“I have another question,” I said. “You killed a young man called Aidan, shot him in cold blood out in the forest not long ago. Why?”
Mac Dara shrugged. “Why does one do these things? Need there be a reason?”
His insouciant manner appalled me. “How could you kill someone without a reason?” I burst out. “That is evil.”
Mac Dara shrugged. “It was entertaining. Briefly. I’m easily bored these days.”
I could think of absolutely nothing to say. If the tales were true, this man had once led great armies, ruled a vast territory, held off powers worldly and otherworldly with consummate strategic skill. He might never have been a particularly likeable character, but he had been someone of influence, a leader. That such a man could fall so low sickened me. “Perhaps,” I said eventually, “you have lived too long.”
There was a moment’s silence. His fingers tightened in my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt me. Then his thin lips formed a smile. His grip relaxed; he stood and moved to the small table, picking up a cup and draining the contents. “You’re outspoken,” he commented. “I suppose that goes with the flaming red curls. You have courage. No wonder he wants you so badly.”
I looked at him. He gazed back at me, his dark eyes suddenly serious in his long, pale face. And if a spell or charm had banished the clue I needed from my memory all this time so that I had failed to put together the pieces of this puzzle until it was almost too late, now, in an instant, I had it. I remembered Willow’s third tale: the fey woman Albha and her half-human daughter, and the tricks and maneuvering with which Albha had sought to get her back. The charm she had cast . . . Gods, the charm had everything in it, every single step of the journey that had brought Cathal and me to Mac Dara’s hall. Cross the river left then right . . . the field of time, no, thyme . . . fall so far you cannot climb . . . sorrow’s pathway . . . the gate of thorn . . .
“You’re his father,” I breathed. I have a theory, Cathal had said. I very much hope I’m wrong. He had hated the extraordinary scrying talent his unknown parent had passed on to him. How much more appalling would be the confirmation that he was the son of this dark Otherworld prince and only half human? “You haven’t assumed his form. He looks like you because he’s your son. You look young because of what you are. Cathal was right. You’ve done all of this, every single bit of it, just to lure him back. Why didn’t I see it?”
“This is a simple transaction,” said the Lord of the Oak. “A son for a son. I don’t want the changeling. Take it home with you if you wish. You’ve more regard for it than any of my people are likely to exhibit. An excess of regard, one might almost say. You can have your little brother back. Just give me your companion in exchange. Incidentally, where is he? Somewhat remiss of him to let you come in here all by yourself, isn’t it? I thought he’d been trained as an elite warrior.”
I was chill to the core of my bones. Thank all the gods Cathal had not come here with me; thank every power there was that he’d had the sense to stay back out of sight. How could I have forgotten the rhyme? How could I have been so stupid? Set your foot inside the door, you’ll be mine forever more. With those words, Albha had sought to enmesh the daughter who had fled the Otherworld to live a life as her own woman. Whether she had succeeded in the long-term, I did not know—I had missed the end of that story. All I knew was that Cathal must not come in here. I must not let him step inside the pavilion. If he did so he could never, ever go home again.
“Well?” The Lord of the Oak was sounding displeased now. “Where is my son? He is the price you must pay for Lord Sean’s heir. There is a pleasing symmetry in the arrangement. You’ll appreciate that, I’m sure. I’m a virile man, Clodagh. I’ve sired more than my share of children over the years. I have something in common with your father, Lord Sean of Sevenwaters. Each of us has an abundance of daughters. So many daughters, and only one son.”
My mind was racing. I had to get Finbar and escape from here before Cathal revealed himself. I had to find the Old Ones and hope they could get us home. But Mac Dara wouldn’t let me go until he had what he wanted. His eyes were full of implacable purpose. Those guards with their spears would be nothing beside his wrath if I tried to escape without fulfilling my side of the bargain. Maybe I could stall awhile, keep talking while I worked out what to do. “His mother drowned herself,” I said. “Did you know that?”
“I did hear something along those lines,” said the Lord of the Oak, folding his arms and regarding me through narrowed eyes. “A waste. She should have found a new man, a farmer, a fisherman, someone of her own kind. As you will do—oh, not the farmer, I expect, but a young man from your father’s list, someone who will provide a suitable territorial advantage. You can’t have my son. He’s destined for greater things.”
“It is sad,” I said, “that you cannot allow him to make up his own mind. If you wanted me to turn my back on him and marry my father’s choice, perhaps you shouldn’t have loosed the arrow that killed Aidan of Whiteshore. As well as being a suitor of mine, he was your son’s dearest friend.”
“You’re beginning to try my patience just a little. These matters do not interest me. Take your father’s son home and he will owe you such a debt that you may marry any man you choose.”
“Except one,” I said.
Mac Dara nodded. “Except my son,” he said. “He takes after me, no doubt, and is skilled in pleasing women. But he’s not for you. His future lies elsewhere. Now tell me, where is he?”
Somehow, remarkably, it seemed that Cathal had managed to conceal himself from the eagle eye of this Otherworld prince, even in the heart of his own realm. But then, if he was Mac Dara’s son, perhaps he had uncanny powers too, not merely an exceptional ability at scrying but all manner of other talents thus far untried. “I don’t know where he is,” I said. “He suspected he was being lured into a trap. He decided not to come any further. I expect he’s well on the way home by now.”
For a moment I saw a look on Mac Dara’s face that terrified me, an anger on the brink of spilling out into such violence that I feared for my life. Then he composed himself. “I see,” he said. “He won’t get far; I have sentries everywhere. Forgive my ill temper, please. I have waited so long for this day. It is disappointing that I cannot yet welcome my son back. But I mustn’t delay you unduly, that wouldn’t be fair. You’ll be wanting to convey your brother home. I’ll take the changeling instead.” He held out his arms.
It was too quick, too easy. He didn’t want Becan, he’d just said so. This had to be a trick.
“Not so fast,” I made myself say. “I’m not giving Becan up until I see Finbar. I need to be sure he is well and has not been harmed.”
Mac Dara clicked his long fingers. Almost immediately a young woman entered the pavilion, a pretty human girl of perhaps seventeen, clad in a countrywoman’s garments. Two women of the Tuatha De escorted her, each of them wearing a hooded cloak of gray. The girl had a baby in her arms. Her expression was curiously blank, and it troubled me.
“Place the child on the seat there,” the Lord of the Oak said crisply.
She obeyed, scuttling over with her eyes downcast. The very air felt full of peril. Making myself breathe slowly, I knelt beside the infant to examine him, holding Becan with one arm as I used the other hand to loosen this child’s shawl.
It was Finbar. I saw it in an instant and had to restrain my urge to snatch him up immediately. This was a realm of trickery and deception. Mac Dara was utterly untrustworthy. I must exercise caution; I must not rush something so important.
I made an inventory: copious dark hair, boldly shaped nose, rosy mouth, unusual eyes, already lighter in color than they had been at birth. A visionary’s eyes. I checked that every part of my brother was whole and undamaged. I folded the gossamer-soft shawl back around him, glancing up at the girl with a smile. If she had been looking after him, she had done a good job. She gazed back at me, not a glimmer of expression in her eyes.
“We would n
ot harm the heir to Sevenwaters,” said Mac Dara. “He may be slightly changed. No human who spends time in our realm returns entirely the same.”
“Changed?” I echoed, recalling what Sibeal had said about this. “In what way?”
“For the better, without a doubt,” said Mac Dara, smiling. “Do not concern yourself. Such alterations are subtle indeed.”
I had no grounds on which to challenge him further. My brother was here; the Lord of the Oak was offering me exactly what I had expected, one baby for the other. But something was wrong. We had reached this point far too easily. The only one Mac Dara really wanted was Cathal; I’d stake my life on it.
“Swear to me that there is no trickery in this bargain,” I said, knowing that a lord of the Tuatha De did not make binding promises to a human woman. “You give me Finbar as a straightforward exchange for this baby. Your folk allow me to make my way safely home with my brother.” Becan’s body stiffened; his hands clawed into my gown, holding on tightly. He was staring up at me, his pebble eyes wide with anxiety. Out in the woods beyond the clearing something let out a long, mournful cry.
“Of course,” Mac Dara said. “Would I lie to you? A simple exchange—that child for this. Then take your brother and return in safety to your own realm.”
He sounded perfectly calm and businesslike. He sounded trustworthy. But I could not bring myself to put Becan into his arms. A man like this did not suddenly give up. A creature like this, who would kill in cold blood for no better reason than to amuse himself for a moment or two, did not capitulate without a fight.
“I don’t trust you,” I said in a small voice.
Mac Dara folded his arms. “Why did you come here?” he asked. “I thought it was to fetch your brother home; to stop your mother from dying of a broken heart; to give your father back the son who is more important to him than he could ever have believed possible before he held him in his arms that first time and felt a love like no other. Was not that your mission?”
“Yes,” I murmured, tears springing in my eyes. “But . . .” I bowed my head over Becan, knowing I had to do it, realizing just how difficult it was going to be.
“I’ll take him.” This soft voice was that of the nursemaid, and when I looked up she was standing right by me, reaching out her arms. “I’ll look after him, I promise.” Her face was not blank now, but bore a sweet, shy expression. I wondered how she had come to be here in the Otherworld and whether she was content.
The moment had come. “Very well,” I made myself say. I kissed Becan on his brow, my tears watering his leafy skin. I unfastened his twiggy fingers from my clothing—oh, so tightly he clung—and put him into the girl’s arms. He began to cry, a tiny, forlorn sound. I gathered Finbar up. Though he was small, he was a far heavier burden than Becan; a warm, real human baby. And yet . . . and yet, at that moment, my heart ached fit to break for my changeling, my little one, beloved in all his curious oddity.
Mac Dara smiled. It was the kind of smile a man gives when he scents victory in a game of wits. He clicked his fingers. The nursemaid put Becan in his arms, and Mac Dara threw him into the fire.
A great scream ripped itself out of me. Dropping Finbar on the seat, I flung myself toward the flames. Mac Dara’s arm came around me, holding me back. Becan’s shriek pierced me like a blade. I fought, biting, scratching, sobbing, every part of me straining toward the fire.
“I’m sure that was loud enough to do the trick,” observed the Lord of the Oak.
Gods, oh gods, no . . . He was burning, burning, his twigs and bark and mosses going up like a torch. I kicked and struggled, my body convulsed with wrenching sobs, until Mac Dara released me and I threw myself down beside the fire, scrabbling in the burning coals for any part of my little one that still remained.
“Careful,” said Mac Dara. “Don’t burn those pretty hands.”
Blinded by tears, I snatched at a corner of the woollen shawl, the only part of Becan I could see, ripping it out of the flames. Something rolled with it as it came: a speckled pebble, my baby’s blind, dead eye. I clutched it in my hand; its heat scorched my palm. My gorge rose, and I retched the contents of my stomach out onto the floor of Mac Dara’s pavilion, splattering the embroidered gown they had made me wear for this travesty of an audience.
A commotion outside the pavilion, running footsteps, shouting, a clash of metal. I heard the Lord of the Oak suck in his breath, and then someone flung himself down beside me, setting his hand on my bent shoulder, and I wrenched myself violently away.
“What have you done to her?”
The voice was not Mac Dara’s. It was Cathal’s, full of cold fury. He was here. He was here beside me, reaching to support me, his arms as gentle as his tone had been hard.
“Becan,” I gasped through my sobs. “Oh, Cathal, he . . . he . . .”
Cathal unfolded my tightly clenched fists, revealing the pebble and the scorched scrap of shawl. For a moment his whole body went still. Then he leapt to his feet, strode to the table, grabbed the jug and hurled its contents onto the flames. There was a sizzling. As the blaze died momentarily down, Cathal thrust his hands into the fire and snatched something out, cursing under his breath. He crouched beside me, holding what was left of the changeling. I made myself look, fighting down a new wave of nausea. Becan was scorched and broken, one arm quite gone, his face an ugly travesty of its sweet uncanny self, his body blackened and twisted. Smoke arose from the bark of his lips; inside, he was still burning. He was completely still, his remaining eye blank and lifeless. He looked exactly the manikin of forest matter that my family had believed him, a thing that was not alive and never had been. There were sounds coming out of me I had never heard anyone make in my life, racking, tearing sobs that made my whole body hurt. Cathal laid the baby down on the ground, then reached into my pack for the water-skin. Without a word, he put it in my hand.
My hands shaking violently, I took out the stopper and trickled the contents gently over the ruined body of my little one. Behind us, nobody was saying a thing.
“Clodagh,” Cathal said quietly. “You must take your brother and go. Go right now. I know it’s hard, but you must do as I say.”
Something in his tone brought me back to reality, and in a flash I understood what Mac Dara had done. Because of him I had delivered not one, but two of those I loved to the enemy. All calculated. All planned. I gathered the pitiful remnant of my child and got to my feet, and Cathal rose to stand behind me, his hands around my arms, holding me against him. I looked over at the Lord of the Oak. Triumph blazed on his face, the face that was almost the twin of his son’s, but not quite. He was the master trickster. In the end, he had outwitted us all.
“No,” I breathed. “No! You can’t do this!” But Mac Dara was smiling. His trick had worked. He had killed Becan without a qualm, just to make me scream. He had known my scream would summon his son; he had known Cathal could not hear it and hold back. Cathal had come to my rescue. He had set his foot inside the door, knowing that once he did so his father could keep him in the Otherworld forever. He had sacrificed his future for me.
“Welcome home, my son,” said Mac Dara. “You have made this hard work. I must confess to a certain pride in the way you’ve managed to evade me all these years. You have indeed proven yourself worthy to be my successor.” He was looking almost affable now; his arms were stretched out as if offering his son an embrace.
Cathal turned his head to one side and spat on the floor. “I have no father,” he said.
“You can’t go back, of course,” Mac Dara drawled, “not now you’ve set your foot inside my hall. My spell craft is without peer; you will not break through the barriers I have set around you. But why would you want to leave? A future as prince and ruler awaits you here, a life such as the human world could never have provided for a man of your humble origins. Right now you may think you don’t want it, but that won’t last. You’ll change. This place will change you. Deep down you already know the truth, my son. Under the surf
ace you’re just like me.”
“Go, Clodagh.” Cathal’s voice trembled. “Take him and go.”
“I suppose we could keep the girl,” the Lord of the Oak said in conversational tones. “I can see you’re attached to her. She’s a bold little thing; I like redheads. In fact, she might come in useful for ensuring your compliance until you understand your new role here. You arrived quickly enough when you heard she was in trouble. Ah, love; what fools it makes of us! You and your little piece here; she and her wretched changeling . . . Then there’s Lord Sean’s heir. I had planned to send the child back, but he could still be useful to us.” He turned a considering gaze on the small form of Finbar, lying on the seat where I had dropped him without a thought for his welfare.
“Go, Clodagh,” Cathal said. “My brave girl. My remarkable girl. Please go now.” He removed his hands from my arms. Without looking, I could tell that he was crying.
There was no choice. I must do as he said for Finbar’s sake. But I would not leave Becan. He must be laid to rest kindly, with love and respect, not abandoned in this domain of cruel strangers. I slipped my bag off my shoulders, opened it up and laid him inside, on top of my folded garments. It was the best I could do for him. I put the bag back on and went to the bench where my brother lay. My breath was still coming in gasps; my eyes and nose were streaming. I wiped my face, and the cool, hard surface of the green glass ring brushed against the cut on my cheek. And suddenly, although I was near paralyzed with shock, although my heart was crushed and bleeding, deep inside I felt a little flame of courage. I picked Finbar up. His bright eyes were fixed on me, curiously aware. My kin; my flesh and blood. I made him a silent promise. I’ve failed Becan; I will not fail you, little brother. Then I turned to face Mac Dara.
“Don’t think this is over,” I said, and if he was a prince, in that moment I was a queen, my voice cold, hard and steady as a rock. “I’m not giving up. If you go against your word again, if harm comes to me or my brother on our way home, you will have destroyed all goodwill toward the Tuatha De Danann within the territory of Sevenwaters. Your kind will no longer have safe haven here. I swear it on the memory of my kinsman Finbar, the man with the swan’s wing, for whom this child was named. I swear it on the memory of my grandmother, Sorcha of Sevenwaters, whom the Tuatha De loved and aided. As for your son, he is more man than you can ever imagine. You will not defeat us. Nothing defeats love.”
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