Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  “Undoubtedly, her,” Finbar said. “Now, we’d best try to rest, for I understand we have but one day to assemble, and then we shall all be extremely busy for a while. This may not be comfortable, but at least it’s dry.”

  Once before I had slept in Darragh’s arms, and wished that I might never wake. Now, as I nestled warm between his cupped hands, so close to his cheek that I could feel his steady breathing ruffling my feathers, I wished something different. This strange night was an unexpected gift, for I had thought our last parting over when he turned away from me, in the darkness on Inis Eala. A gift, then, to be so near, to feel his careful touch and share his innocent sleep. But I wished, oh, how I wished I was a girl again, and the others gone. There was a longing in me that near shattered my small heart, that I could reach out and take him in my arms; that I could give back the same gentleness he bestowed so generously, never thinking of himself. I wished I had a woman’s voice, and not a bird’s, so that I could whisper in his ear. I would tell him…I would tell him…

  We slept; and then it was dawn. A bird sings at dawn, and moves forward into the day, seeking light and warmth, food and water. But I was not a bird, for all the outward appearance. When a sorcerer transforms, he does not become that other; he merely remakes himself in the semblance of it, to deceive folks’ eyes. The more successful the transformation, the more one is likely to feel of the essence of the chosen form: the instincts, the changes of balance, sight and hearing. And yet, the best of sorcerers retains at the same time his own full consciousness. A delicate balance. While in the altered form, one cannot use the craft. When I had made myself into a farmer’s wife, and confronted the trickster at the horse fair, I had used only the lesser form of the Glamour, and that sparingly, and so I had been able to perform charms and cast spells, to make bird into snake, to release latches, to half-strangle a man. But I could not do that today. All I could do was watch and listen. All I could do was keep out of Fiacha’s way, and observe these men, and try to ready myself for what would come tomorrow.

  I left the shelter of Darragh’s hands, the sweet warmth of his body. Finbar was awake, standing motionless outside the shelter of the rocks, gazing into the paling sky. The storm was over; there was the merest whisper of a westerly breeze. Finbar’s expression was strange; the eyes intense and bright. As I alighted on his shoulder I felt the way he paced his breathing, slow and deliberate: a pattern. Thus he calmed his racing heart, his head full of visions, I thought. I could not speak to him, but if I had had a voice, I would have offered words of recognition. I know how hard this was for you, to come here; to face the terror we share. And I salute you for your courage.

  “Well, Fainne,” said Finbar quietly. “Another morning. The last before our great endeavor begins, if my brother reads the signs and finds them fair. You keep this form skillfully; I trust it serves you well. Today is a day for observation, I think; for looking and learning. In this form you are vulnerable, to the elements, to wild predators, to the carelessness of man himself. Of us all here, there will be but two who recognize what you are. Your young man is sick at heart to see you in this guise, for he knows he cannot keep you safe. There is no place for such a small creature at the heart of a great battle, nor in secret endeavor by sea. As for me, I will watch over you as best I can. We share the same enemy and the same fear, you and I. But I do not know your exact purpose here. You will fly forth, no doubt, and return when you please. Know that I am close by, and will provide what protection I can for you.”

  I could not reply, and so, as the sky lightened and a flock of gulls passed overhead, plumage glinting in the dawn light, I spread my wings and flew, scarcely knowing where I was going or for what purpose.

  Early as it was, men were stirring, emerging from their various places of shelter, gathering in small groups, making a fire, preparing some sort of meal with practiced efficiency. I found a perch among the bare branches of an old apple tree. I was ill concealed, maybe, but safe for now, and well placed to look and listen. I did not feel the need of food and drink; perhaps I would take neither until I was myself again.

  Before us was a bay, not broad and open like the cove of my childhood, but a place of safety and secrecy, with deep water and high, sheltering arms of land on either side. Here the curraghs lay at anchor, here the smaller vessels were drawn up on a pebbly shore. As well as Johnny’s fleet there were many other boats, some of skins stretched over a frame, some all of wood, blunt small craft, sturdy and strong. Among them, like stately swans amid a flock of common brown ducks, were three much larger ships, the sleek long lines of them a wondrous sight, plank laid against curving plank in perfect balance, the prows high and graceful, with carven figure of mermaid or princess or horned god of war giving each the semblance of some mystic craft from an ancient tale: the very ship in which some great voyager went forth to find the end of the world; the very vessel in which a legendary warrior sailed out to win his lady and his kingdom. I had never seen such ships before. Each was large enough, I thought, to bear a fighting force of considerable numbers. With a full complement of oarsmen and a favorable wind, each could be employed in lightning attack on slower vessel or on unprepared coastline, to sail in fast and disgorge its cargo of armed men while the helpless inhabitants were still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. I had no doubt these were ships of the Finn-ghaill; vessels of the Norsemen, such as my father had devastated once, long ago, in Kerry.

  And yet, there was no panic. Below my tree, the young warriors of Johnny’s band ate their breakfast and readied their weapons as if this were a day like any other. There, too, were the older men, Snake and Gull and the Chief himself, talking quietly together with never a glance at the fearsome sight out on the quiet waters of the anchorage. It was as if nobody had seen the threat, save me.

  Now there were other men here, and Johnny was greeting them, and I saw that some of them wore the symbol of two torcs interlinked: the emblem of Sevenwaters. Others had a different sign, their tunics blazoned with an image in red, a serpent coiled around to devour its own tail. And there were men in green: Eamonn’s men. The morning was growing brighter; after the storm, the air seemed clean-washed, the land breathing deep, as if spring were not so far away. Below the branch where I perched quiet, a traveling man finished his meager breakfast, a meal taken abstractedly as he glanced here and there around the campsite, as if seeking to find something lost. I shifted slightly on my branch; he looked up and frowned. An instant later, Finbar was there by his side, speaking quietly.

  “There is a council, I understand; a meeting of these leaders, and a final decision to be made. You must let Fainne do what she will; you cannot alter the course of events here. You cannot protect her from this point on. We must trust, simply, that she has the strength to do what must be done.”

  “It’s not right.” Darragh’s voice was tight with feeling. I did not like to hear him thus distressed.

  “Nonetheless,” Finbar said gently, “there is nothing you can do about it. You must leave her be; she will go her own way.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Darragh.

  The council took place under cover and under guard. In the end I did seek Finbar’s aid, for I could hardly fly into the long, low building where they met and settle as if by chance on the rafters to hear their secret interchange. I entered the council room on the seer’s shoulder, half hidden in the folds of his cloak, half shrouded by his tangle of dark hair. And I saw, straight away, why there had been no shouts of alarm, no hasty setting of arrow to string at the sight of those elegant ships at anchor in the bay. For here at the council table, alongside Sean of Sevenwaters and his uncle Conor, alongside the chieftains of the Uí Néill and the child of the prophecy himself, were several very large men with broad, fair faces and long flaxen hair neat-braided. They wore gold about their necks and in the clasps of their cloaks; gold fine-wrought in the shape of war-hammer or dog’s head or rising sun. They were leaders of the Finn-ghaill, the very Viking warlords who had
raided and plundered the coastlines of Erin and of Britain alike these long years. Was not this an ungodly alliance? Would a man such as my uncle Sean break bread with such savages, even to ensure victory over his oldest enemy? But then, hadn’t my uncle said something about a dispute being settled by marriage between a lord of Tirconnell and a Viking woman? Perhaps, after all, this was not so impossible. I sat quiet, listening and wondering greatly.

  This was a select council. Of our own band, only Johnny and his father were there, and Snake. Sean and Conor represented Sevenwaters. My uncle was grim-faced and purposeful; Conor glanced once in Finbar’s direction, and gave a nod of recognition. The Uí Néill seemed wary; the Norsemen spoke among themselves, and one of Bran’s men, a large, dark-bearded fellow named Wolf, appeared from nowhere to address them in their own tongue.

  “Wolf will translate for us,” the Chief said calmly. “Now, can we begin this? The morning is passing; there is surely little more to be resolved at this stage. Each of us knows his own part in this.”

  One of the Vikings made a rumbling comment.

  “Hakon asks, what of these empty places at table?” Wolf translated. “Are we not yet all assembled here? Decisions made in this council must be agreed by all, or may we not expect a knife in the back?”

  Sean frowned. “Eamonn is already here on the island, encamped not far away. He will come. We should wait a little longer; Hakon speaks wisely. As with the rest of us, Eamonn has brought his men over gradually, and by various routes, not to draw undue attention to the magnitude of our endeavor.”

  Then one of the Norse chieftains clapped his hands, and a lad brought a great drinking horn which was passed around. It occurred to me belatedly that not only were these Vikings some sort of ally in the endeavor, but that this place was theirs, a whole settlement perhaps, on the fringes of Manannán Isle. Someone had struck a very useful bargain here. It was clear I had a great deal to learn about warfare.

  There was a stir at the entry and three men came in; men in green. I watched as Eamonn stalked across the room to take his place at the council table. His men settled themselves on his left and his right, as if to separate him from the others. He looked up and across the table, and straight into the steady gray eyes of Bran of Harrowfield.

  “Well, well, well,” said Eamonn affably, smiling. “It has been a long time: How is your charming wife? A girl of unique talents, I always thought.”

  The Chief did not reply. Instead, his gaze swept over Eamonn as if he did not exist. He turned toward Sean and Conor. “Time passes swiftly,” he said. “Let us make our decision and move on.”

  “We are all assembled,” said Sean gravely. “At this meeting we confirm our plan of action and renew our pledge to support one another in this alliance. My uncle, the archdruid, will perform the augury, and if the goddess smiles on us, tomorrow’s dawn will witness the enactment of our strategy. A great victory must surely follow.” He glanced at Johnny. “My nephew leads this campaign. Johnny is heir to Sevenwaters; he is at the same time born to Harrowfield, the British estate of my father. The prophecy which has guided us toward this final encounter names just such a one as the leader ordained to carry us forward to victory. In Johnny is born the child of the prophecy; in him we witness the fulfilment of the old truth. He is the shining light which guides us forward to triumph over Northwoods. The Islands will be ours once more; our enemy banished forever to his home shore, never again to set his heedless foot on our sacred ground.”

  “I don’t question the lad’s ability to lead,” said one of the men who bore the snake-symbol on his tunic. “But what about his father? Is there not room for doubt when one of our number is a Briton himself, and close neighbor to the very chieftain we oppose? Bran of Harrowfield shares a border with Edwin of Northwoods. Indeed, there is some tie of kinship, I understand. What assurance is afforded that this alliance will hold firm, when we set Briton against Briton?”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem,” put in Eamonn smoothly, before either Sean or the Chief could speak. “It’s never been difficult in the past for this man to change his allegiance, or turn against his own kind. Just make sure you’ve enough silver for an incentive. That’s the only language he understands.”

  There was a difficult little silence. Snake’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, and his hand moved to his sword hilt. There was a scrape of metal. Wolf made no attempt to translate. Bran, tight-jawed, maintained his control and did not speak. It was Johnny who rose to his feet.

  “My lords,” he said, “there is no doubt of the strength of this alliance, no question of the loyalty of its partners. My father’s role in this is not as battle-leader. He has won for us the support of these fine chieftains, Hakon and Ulf, and the generous loan of their strong vessels. But it is I who lead here, and not Bran of Harrowfield. These men are under my command. Tomorrow my father returns home to Britain; he will not war with Northwoods, save in times of threat to his own borders.” I noted he did not mention anything about swimming, and putting holes in boats. It seemed that part was secret even from their own allies. “Now,” Johnny continued calmly, “let me set out for you the course of this venture, for each must understand well his part in it. Each part is vital; each part is separate until the end, and must be carried out independently and precisely. Each of you is responsible for his own forces. Without trust, this great venture is doomed to failure.”

  There were murmurs and rumbles of assent around the table. Eamonn wore a crooked smile; the Chief was impassive.

  “If the goddess wills,” said Johnny, “the venture commences this very night. At dawn we must be in position to strike…”

  I watched him as he paced to and fro and gestured in illustration, as his gray eyes shone with hope, lighting the solemn chamber with the flame of his enthusiasm. And I watched the men there, seasoned battle-leaders every one, men far older in years and experience than him who addressed them, men used to their own command, accustomed to making their own decisions. They listened transfixed. Not a muscle stirred; not a whisper was uttered. With the confident flow of his voice and the ardent hope on his face, Johnny held every one of them silent as he set out the bold plan by which they would at last triumph over the old enemy. Indeed, so impressed was I by my cousin’s authority and bearing, I lost track of his words for a time, and did not catch every detail. He said nothing at all of the perilous venture planned for tonight. He did not tell them the small boat would sail across after dark, and lower into the icy grip of the sea a very special group of five men including both himself and Bran of Harrowfield. Perhaps his father would not set foot on the islands, perhaps he would not actually be seen with a sword in his hand facing up to Edwin of Northwoods, but he most certainly intended to help sink the five vessels of Northwoods’s fleet this very night. I knew that, but it became plain none of these men were to be told. Johnny simply said one boat would go in first, and if all seemed well, a signal would be given: a red flag to advance. Before dawn the three great ships of the Finn-ghaill would be in place, crewed not by Viking warriors but by our own men, the men of Sevenwaters and of Inis Eala, the warriors of the Uí Néill and the forces of Sídhe Dubh and Glencarnagh; the men in green. The sun would come up, and the Britons would rise from their beds unsuspecting. Then, from the direction least expected, from the perilous channel between knife-edged rocks, skirting the great whirlpool which they called the Worm’s Mouth, would appear the deadly longships with their cargo of armed warriors. Hakon and Ulf would each take charge of a ship; Gull would control the third. Their skill would guide these craft through waterways hitherto thought impossible. They would go in swiftly, attacking the Britons fiercely before they could mount a defense. I knew, though Johnny did not say it, that for the forces of Northwoods there would be no escape. Their ships would be gone; they must surrender or be annihilated. The men of the Uí Néill would land on Little Island, Johnny said, to subdue the lesser forces there. The rest would go to Greater Island and surround the enemy’s encamp
ment. By dusk tomorrow it would be all over.

  Johnny’s exposition drew to a close, and as one the men rose, and moved from the table, and with gripping of hands and clasping of shoulders, and with fierce grins and fighting words, the strange allies of this venture confirmed their commitment to one another; Viking and Ulsterman, Briton and chieftain of the royal blood of Erin. Conor was leading the way outside; there were still omens to be read, and guidance to be sought beyond the merely human, before the final decision might be made, to go tonight, or wait. It was very early in the season, so early the elements were predictable only in their unpredictability. On the other hand, the sooner the allies moved, the more effective the factor of surprise.

  From my vantage point on Finbar’s shoulder, I watched as Eamonn strode up to the Chief, hand outstretched in a display of apparent amity.

  “Let us seal this agreement, then,” he said with a strange little smile, “since it appears you have become respectable, and now deal at council tables and not by stealth, in the darkness.”

  But Bran only gazed at him a moment, gray eyes cool, patterned features devoid of expression, and then he turned away, as if what he had seen were beneath notice, something of no import whatever. I watched Eamonn’s face, and the look there made me tremble. Anger, offense, bitterness I might have expected. But I had not thought I would see gloating triumph in those dark eyes.

  Outside this meeting-house there was a flat expanse of sandy ground, neat-raked. Around its perimeter were assembled many men, warriors all, each in the colors of his leader. Some held banners: the coiled snake which seemed to be the sign of the Uí Néill, the torcs of Sevenwaters, the dark tower on a green field which was the emblem of Eamonn of Sídhe Dubh and Glencarnagh. The house of Harrowfield was not represented; the Chief, it was clear, was not officially an ally in this venture, and wished to conceal tonight’s mission and his own vital part in it.