Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  “All I wanted,” he said softly, staring down at the wine in his cup, “all I wanted was what any reasonable man wants. A wife, a son, my home and lands, the chance to provide for my folk and fulfill my duty. I never set a foot wrong, Fainne. I followed the rules at every turn. And then, at a snap of the fingers, it was stolen from me, not by a man of superior standing, that I might almost have understood, but by a miscreant who’d better have died in the cradle than lived to see the light of day.” His fingers clutched the cup so tight the knuckles were white. “Robbed of everything that mattered. Robbed even of the opportunity for vengeance. Worse still, forced into an unholy alliance with a creature whose very name I despise. And yet, I keep this house bright and fresh, as if spring walked in its halls, when the snows of midwinter blanket the fields outside. As if, even now, there were a chance she might come back.”

  He had rendered me speechless. I sat quiet, waiting for my heartbeat to slow, thinking I had been wrong about more than one thing. Thinking that, after all, Grandmother’s little tricks would have been no help whatever here, for this man had only ever wanted one woman, and that was the one he could not have.

  “You—you speak of my aunt Liadan, do you not?” I asked eventually.

  “Did Sean tell you that?” he snapped.

  “No,” I said as calmly as I could. “I guessed. You make it plain enough, for all your allusive speech. You can scarcely bear to hear her name spoken; and yet you seem to be telling me you still love her.”

  “Love?” His tone was bitter. “I once thought I understood that word. Not any longer. There is a giving and a taking between men and women. Perhaps that’s all there ever is. It cannot have been love that made her act as she did. More like some sort of perverse lust, that drove her to forget who she was, and what she had promised.”

  “It has been a long time,” I ventured. “You still seem so angry.”

  It was at this point that he appeared to recall where he was, and who he was talking to. I saw him draw a deep breath, and force his features to relax just a little.

  “I’m sorry, Fainne. I cannot believe I spoke thus to you. I forgot myself, and can only ask for your forgiveness. You are too young to be burdened with such foolishness.”

  He was a stickler for the rules. That was what Muirrin had said. It must pain him, to realize that he had thus revealed himself to a mere girl, and one of relatively short acquaintance. I framed my answer carefully.

  “I have not been raised as other girls have. Please don’t let this trouble you.”

  “You speak from your innocence,” he replied, frowning. “This was incorrect of me, undisciplined and inappropriate.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said quietly. “For it seems to me this is a burden that has gone unshared for a long time. Would you carry it to your grave?”

  “Fainne! You shock me. I may be an old man by your standards, but I’ve no intention of expiring quite yet.”

  “Nonetheless,” I said, “you go to battle this summer. An endeavor of great peril, of high risk. It seems you care little for the future of your name or your estates. Perhaps you do not fear death. Still, it is best to rid your spirit of such hatred. The goddess calls at what time she will, not at the time you choose to step across the margin.”

  “You’re a strange girl, Fainne,” said Eamonn, and he took my hand in his and raised it to his lips. “I do not know what to make of you.”

  “Nor I of you,” I said, withdrawing my hand. “I don’t know what you want of me.”

  “Right now,” he said, unsmiling, “I think it’s time you retired to bed. Take a candle from the shelf there, by the door.”

  “I—”

  “Best if you go, Fainne. I’m poor company tonight.”

  So I left him standing by the fire with the wine flask beside him, and I wondered how many cups he would need to drain, before he could win himself a brief oblivion.

  I stood before the mirror. It was a fine mirror; the polished bronze sent back the light of the candle flames, glowing with a golden warmth. Around the rim, the metal was finely chased with an intricate pattern, link within link, a triple chain with here and there an oval of enamel, inset. Scarlet, sun-gold, deep blue like the fathomless ocean. It was a rich man’s mirror. My reflection stared back at me, her form softened by the rosy tint of the metal, an autumn girl. I looked at myself, and heard Eamonn’s words. I’m a good teacher, he had said, and when I thought about it, there was not much doubt which arts he believed he could share with me. The girl in the mirror was not the sort of girl to fill a man with desire. Her hair curled tightly; it was the color of flame, bonfire red. Her eyes were the intense deep purple of the ripest berries. The lips were severe. It was a hermit’s mouth, suited to reciting the lore, or praying in seclusion. These were not lips for kissing, or whispering sweet words, or singing songs of love. The skin was pale, the cheeks without bloom. But my body had been changing almost without my noticing. I was developing curves here and there, so that the awkward, gangling girl now went in and out in all the right places. The twisted foot was still there. There was no cure for that legacy of a forbidden coupling, I thought savagely. But despite that, I looked…not unpleasant. I smiled at myself in the mirror, and the little amulet that hung around my neck sparkled back at me, catching the candlelight. My smile faded. It was foolish to believe I might ever be other than what I was. Looks were nothing. Where had looks got my mother? Sold off to the highest bidder, and miserable for the rest of her short life. Nonetheless, in Eamonn’s suggestive remarks and sidelong glances there lay the seed of a solution to my problem; the beginnings of a strategy for achieving my grandmother’s goal. I could hear her telling me so. This man is powerful. And he is corruptible. Get close to him, make him want you. Use him, Fainne.

  But I could not do it. The prospect sickened me. It was a misuse of the craft and I knew that I could not make myself go through with it. I slipped my nightrobe over my head and climbed into bed, conscious of the mirror still gleaming softly across the chamber, in the light from the little hearth fire. I lacked the will for it. My body shrank from it. How could I do it, when the very words the man spoke made me shudder? It was simply wrong. To manipulate a man thus, so that he panted after you like a hound after a bitch on heat, to bend him to your will so that he would do anything for you, that was to lose the last shred of self-respect. I did not think I would ever understand men, let alone wish to lie with one and do all the things Grandmother had told me men and women did together. The very thought disgusted me. There had to be another way. Coming here had been a mistake.

  Aren’t you forgetting something? said the small inner voice. What about your father? Seize this chance, Fainne. Already the alliance balances on a knife edge. Choose the weakest point, for that is fragile indeed. This man talks to you. Make him talk again. And remember, it’s in the bedchamber that a man speaks his most secret thoughts. I blocked my ears with my fingers, as if that would silence the voice within me. I curled into a tight ball under the covers. But there was no Riona to help me keep the voice at bay. There was no way to silence its relentless message. I did not need to look into the mirror to see my father’s image, wheezing and gasping for breath, using every vestige of control he possessed to keep from crying out in pain as the seizure laid an iron grip around his chest, robbing him of life-giving air. I felt the small, hard form of the amulet warm against my breast. You must go on, said the voice, over and over. For your father. You owe him. To the end, Fainne. Right to the end.

  The rain came back, and there was no riding out. Eamonn taught me to play brandubh, a somewhat more sophisticated game than ringstones. I was happy with this. The degree of concentration required to anticipate the opponent’s next strategic move meant one could not maintain one of those difficult conversations at the same time. Sitting opposite one another, with small table and game board between, meant no touching. The playing pieces were wondrously carved, the board itself decorated with intricate wooden inlay. We started with pr
actice games, and when he could see I understood the rules we began to play in earnest. Our third proper game went on long into the night. The rest of the household was abed, and the two of us sat alone before the fire. Eamonn drank steadily, as was his habit. I sipped at my wine, but took as little as I could. A clear head was required for the game on the board before us, and also for the subtler, unspoken game that continued between us in glance and gesture. Before dawn the black pieces had vanquished the white, and I had won. Eamonn was quite taken aback.

  “Well,” he remarked with a little frown, “I see I will have to watch you, Fainne.”

  Through a wide yawn, I could not resist saying, “You did tell me you were a good teacher.”

  “And you said you were a quick learner. That was true. You are almost too quick.”

  “You would rather I allowed you to beat me?” I asked, raising my brows.

  “Of course not.” His response was sharp. “You surprised me, that’s all. A woman’s mind is not usually able to grasp the intricate patterns of such play and use them to advantage. Next time I will be on my guard. I underestimated you as an opponent.”

  “And you don’t like losing.” These words came out before I could stop them.

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “One day your outspokenness will get you into trouble,” he said softly. “It might be wise to curb that tongue just a little, in other company. But you speak no more than the truth. I don’t accept defeat easily. I go into any venture expecting to win.”

  “And do you often lose?”

  “In the long term, never.”

  “But—”

  “A man who takes what is mine can expect retribution in kind. He may forget what he has done. But I do not forget.”

  “What if such a man became an ally?” I asked. “Would you not then face an impossible choice?”

  There was a pause. His fingers gripped the wine cup as if he were squeezing the breath from his enemy’s throat.

  “Such a man can never be considered an ally,” he said tightly. “One would better place trust in some Otherworld monster than in such as him. The normal codes of kinship and loyalty do not apply. Better that such a creature had never been born.”

  His bleak tone alarmed me. I regretted asking the question. I picked up my candle, and he seemed to come back to himself.

  “It’s very late. Almost day. You’d best lie abed in the morning, you’ll be weary.”

  “I may do so. But I am used to long days and early rising. Thank you for the game. I enjoyed it.” And I had. It was good to exercise the mind on something other than the impossible challenge Grandmother had set me. It was good to have to concentrate so hard that the image of Maeve’s burned face faded from my mind for a little. When I went home, perhaps I could teach Father…no, best not take that thought any further. I must indeed be tired.

  “Are you feeling faint?” Eamonn queried, stepping forward to take my arm. “You look pale. I’ve kept you up much too late.”

  “It’s nothing. It will pass.”

  “Good night, then. Or perhaps it should be good morning.” Usually he would give a grave nod or clasp my hand in his on taking leave of me. This time he bent forward and gave me a little kiss on the cheek. There was nothing in it, it was light and quick. But I saw the look in his eyes.

  “Good night,” I said hastily, and retreated to my own chamber. I lay in bed under my soft woollen blankets and fine linen, so weary I should have fallen asleep the moment my head touched the pillow, but unable to stop my mind from working busily. It was quite obvious what Grandmother would have me do now. Indeed, it was becoming apparent that the task she had set me might not be so impossible after all, if only I could force myself to do what must be done with Eamonn. But how could I? How could I bear it? As dawn broke outside and a cock began to crow extravagantly in the yard, I fell asleep with my problems still turning and tangling in my mind.

  I did not sleep long. There was a break in the wet weather, and the girls were anxious to be off out of doors, despite the bitter cold of the day. Visitors had arrived, and were already shut away with Eamonn in his council chamber. He, too, must have had little sleep. There were fine horses being tended to in the stables, and good cloaks being hung to dry before the kitchen fires. Nobody seemed willing to say who the visitors were. Maybe nobody knew.

  We went out walking, the five of us, clad in heavy, hooded capes and strong, winter boots. The sun was struggling to emerge from clouds still heavy with rain, and the breeze was biting, but the girls had smiles on their faces. They were glad to be out in the open again.

  “It’s good here,” observed Deirdre. “You can go for a walk without some man-at-arms forever leaping out and barring the way.”

  Eilis was jumping over puddles. One, two, three—jump! One, two, three—splash! She would need a change of clothes when we returned. As we made our way down a path between neatly clipped hedges of yew, toward a small grove of bare-limbed hazel trees, I observed that there were indeed guards. There was no leaping out, as Deirdre had put it, simply a discreet presence at a suitable distance. Men in green, well armed and silent. One might be allowed to wander, but not unwatched. It was for our safety, I supposed. Still, it riled me. I thought about Kerry, and the way Darragh and I had clambered around the cliffs like little wild goats, and scampered back and forth in the path of the advancing tide, and never a thought given by our folk as to whether we might be safe, or when we might come home. They knew we would be safe because we were together. My heart ached with the longing to be that small girl again. But there was no rewriting the past; there was no stopping the turning of the wheel.

  Deirdre wanted to climb trees. She tucked her skirts into her belt and hauled herself up with impressive agility and an unladylike display of leg. Immediately Eilis was clamoring for a boost up.

  “Babies,” scoffed Clodagh as she lifted her small sister to reach the bottom branch, but the glint in her eye meant she was not to be outdone by her twin, and soon the three of them were scrambling about like squirrels, and swinging perilously from the leafless branches.

  Sibeal was seated on a flat-topped rock, near where the rain-swollen stream came down into a small, round pool. Today the water was coated with foam, the current strong even in this place of temporary repose. Sibeal sat cross-legged, her hands still in her lap, her back very straight. It was a pose of meditation, like Conor’s. Her gaze was fixed on the water. I settled quietly on the rocks beside her.

  Some time passed. Sounds rose and faded: the laughter and shrieks of the others, the creaking of branches, the calls of birds; the voice of the water itself as it cascaded down into the receiving cup of the pool. The sun showed its face abruptly between the clouds, and light touched the surface of the water, piercing, dazzling in its pure brilliance. The froth of bubbles turned to gold; the wet rocks gleamed.

  On the other side of me, someone was squatting; someone about the same size as my cousin, but covered with feathers. Somehow, it was possible to speak without making a sound.

  You again.

  Disappointed? Who were you expecting?

  I did not come out here searching for Otherworld beings.

  Uh-huh. If the voice of the mind can express disbelief, this was what the creature conveyed. And I did not come to your call, but to hers.

  My—my cousin’s? She called you?

  She opened the way, so I could cross over. What she sees is something else entirely. She looks in the water. She sees what will be, and what may be. I’m here for you.

  Why would you seek me out? I was confused enough already. The last thing I needed was another cryptic dialogue that posed more questions than it gave answers.

  You’re mixed up. I feel it. You’ve lost your way, if you ever had one. And you don’t know who to ask for directions.

  I need no directions. I find my own way. My father taught me to solve my own problems.

  And you will. We’ve no doubt of that. But you’re wasting time. What about a little advice?<
br />
  Your advice? I think not. I don’t even know who you are. What you are.

  The small owl-like creature ruffled its feathers, dislodging one or two of them, which floated through the air before me, delicate, tawny fragments like autumn’s last skeleton leaves. On my other side, Sibeal still sat motionless, clear gaze fixed on the water.

  What I am, echoed the creature. What we are. Have a look at us, Fainne. If you can’t guess, with that headful of druidic lore, your education’s been wasted.

  Us? I asked, and as the voice of the mind spoke, I saw without opening my eyes a movement of the landscape, a changing and unfolding, as if the streamlet, the great boulders, the crevices of the earth wrinkled and shifted to reveal what had been there all along, if one had only known how to look. They gathered around me in a circle, silent. None was taller than a half-grown child; each was different, each in some way resembled a known creature, a frog, a squirrel, a piglet maybe, though some seemed as much like small plants or bushes as anything; each was uniquely itself. They were not animal, and they were most certainly not human. I looked closer. There was one with a single eye in the middle of its forehead, and one had but a single leg, and hopped along on a small crutch fashioned of birch wood. One had deep wrinkles over its whole body, like an old, dried-up apple; and one seemed covered from head to toe in a gray-green, fuzzy moss.

  You are—you are—I hesitated.

  Go on. The owl-like creature nodded encouragingly. Who were the first folk in the land of Erin?

  You were? I ventured.

  There was an approving chorus of chuckles, murmurs, hoots and growls.

  We are the Old Ones. It was the mossy, rock-like creature that spoke. Its form was solid, without discernible limbs, and yet it had a face of sorts: a crack of a mouth, and reddish lichen patches which might have been eyes. We are your ancestors.

  What! I almost spoke aloud, so taken aback was I. You? How could that be?

  There was a ripple of laughter around me. Sibeal did not stir.

  Your ancestors, and your cousin’s. But she does not see us. What she sees is quite other. You seem shocked. The owl-creature fixed its large around eyes on me. You never asked the druid for the story, did you? What were you afraid of? The story tells of a union, long ago, between a man of the Gaels and one of our own. The line of Sevenwaters sprang from that coupling. And you are a child of Sevenwaters.