Heir to Sevenwaters

by Juliet Marillier

  But Cathal had nothing to say. He looked at me, and I looked at him, and we set off together under the trees and into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 11

  We were in nofit state for a lengthy walk. Becan wept. I felt his misery in my heart and could do little to help him. Without the sling, I had to hold him in my arms, and perhaps my unease transferred itself to his small body. Cathal went ahead along a narrow, barely definable pathway we had found, and I followed, knowing it was entirely reasonable for me to wear his cloak, since I had Becan to think of, but wishing there were some way I could share it with him. He couldn’t be warm enough in just shirt, tunic and trousers, all three wet through. He looked wretched, his skin pallid, his features set in a fierce determination that forbade any expression of concern for his welfare. As for me, despite the remarkable fact that all three of us had survived, I was beginning to lose heart. The forest seemed full of menace, a realm of sudden darkness, thorny branches, evil-smelling pools and deceptive slopes. Fungi sprouted among the roots, slickly luminous. Pale, many-legged things crawled in the leaf litter. Becan’s cries lost themselves in the empty spaces between the trees. There was nobody here. We might walk on until we died a sad death from exhaustion, hunger and despair.

  The little path followed the course of a stream. My boots squelched. I could feel more blisters forming. There would be no hope of getting anything dry in here, even supposing Cathal could really make fire without a flint. I had seen Johnny do that once; Deirdre had been most impressed. Oh, Deirdre . . . How I longed to talk to her, to tell her how I was feeling, to hear her going on about her hair or her gown or how fine Illann looked on horseback, just so I could remember there was another world out there, one where I need not be confused and afraid. How I longed to hug Sibeal and Eilis, and to tell my mother I was getting closer to finding Finbar. I wanted to ask Father to forgive me for everything I had got wrong, and to tell him I loved him even when he was cold to me . . . I will not cry, I told myself fiercely. Cathal’s keeping going, and he hasn’t even got the cloak.

  “Perhaps we should rest for a little.” He stopped walking and turned to wait for me. “You look exhausted. Sit down awhile, Clodagh. There’s a spot under that oak.” He took a knife from his belt.

  “What are you doing?” I obeyed him, for now that I had stopped walking my legs did not want to hold me up a moment longer.

  “We’ll need a cloth to feed the baby. He won’t survive long without water. I suppose we can dip this into the stream for him.” Before I could speak, he removed his tunic and used the weapon to rip off a length of linen from the shirt he had on underneath. “Better than nothing.”

  “Thank you,” I said, lost for anything else to say. I watched as he shrugged back into the tunic, stepped over to the stream and wet the cloth, wringing it lightly, then brought it back to me. Becan’s cries had increased when we stopped walking; he was anticipating food. At first he sucked hungrily, needing the liquid. Then he realized there was no honey this time and jerked his head away, wailing an outraged protest.

  What followed was more battle than meal. Becan was desperately thirsty, but I struggled to get even a small amount of water into him. After what seemed an age, he fell into a restless sleep. I set him down with the cloak around him and rose to my feet, scrubbing the tears from my face. My head was throbbing. A moment later, Cathal put his arm around me, as a brother might, and said, “It’s all right, you know. You don’t have to be brave every single moment.” I let myself lean on him, my forehead against his chest, but not for long. Something had changed between us when we came down the cliff. The touch of his hands, the warmth of his body against mine, awakened feelings in me that were not at all those of a sister. I had embraced him before, by the river, and even in that extreme had felt it—a glow, a warmth, an awareness in certain parts of my body that was quite new to me, and made sense of certain remarks of Deirdre’s about Illann and her wedding night. Tired and despondent as I was, my body was not letting me ignore those feelings. I should have realized, when Cathal kissed me in the hallway, that my response was the first raindrop heralding a storm. This was perilous. I stepped back out of his embrace.

  “Clodagh,” my companion said quietly, “we must drink before we move on. Shall we try this water together?”

  “If we turn into toads, at least we’ll be good company for each other.” I forced a smile. “All right, let’s do it.”

  Side by side we knelt on the mossy bank of the little stream and scooped up handfuls of the brownish water. Side by side we drank. It tasted fresh, sweet, a little peaty. I noticed a clump of crimson toadstools further upstream, and a patch of cress. It would be possible to eat here, if a person didn’t mind risk.

  “You look . . . tired,” I said as I sat back on the bank. It was an understatement.

  “Ah, well,” said Cathal, lips twisting in a familiar way, “it’s not been the easiest of days. Did you know your hair goes even wilder when it gets wet?”

  I put a hand up involuntarily, as if it mattered in the least whether my hair resembled a rat’s nest right now. “Cathal?”

  “Mm?”

  “We can’t go on very far like this, can we? I made a stupid mistake when I refused that offer of help.” I bowed my head against my drawn-up knees.

  After a moment he said, “Most folk would agree with you, I’m sure. Perhaps I should, too. If you’d accepted, I’d have been left behind. I could have been back at Sevenwaters by now, enjoying a hot bath and a solid meal.”

  Neither of us mentioned Glencarnagh, and my father, and the fact that Aidan had been hunting his friend to bring him back for an accounting.

  “I’d never leave you behind,” I said.

  There was a long silence, and when I glanced up, wondering why he had not spoken, I saw a strange look on his face. “What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?” for he had gone pale again, as if he’d seen something that frightened him more than a vision of death.

  Cathal shook his head as if to clear it. He would not meet my eye now. “Nothing,” he said. “Clodagh, if the offer of help comes again you must take it. Don’t trouble yourself with me. I’ve seen what a great capacity for sympathy you have. For impossible causes. Like Becan. Like me. If you get a chance of guidance, take it immediately and forget about me.”

  I stared at him in shock. “But . . . Cathal, I need you with me. To keep me safe; to guard Becan; to—”

  “If these folk want you to achieve your quest, they will keep you safe,” he said, and his tone set a distance between us. “They will provide all the guards you need. I’m not doing a good job, Clodagh. I mean, look at us.” His gaze went around the dark forest, taking in the exhausted baby, our wet clothing, the shadows that seemed to creep in on us from every side. “When we fell into the river I lost hold of you. You can’t swim. I thought you had drowned. And before that, when the stones rolled, I thought I would find you crushed underneath or broken at the foot of the cliff. You owe me absolutely nothing. I’m no good to you. I’m no good to anyone. Especially in this cursed place.”

  “Don’t say that!” The words burst out of me, a fierce protest. Before I could think too hard, I leaned toward him and slapped him across the cheek, hard enough to make a red mark. I didn’t like doing it, but at least the shock that filled his eyes was better than that forlorn, hopeless look. “Now we’re even,” I said. “Don’t you dare give up on me, Cathal. I need you. I want you here with me. I don’t care if you get things wrong and make mistakes; I’m making plenty of my own. I’m tired, I’m cold, I’m terribly afraid. I can’t go on without a friend.”

  For a little he just looked at me, and I could not tell what was in his mind. Then he said, “Are you telling me that if this guide reappears you’ll say no again?”

  “Under the circumstances that would be foolhardy,” I said. “If it comes back I’ll negotiate. There must be some way to bargain so these folk will guide both of us on. I’m sorry I struck you, Cathal.”

  “Any time
.”

  “We should move on,” I said. “This place seems to breed sadness.” As I spoke, a memory stirred dimly. Something about sorrow and sadness. Something about a pathway. Where had I heard that? Was it possible my state of despondency was less to do with shock, exhaustion and fear, and more to do with exactly where we were? Perhaps Cathal’s attack of self-doubt had the same cause.

  “That field, with the herbs,” I said. “The smell made us sleepy; it made us both want to stop trying. And now we’re feeling sad and wretched. Maybe all we need to do is move forward, get out of here.” I rose to my feet. “We must keep walking, Cathal. And we must stop fighting each other. I think this spot may have a charm over it, something that makes people feel despondent and hopeless.”

  Cathal said nothing, but he got up too, and when I had gathered Becan we set off again along the pathway. For a while, a long while, the pervasive gloom oppressed us, the shadows clung deep and grim around us, the forest remained dark and dank as before, though from time to time now I heard a distant, eerie cry. I could not tell if it was made by a bird or an animal or something far stranger. There was a piercing, edgy note in it that filled my heart with sorrow. I tried whistling a tune to keep up my spirits, but it faded into nothing almost before it left my lips. Becan’s sleep was fitful. When I glanced down at him, it seemed to me his twiggy cheeks were sunken and his pebble eyes clouded, as if he were starting to slip away from me. Perhaps I had been foolish to think my efforts had saved his life. No, I must stop thinking that way. It was only a charm; a charm of despair. I would not give in to it.

  A few paces ahead of me Cathal came to a sudden halt. I almost crashed into him.

  “What?” I said.

  “It’s opening up.” He took a step forward. “And look, there, it’s almost like a hall, something man-made.”

  “Man probably isn’t the word,” I said, looking. Ahead of us the trees were taller, their boles further apart. The spaces between them were carpeted with grass. Light penetrated the canopy here, pale and pure, touching the leaves to a hundred shades of green. There was a curious symmetry about the pattern of foliage that put me in mind of tapestries or banners. The shape of it drew the eye forward as if encouraging a visitor to walk on between the trees, where the path broadened into what seemed a grand ceremonial way. For a moment my eyes showed me a procession traveling along it, lords and ladies clad in shimmering garments, horses caparisoned in silks and satins, a rich cavalcade. I blinked and they were gone. There were only the three of us, a man, a woman, a baby, bedraggled and weary, lost in the vastness of it all. “I think we may be almost there,” I said.

  As if in response to my words, there stepped out in front of us a small figure in gray, its face concealed by a silver dog mask. Both Cathal and I flinched in shock, and Cathal’s hand went to his dagger.

  I bit back an impolite comment such as, You again. “It’s the creature I met before,” I murmured. “Let me talk.” I stepped around Cathal, placing myself between him and the gray-cloaked being.

  “Well, well,” the little creature said. “You’ve come a long way. Changed your mind yet?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “Please tell us where Finbar is. How much further do we have to go?”

  Behind me I could hear Cathal moving. I knew without looking that he had drawn the dagger and stood poised to use it the moment he decided I was at risk.

  “Tell her,” he said, and his tone frightened even me. “We have no time to waste. If you can help us, do so without delay.”

  The creature hissed. The eyes behind the mask turned their gaze from me to Cathal, then slowly back to me. “Our kind does not speak to his kind,” the small being growled. “If you insist on keeping him with you, you bring down sorrow on yourself. Bitter sorrow.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” What sorrow could be more bitter than the abduction of a child? “If you can tell me, please do so. Is this the right way? When will we reach the place where my brother is being held?”

  “This is the way. Close by is a place where you may rest and recover yourself.” I sensed the creature was eyeing me up and down, and I saw myself as it might: my hair a filthy tangle, my gown hanging muddy and crushed around me, my boots soaked, my face livid with cuts. Neither Cathal nor I had washed properly since we met in the forest of Sevenwaters. Immersion in the river hardly counted.

  “You won’t make much of a showing looking like that,” Dog Mask said dryly. “Anyway, he won’t be there until dusk tomorrow. Use the time wisely. Ready yourself to present a strong case.”

  “He won’t be there? Who?”

  “The Lord of the Oak.” This imposing name was spoken in a derisive tone. “The one who’s taken on authority in these parts since those others departed. He rules all now; all dance to his tune.”

  “Even you?” I could not help asking.

  A gurgle of laughter. “Oh, not us! His kind has never ruled over ours, daughter of Sevenwaters. We go our own way; make our own paths. But he’s the one who took your brother, and he’s the one with the power to give him back. He won’t be impressed by that raggedy hair and that apology for a gown. Best use the time to tidy yourself up.”

  “Don’t speak to her like that.” Cathal’s voice had an edge like a blade.

  “Follow me, daughter,” said the creature, ignoring him completely. It turned, walking away down the broadening stretch of sward.

  “Wait, Clodagh,” whispered Cathal in my ear. “Are you sure—”

  “Not really,” I said. “But I suppose this may be safe, as long as we stay together.”

  Dog Mask led us a short distance ahead, then turned down a side pathway paved in white stones and bordered by a miniature hedge of an aromatic plant I did not recognize. This way was clearly not natural but constructed. It curved around under the trees and came up to a hedge of thornbushes in which a curious gate had been formed, the prickly branches twisted and tied into a pattern of lines radiating out from a central point. Here the slender lengths of wood met in a complex knotted tangle, its shape resembling a grotesque, grinning face with worm holes for eyes. A mouthlike slash below these empty sockets gaped suddenly open, making me gasp. “Password?” demanded a creaky voice.

  But our guide didn’t seem bothered by passwords. It simply held up one furred hand and the gate swung open. When we had walked through, it slammed shut behind us.

  The thorn hedge enclosed a grassy space the size of a small field. To one side was a grove of gnarled and ancient trees whose type I could not guess. A tiny stream ran between these and out into the open space, where it trickled into a round pond. Close by, a campfire burned between stones. There was a stack of wood nearby, and beside it was a roll of bedding. Next to this lay our two packs.

  “Dagda preserve us,” said Cathal mildly.

  “All that you need is here.” Our guide made a sweeping gesture encompassing the space within the hedge. “Make wise use of it. Be ready at tomorrow’s sunset, and remember what I said. He’ll be more inclined to listen if you look your best. Pity about those cuts on your face.”

  I sensed that Cathal was about to speak unwisely, and got in first. “You brought our things,” I said, profound relief sweeping through me. “I can feed the baby . . . Thank you. We are most grateful.”

  “Hmm,” said Dog Mask. “If you’d been prepared to listen, you’d have lost him long ago. There will be tears before this is over, mark my words. Now I’ll be gone. When it’s time I’ll come for you. Don’t stray. Within the hedge of thorn you will be safe. Beyond it, risk is everywhere. Farewell for now.” It melted away before our eyes.

  Whoever had prepared this spot for us had done so with surprising care. Not only had all our supplies been returned to us, but our spare clothing was clean and dry, our water-skins had been refilled, and the roll of bedding proved to contain three thick blankets. There were garments in the bottom of my pack that had not been there before. I fished out a fine shift, a gown of pale green wool with butterflies embroidered
around the hem in stitches so tiny a mouse might have made them, and a gossamer-soft shawl. Someone, it seemed, not only wanted us to complete our quest, but intended us to do it in style.

  I asked Cathal to turn his back while I got out of my wet things and put on shift, gown and shawl. He obeyed. This did not prevent me from imagining him watching me undress, and wondering what he might be thinking as he did so. When I was done, I averted my gaze while he changed into his spare outfit. Everything I needed for Becan was there, and when I had fed him he fell into a deep, contented sleep. I hung our wet things over the bushes while Cathal made up a brew of hot water and dried meat. We sat down close to the fire to eat it. It felt so good to be dry. The soft fabric of the green gown was bliss against my bruised skin; the warmth of the fire was balm to my weary body. The watery brew tasted like ambrosia. Across the flames Cathal and I regarded each other warily.

  “So,” he said, “you have friends here.”

  “I think that creature is a distant relation,” I said.

  His brows went up.

  “They’re called the Old Ones. A long time ago, a man from the Sevenwaters family married one of their women. Perhaps they aid us out of a sense of obligation, because of kinship. That may explain why they are prepared to help me but not you. His kind, that creature kept saying. Meaning, I presume, humankind without any streak of the uncanny.”

  “I see.” Cathal was wearing his haunted look. The sudden provision of every comfort we could have hoped for had done little to improve his mood.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry about me, Clodagh.” The tone was dismissive.

  “I do worry. You keep looking as if you expect to see ghosts. As if something’s coming that is worse than I could possibly imagine. I’m concerned for you.”

  “Don’t be. I’m happy that you’re so close to the end of your quest. I’m hopeful that you will succeed. You shouldn’t trouble yourself over me. As you see, I’m fine.”