“Fainne,” said Deirdre, “are you going to marry Uncle Eamonn? Clodagh said you were.”
“I did not!” Clodagh exclaimed. “What I said was, who’d marry Uncle Eamonn if they could have someone like Darragh? You weren’t listening.”
“I was too!”
“That’s enough.” Sean did not need to raise his voice to silence them. Deirdre scowled. She did not like to be in the wrong.
“Who’s Darragh?” inquired Aunt Liadan casually. No one answered. It appeared the question was intended for me.
“Nobody,” I muttered.
Liadan raised her brows as if she found my reply less than adequate. We rode through a narrow way between rock walls; the silent escort was before and behind, their work a seamless demonstration of control, achieved with never a word. I was spared from response, as we must go single file. When we emerged, Clodagh answered the question for me.
“Darragh’s a boy in Fainne’s stories about the traveling folk. He rides a white pony.”
“Her name’s Aoife,” put in Deirdre. “They came, when we were at Glencarnagh. We never thought they were real, but they came to see Fainne. Uncle Eamonn sent them away.”
“He came all the way from—from—” Clodagh faltered.
“Ceann na Mara,” I said grimly.
“I gave the pony a carrot.” Eilis must have her say.
I could not let this go on any longer. “He’s nobody,” I said repressively, feeling Sibeal’s eyes on me as well as Liadan’s. “He’s just a boy I know from home, that’s all. From Kerry. That old woman, the one who sits in your kitchen, Janis I think her name is, she’s some sort of relation. He came to see her.”
Sean and Liadan glanced at each other.
“This is the lad who came to Sevenwaters looking for you?” asked Sean. “One of Dan Walker’s folk?”
“His son,” I said.
“Dan played the pipes at my mother’s funeral,” Liadan said softly. “That was the loveliest music I heard in my life, and the saddest. He must surely be the best piper in all of Erin, that man.”
“Darragh plays better,” I said before I could stop myself. My fingers moved up to touch the amulet. I must not speak of him. He was gone. Forgotten. I had to remember that, so there was not the slightest reason for my grandmother to be put in mind of him at all.
“Really?” said Liadan, smiling. “Then he must be a fine musician indeed.”
But I made no comment, and we rode on in silence with our strange escort keeping pace like watchful shadows.
It was on the second day that it happened. We had stopped overnight at one of my uncle Sean’s outer settlements, and I had shared my sleeping quarters with the girls. This arrangement pleased me. Their incessant chatter could be wearisome, but anything was better than having to endure another of those strange conversations with my aunt, in which she seemed to comprehend so much more than I put into words. Aware that I must go on as I had begun, aware of the implications of what I had promised Eamonn, I had no wish to let Liadan befriend me, or to reveal to her any secrets. Indeed, it was time for me to put aside all friendships, and concentrate on what must be done. I had to remember that. I must be strong; I would be strong, for had not my father himself trained me in self-discipline, and him a very model of control?
We rode along a narrow track overlooking a tree-clothed valley. It had been snowing in the night, and the pines still wore a white dusting on their thickly needled branches. Sean’s dogs raced ahead, leaving twin sets of neat tracks. It was a still day, the sky a mass of heavy low cloud. Between that and the encroaching trees, I could not escape the old sense of being trapped, shut in. I rode glumly along, trying to find, somewhere in my thoughts, a clear image of the cove, with the wild gulls soaring in the open sky, and the air full of the smell of salt spray, and the thunder of the ocean on the rocks of the Honeycomb. But all I could see was my father’s face, wasted and white, and all I could hear was his struggle for breath as he coughed and retched in his shattered workroom.
Our horses picked their way carefully along the track. It was quite narrow, and for a short stretch the hillside went steeply upward on our right, and plunged sharply downward on our left, where tumbled boulders marked the site of some old landslide. Three of the masked men were in front, and then my uncle, followed by Clodagh and Sibeal. I was next, with the others behind me. Lucky, I thought, that my little horse was such a remarkable creature, for I still had no skills whatever in horsemanship. But this gentle mare knew her way, and could be trusted to carry me safely. I owed her a great deal; I had misused her, exhausted her, and still she bore me willingly. When we got home I must ensure she had rest, and care, and whatever it was horses liked, carrots maybe.
It was sudden. There was no saying what it was: a bird, or a bat, or something more sinister. It came from nowhere, moving swift as an arrow, swooping down and up again in complete silence, gone almost before I had time to see it. My heart thumped in shock. The mare trembled, and halted. But in front of us, where the shadow had passed, Sibeal’s pony shied, lifting its forelegs high, and she was thrown. There was no time to think. I saw her small, cloaked figure flying through the air, down toward the rocky slope on our left. I heard Deirdre’s scream from behind me. The craft flowed through me, though I was barely conscious I had summoned it. The long years of practice served me well. Stop. The child hung suddenly in midair, suspended not three handspans above a jagged boulder where her small head would have struck with some violence. Now gently down. I made the necessary adjustments. A little to the right, so she would come to rest on a narrow ledge beside the ungiving rocks. Not too sudden; she would be frightened and might still fall. Now it was over. I was shivering from head to toe and incapable of speech, as if even this limited use of the craft had drained me.
Aunt Liadan’s men were good. Almost before Sibeal had time to realize what had happened, two of them had descended the precipitous slope to the place where she lay, and were supporting her small form to ensure she did not tumble down further. With reassuring words they carried her carefully back up to the track. Liadan, white-faced, checked the child quickly for broken bones; Sibeal herself was remarkably composed, a sniff or two, a slight tremble of the lip her only signs of distress. Eilis, on the other hand, was sobbing with fright. As soon as Sibeal was pronounced unhurt, she was put up in front of her father, and our guard led us with quiet efficiency down the hill to a safe place under the pines, where we might pause for a little and recover ourselves. A small fire was made; tea brewed. I busied myself comforting the now-bawling Eilis, for the last thing I wanted was questions asked. I had acted instinctively; I had taken the only course possible. If it happened again, I knew I would do no differently. Yet I still wore my grandmother’s amulet; I still trod her path. I sensed a change, in myself or in the talisman I bore. Since the night she had come to me, the night when she had threatened to destroy all I held dear, it seemed I could no longer do her will blindly, without question. Was the amulet’s power muted somehow by the cord which now bore it? My heart was chill. Perhaps today’s incident had been mere chance. But maybe it was Grandmother’s doing, a kind of test. If that were so, there was no doubt I had failed it miserably. I had done the exact opposite of what she would have wanted. Perhaps I would never know. Perhaps, from now on, I would have to watch every fall, every little accident, not knowing.
“You’re such a good rider, Eilis,” I said quietly, smoothing the child’s curls. “When we get home I’ll tell your mother how you kept your horse under control, even when that happened, and were as brave as could be.” Slowly she grew calmer, and after a while Deirdre brought the two of us tea, and I watched from a distance as Liadan checked Sibeal again, more thoroughly this time, peering into her eyes and asking her questions. The child’s pony seemed none the worse for wear; it now stood by the others, cropping the meager winter grass.
“Funny,” remarked Deirdre. “When people fall off a horse, they usually just—fall. But Sibeal—she sort of
floated, the last bit. I’ve never seen that before.”
“Magic,” hiccuped Eilis. “Like in a story.”
“She could have died.” Deirdre was thinking hard. But before she could reach any conclusions, Liadan was there beside us, and the girls were off to cluster around Sibeal and ply her with more tea and questions.
My aunt sat down by me on a fallen branch. Her expression was unsmiling, almost severe.
“My brother did not see what happened here; but I did, Fainne,” she said quietly. “At first I thought I was imagining things. But Sibeal said, Fainne saved me.”
I did not reply.
“You do not know, perhaps, that your father saved my life once, through the use of the druidic arts. You did a fine thing today, Fainne. Ciarán would be proud of you. So quick; so subtle.”
Misery settled on me; I might have wept, if I could.
“You seem sad,” said Liadan. “Do you miss him terribly?”
Despite myself, I nodded.
“Mmm,” she said. “It’s a long way from Kerry. I’ve wondered why Ciarán did not come with you, for you are overyoung to make such a journey on your own. Conor would have welcomed him. I’m sure he welcomed you. Such talent would doubtless have my uncle busy trying to recruit you to the brotherhood. He has never found another with your father’s aptitude.”
“Don’t be foolish!” I snapped, furious with myself for letting feelings get the better of me again. “Our kind cannot aspire to the higher paths of druidry. We are cursed, and can never walk the ways of light.”
Liadan lifted her brows. Her eyes were the green of winter leaves in cool sunlight; her face was snow-pale. “It seems to me,” she said softly, “that you’ve just disproved your own theory.”
She was wrong, of course. She did not know the other things I had done, terrible things. She did not understand what I must still do.
“You’re shaking, Fainne. You have had a bad shock, my dear. Come, give me your hand, let me help you.”
“No!” My voice sounded harsh. I would not let her look in my eyes, and read what was in my mind. Perhaps she thought I did not know she was a seer. “I’m quite well, Aunt Liadan,” I added more politely. “What I did was—was simply what one does, a small trick, no more. I’m glad I was able to help. It was nothing.”
She did not comment, but I sensed her gaze on me, shrewdly appraising. She rode home beside her brother, and they did not speak aloud, but both seemed very serious. I wondered if they spoke of me, mind to mind, in the strange manner of the Fomhóire folk from whom, if my grandmother were to be believed, they had inherited this skill.
Something had altered at Sevenwaters since we had been gone. I could not quite put my finger on it; it was just as if the feeling had lightened, the shadow had passed, and an order and purpose had come back into the place. It was as if, somehow, the family had regained its heart. Aisling hugged her daughters, smiling; Muirrin hovered behind, and there beside her was Maeve, with a big bandage around her head. Her sisters rushed to greet her, all talking at once.
“Careful now,” Muirrin cautioned. “It’s only for a moment, then she’s to go straight back to bed.”
There were smiles and tears all around. I stood back, for I had no part in this. I waited for them to be finished, so I could go to my room and shut the door and be alone. So I could go somewhere and not see. Saving one child did not cancel out harming another. It was not so simple.
The girls were beaming. And Deirdre was blushing. The widest smiles, the most effusive greetings were not in fact for Aisling, or for Maeve, but for someone else entirely. Close by the family stood two more of Liadan’s men in their plain dark-colored clothes, though these two were not masked. I had thought them guards. Both were young; one took the eye immediately, for his skin was as dark as fine oak, and his hair was in small braids like a druid’s, but decorated with bright beads and scraps of feather at the ends. He stood by Maeve, supporting the child with his arm. I saw Muirrin whisper something in his ear, and he smiled, a quick flash of white teeth.
But it was the other young man who had my cousins’ attention, though I could not for the life of me see why. He was an ordinary enough sort of fellow, pleasant-featured, shortish but strongly built, his curling brown hair severely cropped. He turned slightly, and I saw to my surprise the markings on his face, a delicately incised pattern of some subtlety which encircled one eye and swirled boldly onto brow and cheek. It was very fine work; there was a slight suggestion of beak, and feathers, no more. Around us, the men who had made up our guard had dismounted and in turn removed their mask-like hoods, and I saw that every single one of them wore some similar marking on his face, mostly quite small, a few more elaborate, no two quite alike. Each had the hint of a creature about it—badger, seal, wolf, stag. I was the only one staring. To the others, this band of painted warriors must be a familiar sight.
“Fainne.” It was Clodagh, who had appeared at my side, and was tugging my sleeve. “This is Johnny.”
The ordinary-looking young man was standing behind her, with a friendly grin on his patterned features. I gaped. This was Johnny, the fabled child of the prophecy? This unprepossessing young fellow who seemed no different from one of his own guard? Surely this could not be right. I had expected—well, I had at least expected a warrior of formidable stature, or maybe a scholar steeped in craft and learning. Not—not someone who might just as well be a stablehand or a kitchen man.
“So many cousins,” Johnny said, “and all of them girls. I am glad to meet you, Fainne. Maeve has spoken a great deal about you, and told us all your stories.” He reached out and clasped my hand. His grip was warm and strong. I looked into his eyes, and realized on an instant that I had been quite wrong. His eyes were gray and deep. They assessed me quickly, recorded what they saw, and put it away for future reference. The man was clever. He was a strategist. And his smile was hard to resist. I found myself smiling back.
“That’s better,” he said. “Now, here’s my friend Evan. Evan’s Mother’s apprentice. She’ll tell you he has the makings of a first-rate healer. He and Muirrin have done wonders with young Maeve. The two of them make a fine team.”
He grinned at the dark-skinned man, and then at Muirrin. Muirrin blushed; Evan looked down at the ground. Then Liadan said Maeve should be back in bed, and in the flurry of getting indoors and sorting out baggage, I was able to flee upstairs and into my own chamber, where I bolted the door behind me, though against what, I hardly knew.
I won’t like him, I seemed to be saying to myself. I can’t like him. That makes it too hard. I sat on the floor before the hearth, but I did not light the fire, for all the freezing chill of the winter day. I feared what visions I might see in its heart, the evil things that lay before me, those I might do myself, and those I might be powerless to stop. It should be easy, I told myself. It’s a game of strategy. Like brandubh. You know what must be done. Just do it.
Easy enough to say. Things had indeed changed here at Sevenwaters, and it was not solely that Liadan had come, and that Maeve was now improving faster than anyone had dared to hope. It was him, Johnny. You could see it in the way the men came to him for answers, and the way he spoke to them, friendly, respectful, but confident, as if he were a far older man, seasoned and wise. You could see it in his smile and in his bearing; in the way he wore his plain clothes with pride, as if being part of a team gave him greater satisfaction than any mark of leadership. Yet he was a leader. Older men fell silent to hear him speak. Women hastened to provide his meal or refill his goblet, and blushed when he offered a kind word. He was everywhere, drilling Sean’s men in the yard, inspecting the building of a new barn, chatting to Janis in the kitchens. Often enough he could be found by Maeve’s bedside, telling a story, or listening as she whispered confidences. It was his sweet smile that had warmed these halls; his ready offers of help that had brought the color back to Aisling’s wan face; his counsel that Sean sought in the evenings, as the men talked long over maps and diagrams.
Because of him the household had regained the sense of strength and purpose which had vanished at Samhain, the night of the fire. I had brought the darkness. Johnny had restored the light.
It was close to Meán Geimhridh. Often, at the cove, the weather was so wild in this season that the day could not be read from the stones; all was in shadow as clouds blocked the midwinter sun. Still, I would know; I would go up the hill in rain or gale, and sit beneath the dolmen looking out to the west, thinking if I could see far enough I might catch a glimpse of Tír na nÓg, isle of dreams. But I never did. Then I’d just sit, cloak up over my head against the wind, feeling the strength of the rock at my back like a great supporting hand, and I’d dream my own dreams of summer. Summer would always come. It was just a matter of waiting and being strong. That was all finished now, of course. I had said goodbye to the cove, and to my father. I had sent Darragh away, far away where he could be safe, and for me there could be no more summers.
It was necessary to practice. To do what I must, an exercise of the craft was required which went far beyond what my father had allowed me to do. Indeed, he had expressly forbidden it, and with good reason. So, I must sharpen my skills again, discipline my mind and make myself strong. Then, only then might I attempt a transformation from human girl to wild creature and, still more difficult, a return to myself. The prospect terrified me. What if I had overestimated my own ability? What if I condemned myself to life as a duck or a toad, or worse still, found myself trapped between one form and another? Then I would indeed be powerless to protect those I sought to shield from her. This was a potent charm, one of the most challenging forms of the craft; it drained the strength and taxed the mind. My father had not thought me ready to try it. What if that were still so? Time was passing quickly; already, in the chill of the solstice, it seemed men gathered for some imminent departure, and Aunt Liadan spoke of returning home. Even in winter’s darkness, these folk set their gaze on summer’s victory. It was not so long. I must prepare.
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