. That was all."

"Uh-huh. And what of the job her brother wants you to perform? You'd be crazy to agree to that. That's no less than a suicide mission."

"It would be a challenge, certainly, but not beyond me."

They were quiet for a while.

"You're fooling yourself if you think you've put this behind you," Gull said eventually.

"I don't wish you to speak of these things again," said Bran repressively. "There was nothing between me and—and the girl. She was meddlesome and sharp-tongued enough, and I was glad to see the last of her."

Gull said nothing, but I saw the flash of his white teeth in the darkness, and then the image was gone.

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My knees felt weak, and I stumbled to my chair, knowing I was crying and hardly caring if my uncle saw it.

"As I said, you will not keep this man at Sevenwaters. And yet, you plan a future here for your child without knowing it. You see Johnny with his grandfather, learning to plant trees. You see yourself, teaching your son to swim in the lake of Sevenwaters. You see the child slipping into the kitchen for one of Janis's honeycakes, as we all did when we were growing up, and the world was so full of adventures there was barely time to fit them into the day. You see Conor showing the boy Ogham signs on a carven stone. The child is the key. In your thoughts, you recognize this. There is no place in his future for this man."

"How can you say that? This is his father."

"The man has served his purpose. I am sure that is what Conor would say."

I was unable to respond. Bursting with my sense of outrage and injustice, I was forced nonetheless to recognize the terrible wisdom of his words.

"It is what the Fair Folk told me, but what do you say?"

Ah. Only that there will come a point where you must make a choice. And that choice will be all your own. Do not think me heartless, Liadan. I see more than you think. I see the bond between you and this man. I see that he is your mate. How can you choose without a loss that rips out your heart?

Mother wasted none of her last night in sleep. Instead, she had Liam bring the men and women of the household to her so she could thank them and say her farewells. Many a tear was shed; many a small bunch of primroses, or single daffodil brave in white and gold was laid at her feet or by her pillow, She had had them move her to a chamber downstairs, and around the walls warty candles burned, so that the space was filled with warm light. Lying small and still on her pallet, she found a kind word for each solemn visitor. There must have been considerable pain.

Both Janis and I knew what doses Sorcha had needed to take this last season to keep from crying out as the canker gnawed ever deeper into her vitals.

Now, she wanted to be awake, and able to listen, and so she had taken nothing. She was indeed a strong woman, and she masked the spasms so well that few were aware of what she suffered. My father knew. His face had become an expressionless mask, save when he looked at her directly; and he was not speaking, not to me, or to Liam, or to anyone but her, unless he must. I knew he wished we would all go away and leave the two of them alone, but it was her bidding he followed.

At last these long farewells were done, and the household slept. I sat by the small fire with Johnny quiet in my arms; my father was on a stool by the bed, his long legs bent awkwardly to the side. He was wiping her face with a damp cloth. Mother's eyes were closed; she might have been asleep, save for die slight

twitch of one hand as the pain struck deep.

You could tell them now. If you are ready.

I glanced at Finbar where he stood motionless, his right hand laid flat on the wall beside the window, his back turned to me as he looked out into the moonlit garden. There was no doubt of what he meant.

I'm ready

. There could be no better time than this.

"Is Sean home yet?" my mother whispered.

"I'll go and see if any word has come," said Liam quietly. "Come, brothers, we should leave this small family alone awhile."

They had been grouped together, standing by the door where folk might be shepherded in and out with as little fuss as possible. Now Liam left, taking Conor and Padriac with him, but Finbar remained behind.

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Not for him a safe, closed chamber and blanketed bed. Not for him the temporary oblivion of strong ale.

I had not seen him touch a morsel of food nor a drop of drink since he had come home.

"Mother, Father, I have something to tell you."

Sorcha opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. "That's good, Daughter. Let me ... let me . .

."

She was short of breath, but I knew what she wanted. I made room for Johnny under the coverlet and tucked him in beside her. My father helped her curl a hand around the baby's warm body.

Johnny's eyes were open, his father's gray eyes. He was growing fast, and I could see him looking, trying to make sense of the shadows and patterns of the candlelit room. By the window, Finbar did not move. I did not think I

could sit down. I stood by the bed, my hands clutched tight together.

"I will not insult you by asking for your trust," I began. "Time is too short for that. You have said you have faith in me, and I must believe it. I have to tell you that I have lied to you, and hope you will listen while I

explain why. It is a matter very deep, very secret, a sadness beyond tears and perhaps an ending better than we dared hope for. Your trust may be stretched to its utmost, as mine has been."

Now my father was observing me closely, his blue eyes sharp and cool. Mother lay tranquil, watching the baby.

"Go on, Liadan." Iubdan's tone was carefully neutral.

"Niamh," I said. "Niamh . . ."

Courage, Liadan.

"We all knew something was wrong when she came home. You even asked me to find out what it was.

But we did not know how wrong. When we were at Sidhe Dubh, I discovered the truth.

Her—her husband beat her and abused her most foully. She was already much distressed by what happened here;

she believed everyone she loved had rejected her. She had hoped to make a new start with this marriage.

Her husband's cruelty put paid to that. But she made me swear not to tell. She made me promise to keep it secret from all the family. Niamh was heartbroken that Ciaran had not stood by her.

She was shattered when you sent her away. To be treated thus, she believed, must mean she was worthless. She would not let me tell of Fionn's abuse and cause the alliance to be broken, for that would have been yet another failure."

There was a stunned silence. Then my father said, "If this is true, and I know it must be, for you would

scarcely lie about such a matter, then you should have told us. This was one promise that should have been broken."

"I'm afraid I—I could not be sure you would help. After all, you had insisted she marry Fionn.

You had sent her away to Tirconnell. Your words to her were uncompromising. Sean hit her.

And there was Liam and the alliance. I have never understood why she could not wed Ciaran, why you refused even to consider that match. It is unlike you to act thus without weighing the options, without assessing the arguments. It is not like you to withhold the truth. I did not understand your reasons, and so I could not risk telling."

My father was staring at me, his eyes full of hurt. "How could you believe I would condone such a tiling?

Allow my own daughter to be abused?"

"Hush," whispered my mother. "Let Liadan tell her story."

"I—then I ..."

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Word by word. A learning tale. Tell it slowly.

"I did not know what to do or where to seek help. Time was short, but I knew I could not let her go back to Tirconnell. I feared she would harm herself. So I asked a—a friend—to take her away, to see her safe to a place of sanctuary."

Again, a charged silence.

"I don't think I understand," said Iubdan carefully. "Was not your sister abducted by the fianna and drowned? Was not she a victim of one of their arrogant displays of pointless barbarity?"

"No, Father." My own voice was a thread of sound. "The men who took her away across the marshes did so at my request. They came to Sidhe Dubh at my bidding. They were to guide Niamh to safe ground and convey her to a Christian house of prayer, where she could remain in hiding, where she could be away from the cruelty of men."

When my father was able to speak again, he said, tight jawed, "You choose your friends poorly, it seems. It is clear they failed utterly in this venture, since they lost her before ever they touched dry ground. I hope you didn't pay them too much."

It was as if he had struck me, and this time Finbar spoke aloud.

"The tale is not told yet; it is a complex fabric with many strands. Your words wound your daughter. It has taken all of her courage to speak to you thus, and she has not been the only one to withhold the truth.

You should let her finish in peace."

"Tell us, Liadan." My mother's voice was calm.

"I have—connections—that I have not spoken of. Friends, I would call them. One of these friends is the man who took Niamh from Sidhe Dubh and conveyed her to safety, to a place where she will not be hurt, where she will be treated with respect, not expected to be the Ui Neill's plaything, to a place where her family will not force her into a loveless marriage for the sake of a strategic alliance. I can give you no evidence that she is safe. I cannot tell you where she is, nor would I if I knew. But I have seen her in a vision of the Sight, and I believe that my friend has done as I bid him. The drowning, the loss in the mist—it was a sham, part of the performance designed to convince Eamonn, and later others, that she was dead, a deception to divert the hunters from their quarry. Under cover of that lie, they took my sister to safety."

A little draft stirred the candle flames. After a while my mother said very quietly, "You knew that Niamh was alive and did not tell us?"

"I'm sorry," I said miserably. "When you ask this man to undertake a mission, you follow his rules. He said she would be safer if as few people as possible knew the truth. I judged it best.

And—and I don't know, exactly. I believe she is not lost. I trust the man who aided us when nobody else would."

"As I said," Father's expression was of frozen distaste, "your choice of friends seems deeply flawed.

How can you possibly know if this man is telling the truth or not? Deception is his very lifeblood.

Everything we have heard of him paints him as a turncoat who can be relied on only to be unreliable, changing allegiance when he will. And he is violent in the extreme, a prankster who acts on whatever insane whim takes him. I cannot believe you would trust such a man with your sister's life. Some madness must have seized you. And now you have the temerity to give your mother false hopes, now, tonight, when . . ." He fell silent, perhaps aware that my mother's shadowed eyes were turned on him.

"No, Red," she said, "don't be angry. We have no time for that. You must hear Liadan out."

I drew a deep breath, feeling Finbar's strength as he concentrated his mind on mine, not thinking for me but lending me his own courage.

"As I said, I have seen her. I have seen her alive, and happy, and with a child that was certainly
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her own.

A vision of the future, a sure and joyful one. But even without that, I believe that she is safe. I know it in my heart because I know I can trust the man who is my son's father. It is the same man. You looked into my child's face and told me he has John's eyes. Trustworthy eyes. My son's father has the same trustworthy eyes in a face marked with the features of the raven, bold, fierce, and forbidding. He is the leader of the fianna, the one they call the Painted Man. He has done ill deeds in his life, that there is no denying. But he is also capable of great courage, strength, and loyalty. He makes few promises, but those he makes he keeps. As Conor's tale showed, even an outlaw, given the chance, can be a good and trustworthy man. This man saved your daughter.

This man fathered your grandchild. He has my heart and will have it always. I would give myself to no other. Now I have told you the truth, all that I can, and I have given you my trust; for this knowledge, passed to the wrong ears, could put lives at risk."

Well done, Liadan

. Finbar gave a nod of recognition.

My parents stared at me.

"I'm silenced," said Iubdan.

I

Mother lifted a hand to stroke Johnny's brown curls. "So Niamh is safe. This news is a wondrous gift, Liadan. I never quite believed that she was gone ... I think, somehow, I would have known."