Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  I thought the Islands were no more than rocks in the sea. If—if, as you say, all is to be laid waste, how can they help anyone survive? Surely they can sustain no life?

  The little creature gave a huge sigh that shivered through all its feathers. I told you. It’s the Last Place. The druid’ll explain.

  I don’t want to ask him.

  He wants you to ask him. He’s waiting for you to ask him. He’s been waiting since the very moment your father stormed out of Sevenwaters, and the wise ones lost their future leader. But you know that, don’t you?

  I did not reply. The feathered being was uncomfortably close to the mark.

  Any more questions? Rain’s coming. Want to know what your aunt Liadan said when she heard Ciarán’s daughter had turned up at Sevenwaters? Want to know how your father’s doing, all alone in Kerry? Want to hear a tale about pipers and weddings?

  Stop it! How can you know so much, anyway? It might be all lies, put out just to confuse and distress me.

  Distress? Thought you weren’t capable of such a feeling. How do I know so much? What sort of a question is that, from a sorceress half-fledged? Didn’t your father ever teach you how to scry?

  I hesitated.

  Well?

  Yes. But I’m not very good at it.

  The small being gave a nod. There’s some in your family have quite a talent in that direction, it said. What you need’s a seer. And then it happened again, that slight changing of the way matters were, and there was a flap of wings, and silence.

  Deep in trance, I could not move or open my eyes. By the time I had completed the slow sequence of shallowing the breath and coming back to the conscious mind, of reawakening the body and, finally, emerging into the time and place of now and here, there was not a bird in sight. Just the quiet clearing, and the archdruid stretching his arms above his head, and rising gracefully to his feet with the ease of a man half his age. The day was clear and the sun still shone, glittering on the lake water down the hill between the willows.

  “Ready?” Conor asked me quietly. I nodded and we began the walk homeward.

  It should not have taken long. We had come only far enough to be sure of solitude and quiet. I was distracted, my mind repeating that strange conversation, and trying to puzzle out how much of it was real, and how much the product of a rather effective meditation combined with my natural unease. After a while I began to notice that, although I was certain we had simply retraced our steps along the track, now we were walking through a different kind of terrain, where surely we had not been before; a steep sort of hillside tumbled with many boulders. There was the sound of a stream very close at hand. It began to rain, fat droplets spattering, then a shivering gust of wind followed by sudden, drenching sheets of water. I could have sworn the sun was still shining. I pulled my shawl up over my head in a futile attempt to keep dry.

  “In here, Fainne!” yelled Conor through the downpour, and, seizing my hand, he pulled me sideways off the narrow path and down into the shelter of the rocks. It was a long way down, through a very low opening into a place where there was a real cave, with a broad shelf above the stone floor, and a small, round opening in the roof which let in the light. Somewhere close at hand water gushed noisily.

  “The stream,” said Conor, stating the obvious. “One of the seven. Rain swells it quickly. Are you very wet? I suppose we could make a small fire.”

  “With what?” I said touchily, surveying the bleak, damp interior of the chamber. Outside, it sounded as if the rain was coming down in buckets. There was a thing about druids, and rain.

  “We could improvise,” he said with a little smile. “Between us, we could come up with something.”

  “Maybe.” My tone was less than accommodating. I did not like being tricked. I did not like being cold and wet and stuck in a little cave with an archdruid, family or not. “But there’s no need. This must pass quickly. The day seemed fair enough.”

  “It did, didn’t it?” remarked Conor. “Still, I’d prefer it if you didn’t catch cold.” He took off the cape he wore over his long robe, and put it around my shoulders. It settled there, soft and warm and not even the tiniest bit damp. “That’s better.”

  I could not hold my tongue any longer. “If you’re deliberately trying to annoy me,” I snapped, “you’re succeeding.”

  He smiled. “And if you are deliberately avoiding extricating yourself from this situation, because you don’t want me to see how much you already know, then you’re wasting my time and your own.”

  I scowled at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Could you not use a spell of transportation, and be safe before your little fire in the keep? Safe behind closed doors?”

  “In fact, no,” I told him crossly. “Father said I wasn’t ready to learn that.”

  Conor nodded. “Very wise of him. It’s all too easy, if you know how, to rush off home every time things get too much for you. Well, you may not know that spell just yet. But there are others.”

  “You mean, I could turn you into a frog, since you seem to like the wet weather so much?”

  “Well, yes. You could try. But I’m somewhat older than you, and while I don’t make a habit of using sorcerer’s tricks, that doesn’t mean I’m ignorant of them. I think you might find it just a little difficult. You’d have to be exceptionally quick.”

  I glared down at the stone shelf on which we sat. The sound of the downpour was all around us; cascading past the around opening above us, roaring outside the narrow passage through which we had entered. Below us, on the cave floor, water was running across the rock and pooling in the center. The walls were dripping.

  “I wanted him to stay,” Conor said softly. Despite the din I heard him clearly. “I asked him to stay, but he would not. He was very young, and hurt. He should not have left us. There’s never been another with such aptitude; with such breadth of skill and such depth of intellect. I found it hard to forgive myself. It is part of the trust, part of the guardianship, that each generation gives a son or a daughter to the wise ones.”

  “Surely there have been others,” I said, wondering how he could tell barefaced lies and still sound so convincing. He must know the restrictions placed on our kind. He must comprehend what Ciarán was, and how that fettered him. Yet he spoke like a father who had lost a beloved son. “There are my cousins: Sean’s daughters, and my aunt Liadan’s sons. Surely one of them—?”

  “The apt are not easily found. It is not a vocation you choose for yourself. It chooses you. I thought once that Liadan would take that path, Liadan or her son. But she broke the pattern. And as for Johnny, he could have been anything he wanted to be. But she took him away. Johnny is a warrior and a leader of fighting men, young as he is. Liadan made her own path. Both the strange inhabitants of Inis Eala and the good folk of her husband’s estate in Britain see her as the heart of their community. And she is a skilled healer. Muirrin fulfils that role at Sevenwaters. But there is no druid.”

  I was silent, watching the pool on the floor as it deepened and spilled over, a great bowl of water swirling dark into the corners of the cave. I did not wish to show I was frightened.

  “Did you know,” said Conor conversationally, “that I myself was close to twenty years old before I entered the nemetons? I had studied, of course, and made a start on the lore and the discipline. But I left it very late. By that age, Ciarán was close to completing his apprenticeship. I’d be more content if I believed it had not been wasted. The water seems to be rising.”

  I nodded.

  “Who were the first folk in the land of Erin?” he asked softly.

  “The Old Ones. The Fomhóire. People of the deep ocean, the wells and the lake beds. Folk of the sea and of the dark recesses of the earth.”

  “And after them?”

  “The Fir Bolg. The bag men.”

  “Could you go on?”

  “As long as you wanted. I suppose it would be one way to die: reciting the lore as you slowly drowned.”
>
  He looked at the cave floor. The water was not only dripping down the walls, now it was gushing in through the low entrance, a sort of stream of its own. There would be no getting out that way. The level was climbing ever close to our ledge. The roar outside went on unabated.

  “It does seem to be getting deeper,” observed Conor.

  I clenched my teeth together and tried to look as if I didn’t mind a bit. I racked my brains for an appropriate spell, but nothing came to mind. It was my father who was good with the weather.

  “Not frightened, are you?” Conor asked, edging back a little on the ledge. The water was splashing up close to our toes. “Didn’t he bring you up in Kerry, in some place where the waves are as tall as oak trees? I’m sure that’s what I heard young Maeve saying.”

  “Yes, well, I may be used to looking at the water, and smelling the water, and hearing it, but that doesn’t mean I want to be in it,” I said tightly.

  “No. I’d say fire is your element,” said the druid calmly. “I seem to be getting wet feet. Shall we attempt an escape?” He rose to stand, looking up at the small round hole in the cave roof above us. It would be possible, I thought, to squeeze out. Just. If one could scramble up first. The water was around my ankles, and rising fast.

  “What do you think?” inquired Conor, and at that moment a cascade burst through the opening above his head, a sudden violent waterfall that continued relentlessly, making it impossible to hear and difficult to see. The level rose with alarming rapidity to my waist; I felt my gown dragging me down. My heart was thumping, and even if I had wanted to turn into a fish or a frog and save myself, sheer terror would have made it impossible.

  Conor was yelling into my ear. “Come on! I’ll help you! Take a breath, and go on up!”

  “What?” Up through there, up through that pounding, drenching downflow, with water in my nose and eyes and ears, and no idea what was on the other side? The very thought paralyzed me.

  “Quick!” shouted Conor, and he grabbed my arm as my foot slipped on the ledge, under the water, and I came close to disappearing beneath the surface. “Quick, while we can still see where it is.”

  “I—I—”

  “Are you Ciarán’s daughter, or aren’t you?” he said, and putting his arms around my waist, he lifted me up toward the circle of light, through which water poured down unabated. I took a breath, remembering to fill my chest slowly from bottom to top, and then I reached out and hauled myself up as hard as I could against the weight of the descending water. I clutched at the slippery rocks, scrabbled for a root or branch or anything that might give purchase, held my breath until my chest seemed close to bursting, cursed the need for a long gown, kicked out with my booted feet and found a little ledge in the rock, pushed upward…and at last, found air. I gripped at the exposed roots of a willow, gasping and choking, and scrambled out onto rocks over which water ran and ran, funnelling down through the narrow opening into the cave.

  “Conor!” I screamed, leaning over and peering back down into the darkness beneath the torrent. “Conor!” There was no reply. I looked around wildly, thinking a rope would be handy, or a little ladder, or even a small lantern, if I could get it to light. Light. Fire. At least then he could see the way out. I clicked my fingers, muttering. There was a pop and a fizz, and a little cloud of steam. “Oh, come on,” I said, and did it again. A ball of flame appeared, and hung in the air above the dark hole in the rocks. Hurry up, Fainne, I thought grimly. The man’s old enough to be your grandfather, and he did save you first. I looked around again, and was just in time to grab a stout branch of ash wood as the flood swept it by. I clutched the tree roots with one hand as the water washed around me, and reached down with the stick. Surely the cave must be near full by now. How long could an old man hold his breath? I moved the stick around, my fingers gripping tight against the sucking of the water. There had never been such rain. Cursed forest. Words ran through my head. We think you don’t give a toss what casualties you leave behind. A pox on the Fair Folk and their owlish friends. What did they know? I cast about with the stick again, searching for something, anything. Where was he? The rain ran down my face, washing it clean, washing everything away. Was this how it felt to weep?

  The stick jerked in my hand. I let go the tree roots and put both hands on the ash branch, wedging my foot between the roots to keep from being swept away over the rocks and down the steep bank. Overhead, the orb of fire maintained a steady glow, lighting the way up. I pulled as hard as I could, feeling the strain arching through my back. Come on, come on, old man. Not far. Not very far.

  A long, pale hand appeared, gripping the stick, and then another, emerging through the cascade to grasp at the muddy roots beside me. I bent and grabbed his arm, and pulled again with all my strength. There was a splash, and his head emerged from the water, small plaits plastered damply to his cheeks, mouth open and gasping like a fish. Somehow, he still managed to look dignified.

  “Manannán save me,” he spluttered, “that’s an experience I’d gladly not repeat. Give me your hand again, Fainne. Not as agile as I once was…ah, that’s it. By all that’s holy. And my staff’s gone as well.”

  “Come on,” I said, getting to my feet with some difficulty on the treacherous surface. “Let me help you. We’re best off these rocks and onto some dry land, if there’s any to be found.”

  “Very wise, Fainne,” he said, coughing explosively as he gazed at the ball of light hovering above the hole in the ground. Water still poured in. Further down the hill, there was now the sound of a gushing exit.

  I mumbled a word, and the flames died. “Come on,” I said again, and we made our stumbling way, arms linked for safety, over the rocks and along the remnants of a hillside track, now crumbling away in many small landslides, until we found a stand of pine trees, and a space under them, needle-carpeted, thickly canopied, and mercifully dry. We sat on the ground side by side, breathing hard.

  “It’ll come back,” I observed eventually.

  “What will?”

  “The staff. You needn’t worry. They always make their way back. That’s what Father said.”

  “Did he? I’ve never lost it before. There are tales. Maybe they are true, and maybe not.”

  “Why did you do that? Why would you do such a thing? They tell me not to use the craft unwisely, and then you—you go and nearly kill yourself. And you’re an archdruid. Why?”

  “Why did I do what, Fainne?”

  “That. The rain and—and everything. At your age you should know better.”

  “Why assume it was my doing?”

  I looked at him sideways as I took the shawl off my shoulders and wrung it out. The dye had not run; still it bore its brave pattern of all that was fine and fair and lovely. “Father always said you were good with weather.”

  “Uh-huh.” Now that he had his breath back, Conor seemed remarkably his old self; almost as if nothing at all had happened.

  “Father’s good with weather too,” I said cautiously. “He commanded winds and waves once, at the cove. The folk there think him a hero.”

  “I’m sure that is no less than the truth,” said Conor very quietly. “A hero makes errors, and becomes strong. But he’d be the last one to recognize it. Listen. The rain’s stopping. Shall we go home?”

  We walked. My boots squelched, and my gown felt like a lead weight. I had lost Conor’s cape somewhere in the water, and had only my wet shawl to keep out the chill. The rain dwindled to droplets, then ceased altogether. The wind died down. On the shore, where the track emerged from the trees, a long, strong piece of birch wood lay washed up, its smooth pale surface carven with many tiny symbols.

  “You were right,” Conor said, bending to pick it up. It seemed to me the staff rose to settle in his hand, as if coming home. Interestingly, as we made our way along the last stretch of track, between the forest and the outer fields, I felt my clothing drying, and my hair no longer heavy and damp, and my boots once more watertight and comfortable. As
for Conor, you’d have thought he’d been for no more than a fair weather stroll.

  I was thinking hard. I was piecing together what had happened; trying to look beyond the physical and immediate, and to perceive the less obvious, as my father had taught me to do. The darkness of the cave, under the earth. The ascent through water, the emergence through a narrow opening, into light and air. The fire. That part I had made myself. The hand stretched out in friendship, in kinship. And the strange sense of peace which had settled on me now, against all that was logical. I stopped walking.

  “What is it, Fainne?” asked Conor quietly, not looking at me.

  I was not sure how to frame the question.

  “I don’t think you can do that,” I said eventually, scowling at him. “Perform an—an initiation, I suppose it was—without someone’s agreement. I shouldn’t think it works, unless your apprentice has done the right preparation, and enters into it in a spirit of goodwill. Besides—” I stopped myself. It was not for me to remind him that the offspring of a line of sorcerers could never become a druid. That he must know already.

  “Besides what, Fainne?” He was smiling; Dana only knew what he was thinking, the devious old man.

  “Nothing.” I scuffed the earth with my boot, feeling my anger rising. “Just—you must know how pointless this is, with me. You know whose daughter I am. I cannot be—I cannot be part of this. The forest, the family, the—the brotherhood. You must realize that.”

  Conor began to walk again, steady and quiet in his old leather sandals.

  “I did not plan this,” he said. “I don’t suppose you believe me, but it is the truth nonetheless. Perhaps it was, as you say, a test; if so, you have passed it, I think. A test set by others than myself. It may take time before its meaning becomes plain to us. You might use this as the basis for meditation and consideration, Fainne. There’s always something to be learned from such an experience.”

  “What?” I snapped. This wasn’t fair; he sounded just like my father. “That an archdruid can drown as easily as the next man, maybe?”