Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  As for me, I had seen this swimmer before. Maybe he was one of the Uí Néill’s men. Certainly, he wore the symbol of the coiled snake. But it was at Glencarnagh I had observed him, through a slit of doorway, in secret council. I knew he was Eamonn’s creature, a spy and a killer.

  So, when they sailed away, I had no choice but to follow. It was dusk; it was cold. A rock dove’s instinct was to fly for shelter and hide from predators of the night. But I flew out in the fading light, my heart thumping with terror; fear of the waves, of the dark, of the cold; of owls and other hunting creatures; of getting lost, and flying on over open sea until I dropped from exhaustion. I had to go, though I could do nothing to aid them. If this went wrong, it would be my fault. For who had told of this secret venture, save myself?

  The five were not alone. Their foray depended on support; the small boat had six rowers, and the swimmers silent on the thwarts, clad all in black, with the tight dark hoods over their faces. Beneath the woollen clothing their bodies had been thickly coated with goose fat, to help keep out the cold. In the silver light of the moon you could scarce tell one from another. Each wore strapped to his back a strange implement fashioned of hard wood, with a sharp iron spike at the end, and a small hook a handspan back from it. Each bore in his belt a sheathed knife; for a warrior, unexpected attack is always a possibility, even on the most meticulously planned of missions. Besides, there were the sea monsters.

  The breeze was moderate; they raised the small sail and the curragh slipped over the water as swift and secret as some silent dweller of the deep. I followed, cursing the bird-sight which belonged to a daytime creature; the bird-instinct which made every corner of my small body vibrate with the wrongness of being out here alone at night, and scarce able to see ten paces before me. The moon shone; I followed the curl of foam at the curragh’s prow, where it cleaved the swell, and the pale faces of the rowers, who bent to their oars as one. Only the swimmers wore hoods; their mission took them into the very heart of the Britons’ territory. If they were seen they would be taken, for so near that shore they would be far outnumbered. It did not require a great stretch of the imagination to work out what would come next, as Northwoods sought to discover their true purpose. Curse Darragh. Why had he come here? Was the boy stupid, that he could not understand how wrong it was for him to pretend to be one of these fierce, ruthless fighters, and not the simple traveling man he was? Didn’t he realize they could all be dead by morning?

  I was growing weary. The night was very chill; the cold grasp of the ocean seemed not so very far below me, as I flew doggedly on. I could not land on the boat. Darragh would see me. He’d more than enough to worry about, without that. And might not my grandmother be watching, even now? My body ached; I could scarce move my wings up and down. If I fell behind all would be lost. I must keep going. I was not a dove, after all, but a sorcerer’s daughter. I must be strong, as my father had taught me.

  At a quiet command from Johnny, the men began to take down the sail. The movement of the oars changed. Ahead there was a roaring sound, like a voice of challenge from the ocean itself, a deep, threatening swirl of noise. Who goes there? Approach me if you dare.

  Not far ahead of us in the moonlight I could at last see land, a rocky island so narrow and high its pinnacle seemed to pierce the dark sky. The water frothed and boiled around its base, white and treacherous. And there were other rocks nearby, their jagged forms near-invisible save where their slick surfaces gleamed in the cold light, or the sea threw itself against them in a wild curtain of spray. The oarsmen held the small boat steady. This maneuver was second nature to them; rehearsed so many times they could surely perform it almost without thought.

  “Ready? It’s time.” Johnny’s voice was calm. “Pull hard toward the Needle; remember what you’ve been told about this current. Don’t let the sight of those reefs tempt you to go out too wide, for then it will grip you and suck you down. This is no practice run, lads; we have one chance. The Worm’s Mouth is unforgiving. Use its force to pull you through. We can do this. Summon the strength and the will. And may the hand of the goddess guide us.”

  Nobody answered, but the oarsmen gripped harder, and seemed to brace themselves, and then, with a suddenness that made my heart lurch, they dug with their blades, hard toward the knife-sharp rocks which encircled the tall, steep island, and the curragh shot forward, faster than human effort could possibly drive it. Some tremendous current had seized it, and now it disappeared into a dark emptiness where the only landmark was the churning, frothing surface of the water; the only signal its endless, hungry roaring. For long moments I fluttered, panicking helplessly, above the raging water. Surely the sea had swallowed them and would spit them out again in a spray of shattered wood and splintered bone. No man could survive such a cauldron of seething power. They were gone. I was alone in the night. Once I had feared to bathe myself in the still waters of a small lake, in case I slipped and went under. Below me the sea boiled and grumbled. Behind me the long empty miles stretched back to the camp; with nothing to follow, how could I find the way? Before me was the impossible channel; the secret way to the Britons’ anchorage. No wonder none had thought to use it before. It was impassable; the attempt an act of complete stupidity. But Johnny was not stupid. The Chief was no fool. And somewhere through there was Darragh, who would not be here at all if not for me. Somewhere down there was a man with a sharp knife in his belt, and death on his mind. With a silent plea to Manannán, I gathered my strength and flew after them, straight across the furious maelstrom and on to the open water beyond.

  The boat was there, well past the narrow channel, and already dark-hooded men were slipping over the side into the cold embrace of the sea. There were larger islands not far away, looming up like broad-backed ocean creatures. Somewhere, close by in a sheltered bay, the fleet of the Britons lay at anchor. Somewhere on these grassy slopes the fortified encampment of Northwoods housed a strong contingent of battle-hardened warriors. There would be archers in the towers; guards at the perimeters. These swimmers now ventured deep into the heart of forbidden territory. I could not follow them there; I must do nothing to draw attention to them. Besides, I was weary, and could go no further. Reluctantly I fluttered down at last, and settled on the stern of the curragh.

  The rowers sat quiet. They held the small craft still on the water.

  “You again,” whispered Waerfrith, who had the oar closest to me.

  “What?” Godric hissed.

  “Druid’s familiar,” Waerfrith said. “Tinker’s little friend. Still with us. Good omen. Here’s hoping.”

  “They’ll need all the good omens they can get,” someone else observed. “Timing’s close. In, do the job, out, and in place to hoist the signal at dawn, bring the fleet in. Not much margin for error.”

  “Johnny doesn’t make errors.” Godric’s tone was confident, though still he kept his voice to a whisper. “They’ll be back in time. A triple blow for Northwoods, this’ll be; first the fleet, second the attack from this side, against all odds. Third our pact with the Norsemen. They won’t expect that.”

  “Got the Chief to thank for Hakon’s support,” said Waerfrith. “Just goes to show, calling in old favors can be very handy at times.”

  “Ssh,” said someone else, and they fell silent once more.

  Time passed. It was very cold under the spring moon; I ruffled up my feathers, but still the wind bit hard. The young warriors waited uncomplaining. Such privations were part of their long training, the discipline integral to their way of life. I understood that all too well, remembering winter in the Honeycomb. It grew still colder. I thought of those men, in the water. Between the freezing grip of the ocean, and Northwoods’ watchful guard, and the traitor in their midst, it seemed to me they had little chance. If the assassin struck, the Chief would die, and my aunt Liadan would lose the man she called her lover, her husband and her soul-friend. It would be she who bore the brunt of Eamonn’s terrible vengeance. Perhaps that had been hi
s intention all along; to punish her for not preferring him. And I had helped him.

  I waited, trembling, as the night wore on. There would be no rest for these men. When the dawn broke, the fleet of the Irish would sail in, and they would descend with the others on the Islands, there to strike with arrow, and cleave with axe, and slash with sword, until the Britons fell to their knees in surrender or were slain every one. It was a very long night, and it would be a longer day.

  At last the moonlight faded and the sky began to brighten to the dull gray that presages dawn. These men would not express doubt. Johnny was their leader, and the child of the prophecy. And everyone knew the Chief’s reputation. He had never failed in a mission, no matter how difficult. They would return. They must return. So, nobody said, Where are they or, It’s getting late. Indeed, nobody said a word, but as the sea’s surface changed from an ink-dark blanket to a rippling expanse of deepest greens, and gulls began to circle over the curragh, I saw a grimness in the men’s eyes and a set about their jaws that alarmed me. Who knew better than I what might have delayed the swimmers? Still perched in the stern of the boat, and trembling with fear and cold, I watched the shapes of the larger islands become slowly clearer as the sky lightened, and doubted I would have the strength to fly when I must.

  Perhaps my bird-sight was an asset after all. I saw them first, no more than dots in the water, making their way toward us in the rise and fall of the swell. I stretched my cramped wings, and moved along the rim of the curragh, and I tried to draw the men’s attention, but a dove’s voice is not made for loud alarms, for calls to action. Soon enough they sighted the group of swimmers, and seized oars to edge the curragh closer, for the return was almost too late; they must sail back to the point where they would be visible to the waiting fleet, and raise the signal to advance: the red banner of action. If they delayed too long, and Northwoods realized what was happening, it would give him the chance to mount a solid defense, boats or no boats. That was not part of the plan.

  “There’s but three of them,” Godric muttered as the craft drew closer. “Three—no, four—but—”

  “Something’s amiss,” Waerfrith said, and gave the signal to hold oars balanced, so the craft lay still in the water. The swimming men were alongside now; I could hear the labored rasp of their breathing, and see their shadowy eyes through the holes of their close-fitting hoods. I could see, too, that of the four men who floated there in the chill tide, there was one who lay limp and helpless, held up only by the strong grip of another around his chest; and I could see the red ribbon of blood which streamed forth, bright as spring poppies on the dark surface of the water.

  “Quick,” said a voice. “He’s hurt. Get him aboard.” That was Gareth, who swam alongside, who now reached to push the injured man upward as Godric and Waerfrith hauled him into the curragh. The black-clad form sprawled across the benches where they laid him; Waerfrith peeled back the mask with cautious fingers, to reveal the ash-white features and flaxen hair of Eamonn’s man. The clear light of dawn played on his staring blue eyes, and his bloodless lips, and the gleaming hilt of the dagger which had been driven deep into his chest.

  “This man’s not hurt, he’s dead,” said Godric, rolling the fellow off the bench and into the bottom of the curragh, out of the way. “Get the rest of them up quick; it’s close to sunrise.”

  First came Gareth, now ominously silent. Then a taller, thinner man. I breathed a prayer of thanks to the goddess, though doubtless it was not out of any consideration for me that she had preserved Darragh’s life thus far. Then the last man, shortish, well-built. They stripped off their hoods. Godric passed around a metal flask, and all three drank, and gasped, and shuddered. The silence was palpable.

  “Where’s Johnny?” somebody said eventually, asking the question nobody had been quite prepared to put into words.

  “Lost,” said Gareth heavily. He took another mouthful of the drink, and wiped his hand across his lips.

  “Lost? What do you mean, lost? He can’t be.” Godric was incredulous.

  Gareth glanced at the Chief, who sat beside him on the bench, quite silent. “Drowned,” he said. “We don’t know what happened. The task is done; each of us crippled one ship as we planned. But when we assembled again to make the swim back, there were only the three of us. We searched, though time was short and the risk of discovery high. We found Felim here floating on the tide, with a knife in his chest; but there was no sign of Johnny.”

  My heart turned cold; the struggle was over. She had won. My grandmother had won, almost by accident, before ever I had the chance to stand against her. She had not achieved the victory by cleverness or stealth or cunning use of magical craft. She had triumphed simply because Eamonn’s assassin had made an error; had mistaken one man for another, out there in the dark. Who knew how long the two of them had wrestled together in the water before one let go, the dagger in his breast, the lifeblood flowing swift, and the other drifted away on the tide, perhaps strangled, perhaps drowned, perhaps himself the victim of a none-too-subtle knife thrust?

  “We must make sail.” The Chief spoke now, his voice constrained, as if he exercised the tightest of controls. “The longships will be waiting. We must not delay the attack, or the element of surprise will be lost.”

  “But, Chief!” Godric’s tone was of complete outrage. “We can’t just leave him there!”

  Bran regarded him levelly. “He is lost,” he said, and despite his best efforts, his voice shook. “Believe me, we searched; we hunted until we had barely time to reach you before dawn. He is drowned, and swept away. There is some work of treachery here; but it seems the only witness is silent.” He glanced down at the dead man sprawled at his feet.

  “How can we go without Johnny?” one of the men asked blankly. “How can the battle be won without the child of the prophecy?”

  There was a silence.

  “That’s Johnny’s knife,” said Waerfrith, eyeing the dead man. “I’d know it anywhere. I could hazard a guess at what happened. See, the man’s own dagger sheath is empty.”

  “The truth will be discovered; the guilty punished.” The Chief’s tone was again controlled; that of a seasoned battle-leader. “For now, we must make a swift decision. Hoist the sail; whatever choice we make, we must be away from here without delay. We cannot wait, hoping for miracles.”

  I thought for a moment the men would not obey. They stared back across the empty water, faces pale with shock. This was not just the loss of their leader, it was the snatching away of their very purpose. Still, they were professionals. The sail was raised, the oars taken, and the curragh began to move rapidly away from the land.

  “Never have got this fellow back aboard, save for Darragh here,” said Gareth. “Towed him all the way. Thought he might have had a chance.”

  “Scarce worth the bother,” muttered Waerfrith. “Man’s stone dead. The Uí Néill will be answering a question or two before the day’s over.”

  Darragh himself sat silent. Perhaps he was exhausted from the night’s swim, perhaps shocked by his first sight of treachery and loss. I stayed behind him, out of his view. Our small craft slid through the waves, swift as a gull’s flight, and soon enough there was an order to heave to and wait.

  “This is the point,” Waerfrith said. “From here we can be seen by the leading longship; the signal must be given. Red to advance; white if we want them to hold, and delay until another day.”

  There was silence.

  “The fleet is sunk. The mission is accomplished. We must raise the red banner,” Gareth said. I thought I saw tears glinting on his broad cheeks.

  “How can we?” snapped Godric, voice shaking with rage. “Our leader is lost. The child of the prophecy is dead. No wonder the druid didn’t want to tell us what the divination showed. We cannot win this battle without Johnny.”

  “He’s right,” said Waerfrith heavily. “The prophecy makes that clear. Go in without him, and we’ll like as not all be slaughtered. The whole thing
depends on Johnny. Without his leadership there can be no victory.”

  “Seems to me,” all turned in surprise as Darragh spoke up quietly, his tone calm, “that we might as well go on with it. We’ve fine ships, good men, strong allies behind us. We’ve sunk the Briton’s fleet, so he starts at a disadvantage. And there’s something even more important. What would Johnny want us to do? Would he want his men to retreat for fear of failure, or show their courage and put up a good fight for the things he cared about?” He paused. “I know I’m no warrior, but that seems to me plain common sense.”

  Oh, no, I thought. Not common sense but foolish courage. You will die; you will all die. Go home. Save yourselves at least, since it seems there is nothing else to be saved here.

  But Gareth looked at Darragh in surprise, and gave a nod; Waerfrith scratched his chin. Godric was still hostile; it was his grief, perhaps, that fueled his anger now.

  “We have no leader,” he said grimly. “How can we raise this banner and call forward the forces of the allies when they have lost their rallying point, their very reason for going on? The whole campaign would be a lie.”

  “I will lead.” The Chief spoke very quietly, but there was a core of iron in his voice.

  “You, my lord?” Godric raised his brows. “Fine champion you may be, but you are still a Briton. Did you not swear you would remain apart from this confrontation, for the sake of preserving your truce with Northwoods? How can you lead us?”

  Bran turned his cool gray eyes on the young warrior. “My son is lost,” he said. “I will lead.”

  Godric fell silent. Gareth drew a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. “Right, men,” he said firmly, with the marks of his tears still stark on his amiable features. “We do this for Johnny. If he cannot wield a sword today, we use our own blades to honor him. If he cannot fulfill the prophecy, we can at least ensure the men of Erin do not go down without a good fight. We may yet triumph.” He glanced at the Chief.