Son of the Shadows (55 page)

Fiacha, a name that has the meaning, "little raven."

As to how I might employ its services, that I could not quite grasp. Once or twice I tried to speak to the creature with my mind, but I exhausted myself to no avail. Perhaps, when the time came, I would know what to do—if the time came. There were so many rumors and portents and half-stated theories around, one was hard put to it to extricate the truth or hazard a guess as to what the future might hold. Those who had touched my pregnant belly for luck, and thought Johnny the offspring of some Other-world being, now eyed Fiacha sidelong, and looked at me shyly and muttered about the prophecy. It was a sign, they said. My family made no effort to counter these fantasies. If people believed me the sometime consort of one of the Tuatha De, that at least saved explanations.

I have listened to many tales in my life, and told a few of my own. If this has taught me anything, it is that there are some occurrences that change the course of things, that make an alteration far beyond their own

apparent magnitude. It is like the throwing of a tiny pebble into a pool, how it makes an ever-expanding circle of ripples, spreading right across the water's surface. The little thing was a lie, or rather a truth withheld. Conor's lie and Liam's. Even my parents had known of this secret brother. The family's lie, to one of their own. And none had told, because it was so terrible, so dangerous in some way I only half understood, that even Niamh, whose life was shattered by the effect of it, had not been allowed to know the truth. I did not think, after this, that I could quite trust any of them again. All came from that lie: true love, hopes blighted, cruelty, abuse and flight, and for Ciaran himself a descent into a kind of darkness that seemed to threaten the very fabric of our existence. For me and my family, it brought the loss of openness, the breaking of trust. Farewells too late to be spoken; partings that were forever. The lie had awoken the old evil, and now it seemed one thing after another began to deviate from its true path.

Finbar had not remained long after we sent Sorcha down the lake. Very early next morning he was gone, slipping away quietly into the forest with only myself to bid him farewell.

"You know where I am," he said. "There may come a time when you need my help. Call on me."

"Thank you." Fiacha shifted on my shoulder, his head slightly tilted, watching my uncle as he made his way down the path under the trees. "Uncle?"

"What is it, Liadan?"

"I need to tell you something. I need to tell you that 1 have discovered the truth about Ciaran; about who he is and why he went away. And I want to ask you something. If I wanted to know about the old evil, and what that means . . . would you tell me? Would anyone tell me? I have had so many warnings, and I

hear voices that pull me one way and then another, and nobody will explain. If it's true that we are under some threat, how can we fight it if we don't understand it?"

Finbar stared at me. "You should have been my daughter, I think, for I hear my own words come from your mouth. I would have told you this myself, long ago; but Conor made us agree to silence. You'd best ask him direct. I think he will speak to you of these things now that our sister is gone. With our silence we sought to protect her from further pain, from seeing a darkness reborn that would blight our sons' and daughters' lives as it did our own. When she thwarted the Sorceress, Sorcha believed the evil gone forever; but we had not defeated it, simply
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given ourselves a few years' respite. Speak to Conor. Tell him your misgivings and ask him for the truth."

"I will. Thank you, Uncle. You always speak plain, and I honor you for that."

"Farewell, Liadan. Keep your light burning."

And he was gone. Later that morning, they let the dogs out.

My father left the same day, taking all of us by surprise. I had known he would keep his promise, for he was ever a man of his word. But nobody had expected so precipitate a departure, especially in view of the hazards of such a journey. Briton he might be, but he had lived among the folk of Erin for eighteen years and more, and there were no guarantees his own people would receive him well. Besides, he had first to get there, across a coastline swarming with Norsemen and a wide sea full of raiders and pirates and tricks of wind and water. For the Big Man to depart on such a venture alone spoke of a change far beyond that wrought by grief and loss. But Sean thought it made sense, of a sort.

"He'll more likely slip across unobserved and gather intelligence as he goes," said my brother.

"There was a time, long ago, when this sort of thing was commonplace for him. Now he does it only because he gave his word. But he still has the skills." There was a note of pride in his voice.

As for me, I did not doubt my father's ability for the task. And I knew Janis had been right. I had seen the emptiness in his eyes, and I

understood that without this mission he might indeed lose himself in grief.

Father took his leave of Sean and me in die little herb garden, where the young oak he had planted for my mother in the autumn when Niamh was born now flourished to shade new generations of tender seedlings. He was plainly dressed, and had by him a very small pack, sufficient only for the most basic supplies.

"I'll go on foot," he told us. "I've a little business to attend to on the way; it needs to be done quietly. Best if I travel unseen for the most part. As for Harrowfield, we have had little news. I cannot tell what awaits me there."

"Father?" I had wished to keep my tone steady, to be strong for him. But our loss was too fresh, and my voice quavered.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"You—you will come back, won't you?"

"That's a foolish thing to say," Sean snapped. I could tell he, too, was close to tears.

"Your brother's right, Liadan," Father said, putting his arm around me and attempting a smile.

"You should not need to ask me such a question. Of course I will come back. There's work for me here, family and folk. So Liam tells me. I go now because I was bid, because I promised."

"Don't worry, Father. I'll look after everything." Sean's attempt at confidence was not unconvincing.

"Thank you, Son. Now, I must bid the two of you farewell for the time being. I know that you will be strong and courageous. I know that you will be your mother's children."

He gave me a hug, and I wept. He clasped Sean by the shoulder, and then he left us.

Not long after, Padriac gathered up his entourage and headed off westward to pay his respects to

Seamus Redbeard. After that, who knew? There were always fresh horizons to be sought, new adventures to be experienced. You might, he said, spend your whole life thus and still leave plenty behind for your sons and your grandsons to cut their teeth on.

"And your daughters," I added dryly.

My uncle grinned, showing his dimples. "And your daughters," he agreed. "I hear you're a strong hand with a bow, and quick with a throwing knife, and neat on your feet with a staff. Next time I visit, I might teach you the art of sailing. You never know when you might need that."

I waited a little, choosing my time with care. The household was sub dued, the loss of my mother
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keenly felt, the departure of my father also disturbing, for without his constant, reassuring presence folk seemed a little lost, as if the work of farm and forest and settlement could not be done with energy and spirit unless his tall figure could be seen among them, helping to mend thatch or stack straw or tend to the breeding cattle. Conor and his band of druids showed no sign of leaving. I thought Liam seemed unusually withdrawn, and that Sorcha's death had hit her serious eldest brother rather harder than anyone would have expected. It seemed to me that Conor stayed for his brother's sake. But I suspected another motive as well. The archdruid was often there when I worked in my garden or played with Johnny on the grass. He would walk with me to the settlement and give the folk good advice and a blessing while I tended to their injuries and ailments. I thought that it was not me he watched, but Johnny. I had always trusted this uncle, so wise, so balanced, so serenely sure. Now I could not look at him without seeing

Ciaran's shadowed eyes and my sister's bruises. I thought about trust, and how dangerous it might prove

to be if you were wrong. I thought how perilous it was to make a choice based on trust, based on what others told you was right. It was plain to me what Conor wanted for me and for my son.

It was the same thing the Fair Folk wanted. Indeed, it seemed no more than common sense.

Perhaps the forest was the only place my son could be kept safe. But I could not be certain. The only choices I could be sure of were my own.

We sat together in the garden, as Johnny lay on his blanket under the trees. There was nobody about. I

was sewing, for Johnny grew fast and was constantly in need of small shirts and tunics. Conor sat by my side, looking down toward the lake.

"Uncle," I said cautiously, "I am not sure how to ask you this. I have heard many allusions to an old evil, something you thought long gone that is somehow awake again. I've been thinking of this a great deal, especially since my mother's passing. I remember your story, the one about Fergus and Eithne. In that tale the Fair Folk say that things will go wrong for Sevenwaters until the Islands are regained and the balance restored. It seems to me things are going wrong now.

What happened with Niamh was terribly wrong. I must tell you that I have discovered the reason why you forbade their marriage. I know of

Ciaran's identity. But I cannot understand why you did not tell them the truth. Twice you withheld it: first from Ciaran himself, letting him grow up ignorant of who he was; and then you let Niamh believe he had deserted her, simply telling her their union was for bidden without giving the reason—that was cruel indeed. I cannot understand why you would conceal the truth thus. This has not been the way of things for us here at Sevenwaters."

"Did Finbar tell you this?" Conor's voice was calm as ever, but his hands were restless, turning a hazel twig between his fingers.

"I spoke to him of these things, yes." I could not tell him Ciaran had returned. He could not know Niamh lived, though it seemed harsh to hold back this news. In choosing to be her protector, Ciaran had indeed set my sister apart from her family. "But Finbar did not break any promises, Uncle. He told me you had bound them to silence on this matter. I have pieced the truth together from visions and—and from other things."

"I see."

"I seek an explanation from you now if you will give one. For you warned me to keep my son here in the forest, as if he were indeed the child of the prophecy, the one who will put all to rights again. And it does appear the evil things are closing in on us. We have seen many losses here, not least the loss of trust. I

understand what the Fair Folk told me, that Johnny may be the key. But he's so little." I glanced down at

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Johnny, who was grunting with effort as he tried to reach his toes with his fingers. "If what they say is right, then my son may have a—a momentous part to play in all of this. I'm his mother.

How can I make any decisions if I have not been told the whole truth?"

Conor looked at me. "Have you told the whole truth?" he asked gravely.

I felt a blush come to my cheeks. "No, Uncle. But I do not seek to conceal an evil, only to protect those

I love. And I did tell my mother the truth before the end."

He nodded, apparently satisfied by this. "I, too, sought only to protect those I cared for, Liadan.

But I

made a terrible error. I thought I was strong enough to undo her evil work, to counter it with a strategy of my own. But I am only human, after all; a puny piece of this game. She is beyond that, a creature of greater power than anyone realized; devious and imaginative. We thought her gone forever. We were wrong."

"Her? You mean the Lady Oonagh, don't you? The same Sorceress who turned you into swans and

would have taken Sevenwaters for herself if my mother had not undone the enchantment?"

Conor sighed. "You say she would have taken it for herself. But it was not so simple. It was for her son she wanted it; it was through him that she sought to have power and influence. Her son bore her own tainted blood, the blood of a line of sorcerers; but he was also the son of Colum of Seven-waters and had a rightful claim to the tuath. With us safely out of the way, he was the heir. With him as her pawn, and by the use of her powers of sorcery, she could have swayed the destinies of kings, Liadan."

"I know you brought him up in the nemetons," I said. "Your father found him and took him from his mother, and you brought him up as a druid. I can understand that; but why didn't you tell him the truth?

Why wait until it was so late that hearing it near destroyed him?"

"My father made it his quest to find Ciaran and bring him home," said Conor quietly. "Such a one as the

Lady Oonagh cares little for a child of tender years. She intended, I imagine, to wait until he was old enough to be taught and then to make a sorcerer of him. So she fostered the boy with folk she deemed harmless: a childless couple in the south, who were only too glad of a bag of silver in return for the care of a small lad. Their dwelling was remote, hidden in the deep folds of a wooded valley. The Sorceress thought it safe to leave her son there awhile. She reckoned without my father's determination. So Ciaran was found and carried home to the forest. The boy was brought up in the lore, in the peace and discipline of the grove. Here, too, Lord Colum lived out the years of his old age hi contemplation and study and died a good death. Ciaran was like a son to me, Liadan; a fine young man, deep, wise, perceptive, quick to learn, and strong in self-discipline. He possessed every quality one would wish for in a future leader of our kind. I was so sure, so certain I could undo her work and make of this child a man who would follow the path of light, steadfast of purpose, sure in faith, unswerving in his dedication to the mysteries. We told no one who he was. Besides myself and my father, only my sister and brothers knew of his existence. I