Heir to Sevenwaters

by Juliet Marillier

  “I had heard that Sevenwaters was an uncanny place,” Cathal said. “Just the kind of place, I thought, where these powers would gather around me once more. And they did. That day when we rode out with the children, they drew me off the path. It wasn’t my own double that lured me. It was you.”

  I stared at him. “Me?” I said. “But I was with the others all the time, Sibeal and Doran and . . . Aidan.” Oh, it hurt to speak his name. I could see him before me, his brown eyes gentle, his smile sweet. I could hear the ringing notes of a harp.

  “The girl I saw was as close to you in appearance as that assassin was to me. Good enough to deceive at a distance, though I doubt I would be taken in now. I followed, surprised to see you on your own and thinking you might be in trouble. At some point within the forest, you—or at least the girl who resembled you—vanished. It was an experiment; a test. They chose right. They learned, that day, that if you were in danger I would break any rule to rescue you.”

  A curious feeling was coming over me. This was like the opening of a box of surprises, with each layer that unfolded exposing another, trickier one beneath. Cathal a seer; the Fair Folk pursuing him, leading him astray, perhaps endangering all those close to him; Cathal caring enough about me to put my safety before his own future. It explained many things, but not the crucial question of why. Why would the Fair Folk be so interested in Cathal? What could that possibly have to do with the snatching of Finbar and my mission to bring him home?

  “You were afraid,” I said, recalling the shadows I had seen in his eyes as we crossed the river and as we camped in the forest at night. “If they’ve been tormenting you for years and years, you were crazy to come with me.”

  “They knew I would come,” he said with frightening simplicity.

  “This was what they wanted? Are you saying . . . Cathal, are you telling me it was no accident that you and I met in the forest? That the whole thing was controlled by the Fair Folk, to bring you here with me? But that would mean we were just . . . puppets. It would mean we had no free choices at all.” This notion was almost impossible to accept. “Why would they do that? They wouldn’t attach you to me as a protector. These folk have a facility with magic. They could make the path to Mac Dara’s hall as easy or difficult for me as they pleased. Besides, you say they’ve been pursuing you since long before you had anything to do with Sevenwaters. What reason could there be for that?”

  Cathal grimaced. “I have a theory, but I’m by no means certain it’s correct. I hope very much that it isn’t. It is not a thing I can speak of here. If we get back safely I’ll tell you about it. Who would have thought the prospect of an honest talk could seem so enticing and so impossible?”

  “Cathal.”

  “Yes, Clodagh?” He had finished unpicking the objects from the cloak, and now he gathered them up into a small heap.

  “Are you saying you believe that even Finbar’s abduction wouldn’t have happened if you had not been at Sevenwaters? That he was taken in order to ensure you came here with me?” It seemed the sort of theory that would only be invented by a man with a grossly inflated idea of his own importance in the scheme of things. I might be prepared to believe Cathal deluded, misguided, but I knew he was not the arrogant person I had once thought him. Besides, I could think of no good reason for the Fair Folk to punish my parents, who had long been wise custodians of the forest and staunch supporters of the old faith. I considered the idea that my family was involved in this only because . . . because Cathal felt something for me that was a great deal more significant that I had ever believed. A man does not follow a woman into a realm where he believes he will be under threat unless he feels more for her than simple lust. They learned, that day, that if you were in danger I would break any rule to rescue you.

  “It makes sense,” Cathal said quietly. “They know you. They know your family. They had confidence that you would undertake this journey to set things right. You’ve seen already how these folk can manipulate our perceptions, Clodagh. I imagine they found it easy enough to ensure you recognized Becan for what he is while the rest of your family saw only a wooden manikin. Somehow they made sure you and I would meet in the forest. My instincts told me where the portal was. I cannot explain to you how I knew, only that I was quite certain there was a river in that quarter and that crossing it would bring us into the Otherworld. Those who pursue us seem to know me as well as they know you. They knew I would not let you undertake such a perilous quest alone. All the way, at every stage of our journey, they have put you in danger so I would stay by your side. Even those folk last night, who came to the gate and showed you a child just like your brother—what was that but a blatant attempt to draw you out of this safe place while I slept? If they had taken you away I would have followed, even if your trail led me so deep into the Otherworld that there was no way out. That may be exactly what they want.”

  I answered as I knew I had to, though the thought of going on without him made me feel sick. “When they come for me later, you’d best stay here and wait until I’ve got Finbar,” I said. “Then we can go home together. The last thing I want is to put you in danger, Cathal. In any more danger, I mean. What can they want with you?”

  But he only shrugged. “Put these in your bag,” he said. “Wrap a garment around them, then stow them at the bottom.”

  I rolled the little items into a spare stocking and put them deep in my pack. I wondered if there was any real possibility that Cathal’s bizarre theory was correct. Was my place in this whole course of events merely that of a pawn? Was it of no consequence what decisions I made, what choices I took? I did not think I could accept that. Besides, I had a nagging feeling that somewhere in my memory there was a key to all of this, a key I needed to find before it was too late. “Cathal, why did you run away from Sevenwaters when you weren’t guilty of anything? Surely it would have been better to tell Johnny the full story.”

  “And make my affliction common knowledge?” His tone was bitter. I glanced at him. Aidan’s death had put a new darkness in his eyes. If I had thought his look haunted once or twice before, it was nothing to this.

  “I don’t want my father’s legacy,” he said. “If I could wipe away the stain of him forever, I would do so. Besides, with each day that passed I was more certain that my presence at Sevenwaters was bringing down disaster on you and your family. I could not in all conscience remain there any longer.”

  “By not speaking out about this,” I said, “you’ve played into these folk’s hands. You’ve done exactly what they wanted you to do. That’s if your theory is correct. One thing I don’t understand is how the attack on Glencarnagh fits into this. Cathal, when you saw that vision, what exactly was it that made you suspect Illann?”

  “Before I saw the attack, I was shown glimpses of other things. You brushing your sister’s hair. Illann showing Deirdre a map. Illann addressing a group of men, some of whom I thought I saw later amongst those who attacked your father’s property. The pieces, put together in a certain way, at least suggested the possibility that Illann might be implicated. I thought it fair to warn you, since you were a potential source of information to your sister. It may bear no relation to this other matter.”

  “If we’re being manipulated, you and me,” I said miserably, “I suppose these visions might contain whatever the Fair Folk choose to put in them. They might show us things just to stir up trouble. That old woman, Willow, said Mac Dara was mischievous, didn’t she?”

  Memory stirred. Willow’s stories, which had seemed to upset Cathal so much: the clurichauns, Wolf-child . . . There had been something about Mac Dara, too, but when I tried to recall it, it slipped away.

  Cathal bowed his head. “Aidan’s dead,” he said. “I can’t allow myself to hope that was a lie. I know in my bones that it’s true.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel worse.”

  He said nothing.

  “I didn’t tell you,” I said, “but just before you came up to see m
e, the day Finbar was taken, I contacted Deirdre to tell her about the birth. And . . . and she asked me some unexpected questions. They weren’t very specific, but they did concern Father’s dilemma with the northern chieftains, the sort of thing Deirdre has never been interested in before. So perhaps your vision was true; perhaps she and Illann were somehow involved. If the Fair Folk have a grand plan involving you, that attack really doesn’t seem to fit.”

  “If it’s a worldly plot, Johnny and Lord Sean will sort it out between them. I hope I was wrong about your sister. That would be hard for you. Clodagh?”

  “Mm?”

  “I can’t stay here while you go off to confront this Mac Dara. It would run against every instinct that’s in me. I can’t let you do this on your own.” He sounded wretched.

  I looked up and saw his face quite unguarded. He was white as chalk, his lips set tight, but love blazed in his eyes, fierce and uncompromising. For a moment it stopped my heart. I moved across to kneel by him and wrap my arms around him, pressing my cheek against his. “I want you to be safe,” I whispered. “If they mean you harm, you mustn’t come with me.”

  “If my theory’s right,” he murmured against my hair, “you won’t be able to do it unless I’m there.”

  “Let me try. I’m a daughter of Sevenwaters, after all. There have been hundreds of years of goodwill between us and the Tuatha De. Surely that can’t be erased so quickly.”

  “Shh,” Cathal whispered. “Let’s not talk about this now. Let’s not talk at all.” His hand moved against my hair, then traced a tender line down temple, cheek, neck, his thumb pausing where the blood pulsed close under the skin. His touch was like a bard’s on his instrument, and it awakened a deep and mysterious music in my body. I sighed and nestled closer. We sat like that a long while, touching gently, not letting the spark between us rise to a flame, for now was not the time for that. If all went well, when we got back to Sevenwaters we would have all the time we wanted. A lifetime if we were lucky. I knew, as Cathal held me, that no objection anyone could raise was going to keep me from being with him. I had a good precedent: Father had approved of Muirrin’s marriage to Evan, an Inis Eala man who was neither high born nor rich in worldly goods. Evan had been considered suitable because he was a skillful healer and the son of a family friend, and because he and Muirrin loved each other. That, in the end, would be the argument Father would heed most, since he and Mother had been fortunate enough to wed for love themselves.

  I mustn’t plan too far ahead, I cautioned myself. That was to set myself up for sorrow. But I couldn’t help it. This was nearly over. By nightfall today I would have my brother back. By tomorrow or the next day, all three of us could be home again. Today there had been terrible sadness. Tomorrow there would be hope. There would be love. There would be a future. Fair Folk or no Fair Folk, I would make sure of it.

  CHAPTER 13

  Later we lay down awhile with Becan between us. The baby was drowsy, but Cathal and I could not sleep. “You know that song?” Cathal murmured.

  “What song?”

  “The one you were singing last night, about a handsome young man. Did you find a rhyme for tangled and wild?”

  “I thought you were asleep, or I’d never have sung it out loud,” I said, embarrassed. “And yes, I found a rhyme, but you wouldn’t like it.”

  “Try me,” Cathal said.

  “It’s too personal,” I told him.

  “Go on, Clodagh. I want to hear it.”

  At least he was sounding more cheerful. I sang:

  “Where have you wandered, my dear one, my own

  Where have you wandered, my handsome young man

  I’ve strayed in a wilderness tangled and wild

  I’ve raved like a madman and wept like a child

  And still I can’t find my way home

  I still cannot find my way home.”

  “You think me handsome?” queried Cathal.

  “It’s a traditional ballad,” I told him. “The young men in such verses are always handsome.”

  “Ah, that explains it. I never thought, when you and Aidan played music together in your father’s hall, that one day you would make a song about me.”

  “The word handsome is not adequate to describe you, Cathal. You are unlike anyone else: a rare creature. I put this in the form of a ballad because that makes a sad story easier to set down.” I must not go down that track now. What we both needed was something to give us heart. “Cathal, what was Aidan like as a boy, when the two of you were growing up? Did he love music even then?” Talk about him, I willed him. Talk about the good times, the happy times.

  “He liked to sing, just as you do, Clodagh. When we were out fishing or trapping he’d suddenly get an idea and start whistling or burst into song. It’s no wonder we didn’t catch much. We spent a lot of time out of doors. Built a tree house; camped overnight; had adventures in boats. Lord Murtagh didn’t expect us to act like miniature noblemen. He let us run free when we needed to. But we had tutors as well, some to teach us our letters, others to make sure we could ride and shoot and use weapons. Aidan didn’t like being second best at that. He didn’t realize he had talents I could never match.”

  “Like music, you mean?” Between us, the baby had fallen asleep; his slight form took up so little space that I could feel Cathal’s thigh against mine, a disturbing sensation.

  “That, and the ability to charm folk with his warmth and good humor. He was well loved. Because of that, people accepted me despite my . . .” His voice trailed away.

  “Oddity?” I suggested.

  “My inability to play the right games. My failure to behave in the way people expected. Aidan was a staunch friend. Over and over I hurt him, upset him, made things difficult for him. Over and over he forgave me, stood by me. He wasn’t perfect. Some things he did, I found hard to excuse.” He fell silent, perhaps feeling it was wrong to criticize a man so newly lost.

  “Aidan did have a temper,” I ventured. “I saw it when the two of you were fighting, and it surprised me. He got jealous. And yet at other times he was such a sweet man.”

  “He killed my dog,” Cathal said flatly. “Fleet. There’s a strip from her collar in your bag, among the things from the cloak. Even as a child he got jealous. Lord Murtagh gave me Fleet not long after my mother died. I’d never had a dog before and I loved her. Aidan resented that. Perhaps he thought it unfair that his father would make such a gift to me, the bastard foster son. At any rate, Fleet was kicked in the hindquarters. The injury didn’t mend. She went lame, then sickened and died. Aidan swore he hadn’t done it, but he was seen. That cruel streak in him was one of the reasons I tried to warn you off.”

  “One of them?”

  “My own feelings had more than a little to do with what I said to you.” A fleeting smile played across his lips.

  Now was not the time to speak more about this, though his words made my heart beat faster. “What else was on the cloak, Cathal?”

  As we lay there quietly and the day passed, he told me the story of each small item: a white pebble that had formed part of a childhood game, skipping stones across the stream, then using them in an elaborate competition of throwing and catching. An eagle feather, trophy of a climb up a perilous, forbidden rock face. Aidan had wrenched his ankle; Cathal had caught a pony from a nearby field and somehow conveyed his friend home. A piece of shimmering multicolored cloth: part of a gown once worn by Aidan’s mother, relegated to the scrap bag, retrieved by a small boy who had thought that this exotic fabric must surely have real magic in it. “She was kind to me,” Cathal said simply.

  The plaited hair was his and Aidan’s, twined and fastened. “We did that when we were quite small,” Cathal said. “A ritual; we swore that we’d be true friends until death.” He choked over the words.

  “And you were,” I said softly. “It doesn’t matter that you were on the run or that he had been sent to hunt you down. I saw his face as he watched us disappear on the raft. He wasn’t
resentful that you’d escaped him. He was sad to be saying goodbye, and pleased that you wouldn’t be brought back to face charges that were based on lies.” And jealous, I thought, but did not say it. “He argued your case to the last. But he was dutiful as well—that’s a lesson a chieftain’s son or daughter learns early. Johnny threatened to send him away from Inis Eala if he didn’t obey the order to go after you. He had to do it.”

  “Perhaps I was not such a bad influence as I thought. He never learned to enjoy breaking rules.” His hand came across and curled around mine. “You’re such a wise person, Clodagh,” he said.

  “Actually, I make it up as I go along most of the time,” I said, blushing. “Cathal, can you hear something?” My ears had picked up a soft rustling, a steady beat as of horses’ hooves, a faint jingling beyond the safe confines of the thorn hedge. I sat up slowly, careful not to disturb the sleeping infant, and Cathal did the same.

  Someone was approaching. Beyond the hedge I could see lights and movement, and I could hear voices, high and strange, calling and laughing as they neared our sanctuary. Cathal put his finger to his lips, signalling silence. I gathered up the baby and we rose cautiously to our feet. The light had begun to fade. In keeping with the oddities of time in the Otherworld, dusk was coming fast.

  The gate creaked open, then banged shut. A small figure came across the grass toward us, silver mask before its face. Behind it were two others. One had something of the look of a mossy stone, the eyes round patches of lichen, the mouth a chink; the other was of indeterminate shape, changing each time I looked at it. It put me in mind of water.