“I will do as you bid me,” I said. “And my plan will work with Eamonn, I promise you. But I’ll be a long way away. You may not hear from me now until the last.”
“I’ll know where you are, and what you’re doing,” said the lady Oonagh. “I always do.”
Not quite always, I thought. “Farewell then,” I said.
“Farewell, child. I have great hopes for you. Don’t disappoint me. Don’t forget your father, and that other one who’s never far from your thoughts.”
“No, Grandmother.” I made my words firm and sure as the flames died down, and the glowing eyes faded quite away, and the evil voice fell silent.
I waited a long time, and when I judged it safe, I went to the chest and took out Riona, and I lay on the bed hugging her like a child. I could not stop shivering, even with a blanket over me, and after a time I got up and went to stand by the window, watching the gentle fall of snow through the shadowy air of the winter night. I thought of my father, all alone in the dark halls of the Honeycomb, and I spoke softly, using the tool he had given me to maintain my courage; to focus on what was and is and must be.
Whence came you?
From the Cauldron of Unknowing.
What do you seek?
Wisdom. Understanding. I seek the way to the Light.
It was a strange time of year to travel, the weather inclement, the days at their shortest. I asked no questions about that. A message had been sent to Eamonn, along the lines Johnny had suggested. It was anticipated the recipient might be less than pleased with this missive, and waste no time in paying a call, and asking questions. Our departure, therefore, took place on the day this letter was dispatched. By the time Eamonn could ride to Sevenwaters I would be well gone. This was not stated in so many words, but I understood it. Maybe I should have made a show of protest. But my mind was taken up with other things, and I let it pass.
To my astonishment the girls were distraught that I was leaving. Eilis wept. I had never thought the child had much regard for me; after all, I was a hopeless rider. Perhaps her tears were no more than habit. But Clodagh hugged me, and so did Deirdre, and their expressions were identically woeful.
“Come home safe,” said Clodagh.
“We’ll miss you terribly,” sniffed Deirdre. “It’ll be so boring here when you’re gone.”
“Goodbye, Fainne,” Sibeal said gravely. “You’ll need to watch out for cats.” I stared at her, understanding she had seen ahead, perhaps to a time of transformation. I could not ask her what she meant, not while the others stood close by, but I nodded acknowledgment. Muirrin kissed me on both cheeks, and gave me a gown of soft gray wool, which she said would be nice and warm, for the winds bit hard up there. Muirrin was not weeping. My aunt’s apprentice healer, Evan, was to remain at Sevenwaters in the period before the campaign, since he’d the strength for bone-setting and a skill with surgery my cousin lacked. I had seen the way the two of them touched hands and exchanged shy glances when they thought nobody was looking, and understood the glow that brightened Muirrin’s pale features. As for Maeve, I had made that farewell in private, and the little last tale I told her was just for the two of us. The image of this child’s injuries, and her courage, was lodged deep within me; now I would use it to give me strength.
Before we left I made myself go to the kitchen and seek out Dan Walker’s old auntie, Janis. She sat in her chair by the hearth as always, like an ancient guardian of this domain, a kind of house-spirit watching with benign discipline over all. That was fanciful; this was no Otherworld creature, but a mortal woman of advanced years. The wrinkled skin and sunken cheeks told me that; the knobbly hand clutching a stick confirmed it. But her dark eyes were still bright and shrewd.
“Well, child. Going away, I hear? So what do I tell our lad when he comes after you?”
“He won’t,” I said decisively. Perhaps great age made one bold. She certainly had a way of coming out with whatever she had to say, however unpalatable. “He knows that. He’s not to come, not anymore. Anyway, he’s settled in the west. I told you.”
“A traveling man never settles. What do I say to him? No message? Or shall I make it up? Tell him what I see in your eyes, maybe?”
“He won’t come. But if—but if he did, I would tell him…” The words I needed fled. The only message that was in my heart was one that was all wrong; one that could not be spoken. Darragh must not know it; he must be given no reason to come after me, not while my grandmother might work her evil magic against him. “If he did,” I made myself say, “I would tell him, indeed I would command him to return home and never come back. I would say, he and I are no good for each other, and never will be. If he follows me it can only lead to pain and sorrow. Tell him, I will look after myself. It’s better that way.”
“Anything else?” Janis had pursed her wrinkled lips, and raised her black brows. Clearly she was unimpressed.
“And—and tell him,” I whispered, “tell him I haven’t forgotten. Tell him I’m trying to do what’s right.”
There was silence between us, amid the creaking turn of the spit where a whole side of mutton roasted, the clatter of dishes, the laughter and joking of warriors as they snatched a moment of warmth and company before returning to the endless drills and sorties of campaign preparation.
“It’s a lonely way you’ve chosen,” observed Janis quietly. “And you not sixteen years old; a child still. A long, lonely way.”
“I’m used to that,” I said fiercely. Perhaps it was the look in her eyes, perhaps it was the kindness in her voice, I cannot say. But it brought back images of time past, sharply, and if I could have wept then, I would. “I have memories,” I told her. “There’s always those.”
“Not a lot, to build your life on,” said Janis.
We rode north. From the moment we departed the keep of Sevenwaters, Johnny became one of the guard, the uniform dark hood rendering him indistinguishable from his fellows. All seemed well. My grandmother’s small voice had been silent since the night I had summoned her and heard her plans for Johnny. All rode on swiftly; none showed signs of illness or pain. There was no telling when she would strike him down, though the amulet felt warm all the time now, and I took this as a sign that she watched me. Our guards maintained their silent, vigilant presence around me and my aunt Liadan as we traversed wooded slope and wide forest way, by frozen pond and icy streamlet. They led us across narrow tracks in a marshy wilderness; through high passes where great hunting birds soared overhead and the ground was iron-hard with frost. They camped with us in a place of standing stones, where we slept in the shelter of an ancient barrow marked with secret symbols. All the way they kept their masks on, except to eat. There was no knowing one from another.
“A form of protection,” Liadan explained. “Necessary, in view of the markings they wear.”
“If those are so dangerous, why adorn themselves thus?” I asked.
Liadan smiled. “A symbol of pride; of belonging. Our warriors consider it a great honor to be allowed the mark. Not all are accepted into this band.”
“What are the—prerequisites? Noble blood? Brave deeds?”
“Each man is unique. Each brings his own qualities. If he has something to contribute, something of which we have need, he will be accepted as long as he passes the test.”
“Test? What sort of test?”
“A test of skill and of loyalty. It varies. You’ll find folk of many kinds at Inis Eala. Men of all sorts; all colors and creeds.”
“And women?”
“Ah, yes, a few of those as well. It takes a very particular breed to live in such a place, Fainne. A special kind of strength.”
“Aunt Liadan?” I said as we settled to sleep in the strange arched space of the old barrow. “This place here. Have you read the signs? The inscriptions?”
There was a pause.
“No, Fainne,” she said in an odd sort of voice. “This is a language more ancient than any I have learned to decipher. I cannot read th
em.” There was a question behind her words.
“You understand,” I said, “that this is so old no living man or woman knows the tongue. But I grew up in a place of standing stones; the markers of the sun’s path were the daily companions of my childhood. Some of these signs I recognize.”
“I know it is a place of the Old Ones,” my aunt said softly. “A place of great power and wonder.” She hesitated, then went on. “They spoke to me here. The Fomhóire.”
I stared at her. “You mean—you mean those creatures that seem part rock, part water, part furred or feathered thing? Those small beings that call themselves our ancestors?” Perhaps I spoke incautiously. Here in the belly of the earth, it seemed safe.
“I never saw them,” Liadan said in wonder. “I heard voices, only. Deep, dark voices from earth and pool, guiding me. Somehow I never thought them small. They seemed huge, old, and immensely powerful. And they bade me follow my heart; follow my instincts. It was here in this place that…that decisions were made of great import, decisions that changed the path of things. Have you seen these folk, Fainne, that you speak of them thus as familiar beings?”
I nodded. “The signs tell of an ancient trust. They speak of blood and darkness. And they speak of hope. That much I understand.”
My aunt stared at me in silence. Our lantern glowed softly in the darkness of this subterranean space. Farther down the huge empty chamber, some of Johnny’s men had settled to sleep, and we kept our voices low. After a while Liadan said cautiously, “Do these same folk guide you, my dear? Do you believe them—benign?”
This was dangerous territory. I could not know, at any time, if my grandmother were listening or no. It seemed a safe place; but nowhere was safe while I wore the amulet, and to remove it was to summon her instantly. “They have their own theories about how things should be. But they have a habit of not explaining, of leaving me to work out what things mean. What happened with you? Did you follow their directions, or make your own choices?”
Liadan sighed. “Both, I think. It was others’ orders I disobeyed. What of you, Fainne? Whose path do you follow?”
A perilous question. “A lonely one,” I said. “So I’ve been told.”
“Like Ciarán’s?” she asked me softly.
“I don’t wish to speak of my father.” I lay down with the blanket over my face. The weight of the amulet was heavy on me; its small, malign shape seemed to burn most of the time now, as if I could not avoid my grandmother’s scrutiny however well I played this new game. I wondered if she had heightened its power somehow, now that we were coming close to the end. Perhaps what I had suspected was true. Perhaps she feared me. I disregarded the burning. Pain was nothing. My father had taught me that lesson early.
I learned soon enough that Johnny was not simply a kind young man who rescued blundering insects and held the hands of sick children. It was the habit of our silent guard to ride two ahead, two behind, with several men on each flank, not always in sight of us, but close enough to be quickly by our side if need be. Liadan and I were clad in plain dark cloaks, serviceable tunics and skirts and sturdy winter boots. She rode a brown mare, I the small gray which Eamonn had lent me. Liadan had no qualms about that.
“She’s mine,” my aunt said simply. “A gift, and not from Eamonn. And it was certainly not my fault that she was once left behind. That creature’s seen a lot, Fainne. Sad things; terrible things. I think it’s time we took her home.”
We rode through a clearing. It was a bitterly cold morning, the ground crisp with frost, and scarcely a bird astir in the bare branches of the blackthorns before and behind us. This was a terrain where strange piles of stones dotted the hillsides, where one could not tell if their seemingly random heaps were in fact a work of man or of something older, the winter shadows turning rock into goblin or bogle, giant or crouching earth-dragon. The very undergrowth seemed malign, squat dark bushes reaching out long strands in thorny embrace to tear at skirt or stocking. Our pace was brisk; it seemed even the hooded warriors had no desire to linger in these parts longer than they must.
The way narrowed until only one of our escort could be seen, the man in front of us. Someone shouted, and he stopped dead. The two of us drew our horses to a halt behind, and Liadan reached out a reassuring hand toward me.
Ahead of us on the track stood a group of ferocious-looking men armed with knives, clubs and small axes. Their apparent leader, a huge fellow with a patch over one eye and yellowed, rotting teeth stepped forward and pointed his weapon at our guard.
“Down you get,” he ordered. “And no funny business. There’s six of us and one of you, not counting your lady friends there. Nice and slow. Give me that sword. And the knife. Turn around. Now…”
To my astonishment our man did exactly as he was told, without a word of protest. The attackers relieved him of his weapons, and took the reins of his horse as if to lead it away. I stared in growing alarm as the man with the eye-patch sauntered over to us, grinning. My aunt sat quietly, her gaze quite calm. Now they were stripping off our man’s hood. Of the rest of our escort there was no sign.
“Well, well, well,” sniggered the leader of the group, coming up alongside my little horse. “What have we here?”
I raised my hand, summoning the words of a spell.
“No, Fainne,” Liadan said softly. “No need for that.”
Behind the leader, his henchmen had peeled back the warrior’s mask to reveal the distinctive markings on his face. Someone swore, and I heard the words “painted man” spoken in a terrified mutter. The fellow by my side froze, then backed away, his face suddenly chalk-white around the black of the eye-patch. Then there were several small sounds; a whirr, a twang, the thud of an arrow finding its mark; the man they had disarmed whirled about, felling one of his attackers with a strategically placed kick. Without any sort of struggle whatever, suddenly there were six men lying on the hard ground, groaning or gasping or, more ominously, quite silent. Behind and before, to left and to right, Johnny’s men emerged from the cover of rock or tree, stowing small items away in belt or pocket. An arrow was retrieved, messily. A short knife was used, effectively. I shut my eyes.
“Fainne? I’m sorry. Were you frightened?” This masked warrior spoke in Johnny’s voice. The man the attackers had disarmed was reclaiming his weapons, replacing his hood as if such encounters were no more unusual than, say, rounding up sheep or slicing a loaf of bread.
“I can look after myself,” I snapped, forcing my heart to slow. “It seems an odd way of countering an ambush, that’s all. You might have warned us.”
“We’ve our own ways. And that could hardly be called an ambush, far too inept.”
“You didn’t need to kill them.”
“They were fools to attempt what they did, and deserve no better. Besides, not all are dead. Some will carry a tale home; a tale of the Painted Man. This pass will be safe for a while, until they forget and try again. They chose their victim poorly this time. Nobody touches my mother. Travel with her and you’re assured of the best protection there is.” His voice was steady, his manner assured as always. Had Grandmother not yet worked her spell, then? Could I hope that, for her own reasons, she might choose not to enact this particular piece of cruelty?
We rode on, and I pondered the oddity of it, that the very man my grandmother had bound me to destroy was the one who now ensured this expert force kept me safe from all harm. He carried his own death with him, and guarded it as carefully as the most precious treasure. It was good that he was strong, for if she did go ahead with her little plan, the trial would tax him hard. My grandmother’s mastery of such spells was matched only by her complete lack of scruples. She had presided over the thrashing, fluttering death of many a small creature as she demonstrated one charm or another; she had viewed dispassionately my own agony as she punished me with knives of glass in the head, with bizarre swellings of tongue or throat, with cruel alterations of sight or hearing. Did not she watch calmly over her own son’s slow, wa
sting demise? Grandmother would use the craft coolly and effectively against my cousin. I just hoped she would not keep it up for too long.
I had learned to recognize Johnny among our identically masked attendants in their plain garments. He was the shortest of them, in height not so much taller than myself, and his back was as straight as a small child’s, his head proud, his shoulders set very square. They changed horses from time to time, but I knew him. As we rode ever northward to the farthest shore of Ulster I watched him, thinking soon, very soon, he would have to halt and dismount, or fall from his horse convulsed with pain. I knew the spell; she had used it on me once. Even the strongest man could not endure it long.
The hills and valleys, the hidden streams and misty woodlands passed us steadily by. Ahead of me my cousin rode on, his carriage as upright as ever, his hand relaxed on the reins. I watched in vain for any sign of illness, but there was nothing. Indeed, by dusk I began to wonder if the child of the prophecy was somehow protected against this charm, perhaps by those powers of the forest that my grandmother so loathed. I felt the heat of the amulet against me and knew that she was close; the small triangle seemed ever more finely tuned to her presence, its burning a clear message that she was watching me, watching Johnny, that she would indeed test us both.
We camped for the night in the shell of an old building, where crumbling stone walls and the remnants of beam and thatch offered a precarious shelter against the winter chill. The men took off their hoods and ate a frugal meal. Johnny seemed a little pale, and I did not see him partake of the food, but his voice was steady; he smiled at the men’s jokes, and bid us a courteous good night before retreating to take his turn on watch. There seemed not much amiss with him.
We should reach the coast in another day and a half, Liadan told me as we rode out the next morning. There, a boat would take us across to the island. There was a note in her voice which spoke of anticipated delight; she could not disguise her longing to reach our destination. She did not ask her son if all was well, and nor did I.
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