“This cannot be decided in such a way.” His voice was steady but faint; it must have taken quite an effort of will to keep it under control. His face was wan with exhaustion. “Men of Sevenwaters, of Glencarnagh and Sídhe Dubh; men of Inis Eala and of Tirconnell. I put it to you that we settle this by single combat. The winner takes the Islands; the loser has safe conduct to his home shore, with an undertaking never to return here. It is time for the killing to end; for the losses to cease. Both sides undertake to accept the outcome and abide by it. If I am slain in this fight, there will be no breaches of the walls here, no indiscriminate slaughter. A clean fight; a clean ending. If I die, you will return to Erin and claim these Islands no more.” He turned to Edwin of Northwoods. “I will fight what champion you choose from among your warriors. If he is vanquished, you will take advantage of my uncle’s offer, and ferry your men home in the vessel my brother brings from Harrowfield. My father will go with you; he is your neighbor and kinsman, and I believe fought here only because he thought me lost. You will mend your differences with him. Have I your agreement to this proposal?”
Edwin stared at him. “You? Fight against one of my warriors? You’ve been a whole day in the sea, you’re injured, and—” He stopped short.
Johnny gave a little smile. “Then you have an added advantage,” he said calmly.
And so it came about that the very fate of the Islands, the very working out of the prophecy itself came down to the simplest of things: the outcome of a fight between two men. The troops of Sevenwaters were excited, elated. They knew Johnny’s prowess with the sword; even better, they knew his near-mythical place in the scheme of things, and in their minds, he could not possibly fail. They had not understood Edwin’s last words; they had not seen, as I had, the child of the prophecy half-drowned, exhausted, with broken ribs and battered body, sent off to spend a night alone in some stark cell. They thought him more than human; but, blazing with courage and goodness as he was, he was no more than a mortal man, and both weary and injured. I heard Bran arguing fiercely with the others, He cannot fight! Let me fight! Let me do this! and in turn, Conor, and Sean, and Finbar telling him the prophecy must be allowed to run its course; that Johnny’s strange decision must in some way be right. It seemed they too believed he would win, against the odds, because it was foretold. All the same, Snake maintained the guard right along the ditch’s edge; his own men might be trusted not to break ranks, perhaps, but he’d a sharp eye on the others, and in particular the men in green.
As for my grandmother, she was chuckling to herself and grinning from ear to ear. “Oh, this’ll be easy, Fainne, easy. Almost a shame, really, such a fine young fellow, though there’ll never be another Colum of Sevenwaters. Still, this one’s a sound enough specimen: good shoulders, strong legs. Fainne? Are you listening? What are you looking for, up in the crowd there? Pay attention, girl! You must be ready when I give the word. Know what to do, do you?”
“Yes, Grandmother,” I whispered, fists clutched so tight my nails dug into my palms.
“Got the courage for it?”
“Yes, Grandmother.” Oh yes, I had the courage all right. It was the craft that was the problem. I could not sense its power in me at all, not yet; I was still so weak I could scarcely keep upright. And I could not test it; the two of us were barely concealed behind low bush and ancient boulder, and I must not let her know how helpless I was. Soon enough I must walk out there and hope, when I spoke the words of a charm, that something would happen.
“Sure?” Grandmother was frowning now, her dark beady eyes piercing as she scrutinized my face.
“Completely sure,” I told her, voice rock-steady as I returned her gaze with eyes I knew were the image of her own.
I had thought it folly beyond belief that Johnny would stake all on this, when he was so weakened. But the men trusted Johnny’s judgment, and for a while it seemed they were right. I should not have been surprised, maybe, for he was a son of Inis Eala, born and bred to the song of sword and spear. He was good; so good, in fact, that it soon became obvious that without the handicaps of weariness, and bruising, and a broken rib or two, he would have vanquished his opponent quite quickly. The British champion himself was not without strength or skills. It seemed Northwoods, too, could take risks, for the broad-shouldered young fellow who now circled there below me, wary, shifting his sword in his hands, was none other than Edwin’s own son, who had stood by his side last night, speaking of knives. The balance of it, the symbolism, gave this combat the resonance of an ancient tale.
The men were gathered in a great circle now. On one side, farthest from the ditch and wall, were the men of Erin, and on the other assembled Northwoods’s warriors, for they must be present to protect their champion and see fair play done. The men of Inis Eala still patrolled, wary and watchful, to ensure things did not get out of control. Whatever agreement the leaders had struck, the situation still balanced on a knife-edge, and the smallest lapse of discipline was liable to precipitate a bloodbath. Only yesterday these men had been hewing each other’s bodies, and clubbing one another’s heads, and screaming the harsh language of war. It was a miracle they stood so close together now, and kept their weapons sheathed. So Johnny’s men walked the edges of the crowd, hands on dagger-hilts, eyes narrowed. And in the center of the open space around which the crowd gathered thickly, the two young warriors fought on. They used their heavy swords two-handed, whirling and ducking, the weapons whistling through the air, their own grunts and gasps a counterpoint to this deadly music. No shields; this was a direct and brutal encounter, and could surely not last long. Johnny was tiring. I could see the way he shifted his feet, struggling for balance. I could see a change in his steady gray eyes, as if he sensed death close. If he lost this, he would indeed lose all.
Edwin’s son was bleeding from a deep wound to the shoulder and a cut to the thigh. His face was flushed with effort and sheened with sweat. Johnny was deathly pale; I sensed a shadow over him, and steeled myself. There would be a moment soon when he was pinned down, with the other man’s weapon at his throat, and I would have to run out in the open and—and—
Edwin’s son lunged with his sword, and this time Johnny’s balance was not quite perfect. His foot slipped; he teetered for an instant, and his opponent’s weapon sliced down his side, tearing through cloth and flesh. Johnny’s eyes widened a little; his mouth opened and closed. Edwin’s son took a step back; gripped his sword anew; readied himself for a final blow. Johnny stepped neatly forward, and turned on his heel, and his foot came up to strike the other man’s weapon from his hand. The heavy sword flew through the air as the crowd gasped with one voice. A moment later, the Briton was sprawled on the ground with Johnny standing over him, the point of his sword a finger’s breadth from the other man’s throat. Johnny wore black; but I could see how freely the blood flowed from the great gash Edwin’s son had laid open, and how my cousin’s face grew ever paler as the sun came up above the clouds to light the scene below with eerie brightness.
For a moment, Johnny was poised there quite motionless, and the crowd stood, hushed now, waiting. The leaders were together in a group, Sean, Conor and Eamonn, with Bran of Harrowfield not far away; my eyes sought out Finbar and found him strangely alone on the far side of the circle. Hidden as I was from view, nonetheless he seemed to be looking straight at me, and stranger still, I thought I could hear what was in his mind.
Now would be a good time. We will help you.
“Now would be a good time,” I muttered. “Don’t you think?”
“Ssh,” hissed Grandmother, suddenly not in the best of tempers. “What’s he saying?”
Johnny’s eyes were dark pools; his mouth was set grim. He looked over at his father, and at Sean. He looked across at the ashen-faced Edwin of Northwoods.
“Is this supposed to be a fight to the death?” he asked politely in the voice of a man close to losing consciousness.
There was a roar from the crowd, and then silence. It seemed to me that, whatever the
response, we were poised on the brink of a disaster. And if there was anyone whose judgment I respected, it was Finbar’s. I stood up, and walked out slowly from the concealment of bush and rock, my arms by my sides, my hair quickly caught by the newly freshening breeze to stream out around my head. The red banner, signal to advance. My heart thumped with terror.
Behind me, my grandmother gave a chuckle of delight. “Good, Fainne, good! Make me proud of you, girl!”
I had not a scrap of magic in me. My Otherworld helpers were gone. My grandmother was right here watching. And now I limped forward, quite unarmed, a girl in a striped dress and a silken shawl, with a childhood toy tucked into her belt, and a great army of fearsome warriors parted, muttering, to let me through. Why, I cannot tell you. Maybe it was no more than simple surprise that so unlikely a figure should appear here, on this lonely island, in the middle of such grave and perilous endeavors. Some, perhaps, thought me a creature of the Otherworld myself. A hush fell as I approached the open area where the two warriors still held their frozen posture. Blood now pooled on the earth by them, the mingled blood of two races.
Go on now, my grandmother’s voice seemed to whisper. I glanced over my shoulder; she was right behind me, now dark-cloaked, dark-hooded, and she halted at the edge of the crowd, watching my every move. Finish it. Finish him. He’s half-dead already. A simple matter. Quick now, before he plunges that sword in the Briton’s neck with his last strength. Quick now. They’re watching. They’re all watching. I want to see the looks on their faces when the child of the prophecy chokes on his own lifeblood. Do it, Fainne. Do it for me, and for all our kind.
It was not so far across to where Johnny stood waiting. Ten paces, maybe. A lot can happen in ten paces. I glanced up and around the circle: saw the shocked face of my uncle Sean, the horrified expression of Eamonn, the dawning comprehension on Conor’s grave features. I saw Finbar’s nod of recognition and approval. I saw the confusion and doubt on the faces of Briton and Irishman alike. And beyond the circle, I saw others standing, waiting silently, their strange eyes intense and piercing: a woman taller than any mortal, pale as spring snow, with long dark hair like silk; a man crowned with flames, whose garments flowed about his stately form like a curtain of living fire. And there were others, many others, beings with rippling locks like weeds in river-water, and skin translucent as glass; lovely creatures clad in feathers and berries, in grasses and leaves, in lichen and bark and soft mosses. Every one of them was tall beyond imagining, and every one of them was looking at me. It’s time, they seemed to say, though perhaps only I could see, only I could hear them. At last it’s time. The Fair Folk were come, now, at the end. But they would not help me. I must do this by myself.
Go on, Fainne, my grandmother’s voice urged. Quick, now. There’s only one way for this to end. Kill the child. Hurry, girl!
I took another step, and another. I was halfway across the space. Then there was a shout, in the tongue of the Britons, “It’s a trick! Stop the girl!” I heard a sort of whistling in the air behind me, and a general gasp; I heard someone running toward me, and I was roughly knocked sideways, so I sprawled on the ground, with something heavy on top of me. There was a roar of voices, and the sound of weapons being drawn, and the voice of my uncle Sean shouting, “No! Keep calm! Keep back!”
I struggled to my feet, dislodging the dead weight that pinned me. There was blood on my gown, a lot of blood; Riona’s rose-pink skirts were stained scarlet. A man lay at my feet, and it was his blood that soaked me, for a slender spear had pierced his chest from back to front, its barbed point now protruding from his body and catching at my skirt as I stood by him. The man was choking; a red stream gushed from his mouth, and from his nose, and spilled over his green tunic. As I bent to touch his brow, to brush back the lock of brown hair that fell into his agonized eyes, he wheezed a word that might have been my name, and fell back lifeless on the earth. Against all odds, Eamonn had been the one to act on impulse, and to save my life; against the whole pattern of things, he had died a hero. A chill came over me. There must be no more of this. No more blood. No more death. It had to stop. I had to stop it.
“Keep back!” Snake yelled. “You can do nothing here!”
“We must follow due process!” It was Edwin’s voice that called now. “Keep your discipline, men! We have an agreement, and will honor it!”
“Hear Lord Edwin! Keep ranks! Keep back!” This was Sean of Sevenwaters, whose own men now were clamoring loudest for blood; for it was a British spear that had killed Eamonn of Glencarnagh, though it was meant for me. It seemed only a matter of moments before these warriors, thirsty for vengeance, would break through the guard set by Snake and his men and be at one another’s throats once more, fighting and killing until the whole island was awash with blood.
A circle. A circle of protection. That was what I needed. It should be fire, because fire was easy, and it scared folk enough to keep them out. I raised my arms, and spoke the words of a spell, and turned in place where I was. I knew even as I went through the motions that I had not yet the strength even for this simple trick; the most I could summon was a tiny tingling of the fingertips, too weak to make a single spark. Nonetheless, as I turned and pointed, flames burst forth in the path of my outstretched hand, so that Johnny and the young Briton and myself were encircled by a ring of fire three handspans high, and hot enough to send the men jostling back out of the way. For the time being we were safe. Across the circle, Finbar now stood with his arm outstretched, and his great white wing unfurled. And opposite him Conor the archdruid did the same, arms spread wide, hands stretched out in a gesture of power. The flaming circle ran from him to his brother, and back again. It is useful, sometimes, to have druids in the family.
At the edge of the circle my grandmother still waited, a slight, dark-robed figure, now silent as I walked up to Johnny. Even then, even as I reached him, I was not sure what I would say, or how I might make a difference here without the craft. But they were all waiting now; the warriors, the seer and the druid, the leaders of Britain and Erin. On the rise behind the men, many small creatures were now gathered, an owl-being, a mossy rock with holes for eyes, a little bush with finger-like foliage; a hare, a wren, a thing like water in the shape of a child. And all around, behind the others, the Fair Folk themselves, guardians of the earth’s secrets, holders of the mysteries of our faith; even they held their breath now, awaiting my words.
But I had no magic. I was only a girl, and a pretty poor example of one at that. I had no goodness or nobility. I could not inspire men as Johnny did. I could not charm wild creatures as Darragh could. I did not know how to heal a man bleeding from a deep wound, I could not swim or dance. Without the craft, I was nothing.
Use what is already there, the Fomhóire had told me: the natural magic of earth and water, air and fire. Druid magic. Use that. And at the moment I stepped up beside Johnny, the sky began to darken. It was full morning; the clouds had dispersed as quickly as they gathered, and the sky was clear. But now the sun’s brightness began to dim, and an eldritch twilight to fall across the landscape, as if day were turning to a strange half-night. The men began to mutter uneasily; some made signs in the air before them.
Quick, Fainne! Where’s your backbone, girl? Get on with it! My grandmother grew impatient.
I’d have been scared myself, of this strange darkness, if other things had not already driven me near-witless with terror: Eamonn’s blood, my grandmother’s voice, my own terrible weakness. Focus. Control. I thought about my father and all I owed to him, and I knelt by the Briton where he lay prone, so that Johnny could not finish him off without risking my own life.
“Fainne! What are you doing?” my cousin hissed. Now that I was close, I could see how his hands were shaking; soon he would be unable to hold the weight of this sword. As for the Briton, he was whey-faced, and lay in a pool of blood. The sky grew darker, and the ring of fire glowed bright in the uncanny dimness of the morning. Words came to me at last.
Child of the Prophecy Page 57