Sevenwaters [06] Flame of Sevenwaters

by Juliet Marillier

  “Maeve…”

  “What?”

  “Don’t you ever weep, rage, curse the gods? Don’t you ever feel anger or jealousy or resentment?”

  “I’m no paragon. I’ve done my share of weeping and raging over the years. Of course I get angry.” I recalled the cold fury that had possessed me when Caisin told me Mac Dara had killed my boys. “But I’ve learned not to devote too much time to it, since it achieves nothing.”

  I heard him draw a deep, shaky breath. “What would you have me promise?”

  “To accept this the way it is, without bitterness. To be a good brother to both Artagan and me. And when you are married, to do your best to love and honor your wife. A strategic marriage can be happy and successful; when you meet my sister Deirdre and her husband, you will see that.”

  “You ask much.”

  “You have much to offer.”

  There was a long silence, during which I realized I could see a lightening of the tunnel walls ahead of us; somewhere up there, the subterranean way opened to the outside.

  “Please,” I said.

  “Look!” exclaimed Finbar from up in front, where he was now walking beside Cathal. “We’re nearly home!”

  Tiernan muttered something.

  “I didn’t hear you,” I said.

  “I’m not the man you believe me to be,” he said. “I am far less than my brother. But I’ll try.”

  We emerged from the rocks to find ourselves on a rise. At the top grew a stand of young oaks; at the foot lay a round pool. Flat stones beside the water seemed to invite a weary traveler to stop and rest awhile before journeying on. Indeed, it was clear that not so long ago someone had made a fire here among the stones. I looked about me, trying to get a sense of direction.

  “We’re at the nemetons,” said Finbar in wonder. “See those oaks? If we climb up there we’ll be able to see your cottage, Maeve, and Pearl and the cows.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him it was not possible; we had not walked nearly far enough, even allowing for a touch of ancient magic. But I held back the words. My brother was seldom wrong. And now that I thought about it, this place did look familiar.

  “You are indeed close to home,” said the hedgehog-dwarf. “Here we bid you farewell. My respects to you, Mac Dara’s son. We had hoped that you would stay among us. But we honor the one who offered himself in your place.” The creature turned toward me. “You have brought about great change,” it said, “and we will be forever grateful, daughter of Sevenwaters.”

  The little being in the green hat had come up to Finbar. “A gift awaits you,” it said. “It is a token of our deepest respect.”

  “Thank you,” said Finbar politely, though there was no gift in sight. “For bringing us safely home. And…for letting us come into your world.” I heard the regret in his voice.

  “Farewell, bravest of the brave,” the two wee men said together. “You will see us again.”

  “Sons of the North,” said the hedgehog-dwarf, “we are glad our transformation saved your lives; we regret the fate that overtook your companions. Learn from this journey; carry your newfound knowledge into your lives as men, for it is given to few of your kind to enter the Otherworld. Even fewer return safely. We will watch over you. Oh yes, even in Tirconnell. We are everywhere.”

  Cathal spoke grave words of thanks; Artagan added his own.

  “I will make a song of this,” Daigh told the Old Ones. “Should our paths ever cross again, I hope I may sing it by your hearth fire. Sixteen verses in perfect rhyme, and a refrain to set every foot tapping.”

  “That I would like to hear,” said the hedgehog-dwarf. “But think twice before you seek this realm again, young man. You’ve been lucky. Luckier than you can imagine.”

  “Perhaps, under Ciarán’s leadership, our realm and yours can live in amity.” Tiernan surprised me; I had not thought him yet ready to speak thus.

  Four sets of strange eyes regarded him. “Time will tell,” said the hedgehog-dwarf. “Go now; there are many who anxiously await your return.”

  Finbar set off straight up the hill, perhaps eager to prove to us that home was only a hop and a step away. “Wait, Finbar!” I called, finding myself reluctant to let him out of my sight before we were safely there. Fleet-footed Daigh went after him, catching up quickly. The two of them climbed together.

  I turned to bid the Old Ones farewell.

  “They’re gone,” said Artagan, sounding bewildered.

  They had vanished from one breath to the next. Even as we stared, the entry to the underground way blurred, as if it were a dream or vision, then disappeared. Now the hillside bore no chink or crack big enough to admit more than a beetle. The little pool lay tranquil; the trees stirred gently in the breeze.

  “Maeve!” shouted Finbar from the top of the rise. “Come quick!”

  Speed was impossible; the hill was too steep for Blaze, and I could not climb with my arm in the sling. With Artagan’s help I made my way around the rise; Tiernan led Blaze, with Cathal coming behind. We emerged from cover to find that Finbar had indeed been right, for we were looking down on the familiar cottage, the chicken coop, the dry stone walls and green fields, the—

  “Swift,” I breathed. “Oh, gods, Swift! He’s home!”

  For there he was, white as snow, lovely as moonlight, with not a scratch on him, cropping the grass alongside Pearl the goat and looking as if he’d done nothing but rest and fatten since the day we ran off through the forest and into another world. Someone had helped him; no horse could have made such a journey on his own. Someone had healed his wounds and seen him safely home.

  “No tears,” Artagan said. “Best put on a brave face; I see a significant welcoming party.”

  Until then, I’d had eyes only for my beautiful Swift. His survival was a gift beyond any I had hoped for. But now I looked past him and saw familiar figures waiting down by the cottage steps. There was Rhian, beaming. Beside her stood a young red-haired woman who might be Deirdre, but possibly wasn’t, and a pair of tiny children. There were my mother and father, and there was Cruinn with tears streaming down his broad cheeks.

  “Go to him,” I said. “I’ll wait for Finbar and Daigh.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “Just go.”

  But it was Cathal who ran. His long legs carried him swiftly across the sward and along the path. The young woman—not Deirdre—sprinted toward him and flung herself into his arms. They held on as if drowning; as well they might, for Clodagh had taken an astonishing risk to come here to Sevenwaters with him. Those tiny children, a flame-haired girl, a dark-haired wisp of a boy, must be their twins. Indeed, now Cathal was lifting the boy onto his shoulders, while Clodagh held her daughter up so her father could kiss her cheek. Welcome home, I thought, shivering. So nearly, for you, there was no homecoming at all.

  Tiernan and Artagan did not run, but they strode down the hill to their father, and he came up to meet them. Cruinn tried to gather both his sons into his embrace at once, and it looked as if tears were being shed all around. I wiped my own eyes.

  Daigh and Finbar were taking a long time. I glanced up the rise toward the young oaks and saw the two of them crouched down by some bushes.

  “Finbar!” I called. “Come on!”

  “Not yet! We haven’t got him yet!”

  A scuffling up there, a few words, a squeak. The two of them rose. Finbar had something in his arms. His face was ablaze with excitement.

  “Maeve, look!” He came down the hill one careful step at a time, as if he were carrying new-laid eggs. Daigh walked behind. When they reached me Finbar said, “He was hiding up there; we heard him crying! He was all alone.” From his cradling arms a strange little face peered up at me. The creature was as tiny as a newborn pup, but well formed; I guessed it would be small even when fully grown. It had something of the look of a fox, though no fox ever had such ears—they looked borrowed from a much larger animal. Its coat was russet, its muzzle pointed, its eyes a deep
and startling blue. The tail was a neat brush.

  “It’s all right; you’re safe now,” Finbar murmured, then looked up at me, eyes shining. “Isn’t he the best dog ever?”

  As if in agreement, the little creature opened its mouth and gave a minuscule bark.

  “That title is already taken,” I said. “But yes, he has a certain something. Just the right size to smuggle into your bed, I should think.” In fact, I suspected Mother would let her only son do what he wanted for a while, now that he was safely home again.

  “This is the Old Ones’ gift, isn’t it?”

  “I think so. And wisely chosen. Finbar, we’d best go; I see Mother and Father waiting.”

  Daigh offered his arm and we headed down. All of a sudden I was possessed by a longing to lie down on my little bed in the cottage and sleep. Greeting everyone, explaining everything, felt like more than I could manage. I, who had faced Mac Dara. I, who had faced the fire.

  “Maeve!” Clodagh was here, her green eyes bright, though it was plain she had been crying. “How wonderful! You look beautiful, just as I imagined. But exhausted. And what happened to your arm? Come, let’s get you inside. All of this can wait; you’re putting your feet up right now.” Then Rhian was on my other side, and in a twinkling of an eye I was sitting by my own hearth fire, and Rhian was boiling the kettle, and my mother and father, after embracing me and Finbar in turn, were sitting down at the table as if they were not lord and lady of Sevenwaters but any parents welcoming lost children home. On the floor at my feet was Finbar with his new treasure on his lap, and little Firinne and Ronan on either side of him, reaching with tentative baby fingers to stroke the dog’s soft hair and touch its extraordinary ears.

  From outside came the voices of Cruinn and his sons, approaching.

  “Maeve,” said Clodagh, “did I hear one of those young men say…”

  “Lord Sean.” Artagan stood in the doorway. I heard the nervous note in his voice and willed him courage. My father must see, surely, what a fine figure of a man he was, clear-eyed and strong-featured. Not to speak of his pedigree. “I am Artagan, younger son of Cruinn of Tirconnell, and I have something to ask you.”

  The tale was too long to be told all at once. Nor was it a story for the whole household, for some matters are not for open airing, even in a place like Sevenwaters where one learns to expect the unexpected. So it came out in bits and pieces, the most pressing first, the more difficult and disturbing later, in private. Some of it we never told. Some of it we never spoke of, save to one another.

  Mother would not hear of letting me stay at the cottage, and although I would have loved its peace and quiet for a while, the presence of Artagan made returning to the keep a more welcome prospect than it might have been. I had a home; I had a place with him. It felt as if I had set down a burden and could walk forward with light feet. Maybe that was what folk meant by hope.

  Father had been chieftain for a long time, since he was only sixteen, and he was practiced at making it clear he was in charge. But when he spoke to Artagan on the matter of our betrothal, I saw a crack in that mask of authority; simply, Father was so overjoyed to see Finbar and me back home safe and well, not to speak of learning that Mac Dara’s reign was over, that he could not deny us. The immense strategic advantage offered by an alliance of kinship with Cruinn may also have played a part, of course, not to speak of a happy ending for the daughter whose plight had wracked him with unwarranted guilt for ten years. It helped that Cruinn had said yes straightaway, without reservation. After hearing Artagan out, Father told us he was favorably disposed to the idea and would give it due consideration. That was as good as we would get immediately, though Artagan looked a little disappointed. He did not know my father as I did.

  While the others were preparing to return to the keep, Cruinn asked to speak with me alone. We walked down to the wall of Swift’s field and stood there feeding handfuls of grass to Pearl.

  “There is no way to thank you,” Cruinn said. “My boys…”

  “No need,” I said. “I’m glad mine was the hearth they found. But sad so many perished; Mac Dara cast a long shadow.”

  “Tiernan has said his first duty, when we return to Tirconnell, will be to seek out the kinsfolk of those who died; to offer an explanation, as far as he can.”

  That would be a heavy task. It seemed Tiernan had been serious in his promise to try. “He’ll need your support,” I said, wondering if it were acceptable to speak to the chieftain of Tirconnell as if I were already his daughter-in-law. “He’s been much hurt by this.”

  “I see it,” Cruinn said. “As I see the strength in my younger son, and the newfound happiness.”

  “We’ve been lucky,” I said, watching Swift take a graceful turn around the field. “Despite all, so lucky.”

  Cruinn cleared his throat. “Maeve, there’s a young mare in my stable I’m sure you’d like. A gray; sweet-tempered, biddable, clever. I believe I could design a saddle that might allow you to ride alone. I’m sure it wouldn’t be beyond your skills to train the mare to carry you safely. Provided the saddle allowed you to balance, you could use your legs and your voice to guide her. Unconventional, of course. But I doubt that will bother you.”

  “I’ll certainly try,” I said, thinking ahead to the time when Swift might be put to a mare, and wondering if this sweet-tempered gray might be the one. It was widely known that Cruinn had the best stables in the north. I could be supervising the birth of Swift’s first offspring; I might train that foal myself. “And Swift will come with us, of course,” I said, realizing my thoughts had run far ahead of themselves. For Swift had never been formally offered to Cruinn: circumstances had prevented that. “You might suggest him as a dowry.”

  Cruinn grinned. “I would not be so presumptuous, though Sean knows I want the creature in my stables. But you might; if your father is feeling the way I am today, there’s nothing in all Erin he will refuse you.”

  Later, after we had returned to the keep, and after I had changed from my red and gold into a comfortable gown of Clodagh’s, we gathered in my father’s small council chamber. Between us we told the story, including the news of Ciarán’s remarkable and selfless choice. Cathal spoke briefly of Ciarán’s journey to seek out the daughters of Mac Dara and the way they had revealed the geis to him, one part at a time.

  “How much did you know?” I asked Finbar, who was sitting between Mother and Father with the tiny dog on his knee. The wolfhounds had given the creature a cursory sniff, then decided to ignore it. “Did you know Luachan was not what he seemed? Did you know the terms of the geis and what a risk we’d have to take, all of us? What about the Disappearance?”

  “Enough for now,” Father said. “This will come out in time.”

  “It’s all right.” Finbar stroked the dog’s sail-like ears with gentle fingers. “I don’t mind saying now. There were lots of things I didn’t know. About Bear and Badger and the little dog being men. About it being the Old Ones who changed them. And other things. When I see visions they’re mixed up, like a story that has true parts and made-up parts. Like a dream, almost. I knew we’d need to be there at the end, you and me, Swift and the dogs, and Luachan, too. I saw him in a vision, pointing a knife at you and making you stand by the pole while they tied you up. I saw the fire, how close it was; I did try to warn you about that.”

  “I know.”

  “Finbar, if you suspected Luachan all along, why didn’t you come straight to me, or to your mother?” Father’s brow was furrowed; he looked old.

  “Or, if you felt you could not confide in us, you might have spoken to Ciarán,” Mother said.

  Finbar glanced up at me.

  “He’s seven,” I said. “Luachan was his tutor, and a druid; Ciarán was Luachan’s superior and had recommended him for the post. Speaking out about a matter like this would be hard even for a grown man.”

  “I wouldn’t have said anyway.” Finbar spoke firmly. “Luachan was there in the vision, at the end. If
I’d told, he might have been sent away, and things might not have come out the way they did. Mac Dara might still be prince of the Otherworld.”

  “Finbar, did you just say you knew the dogs would be there at the end?” I knew I should not ask this, not when he’d shown such remarkable courage. But I had to ask.

  “I had seen them in my vision, at the stone basin. But when Caisin told me Mac Dara had killed them, I thought I might have got it wrong. And…it would have been worse to tell you they might not be dead, and then for it to turn out that Caisin was telling the truth all along.”

  I was silenced. Such self-control would be remarkable even in a druid. In a child of seven, it was astounding. I wondered what kind of man Finbar would grow up to be.

  “We should take time to think on this before we speak of it again,” said my father, glancing at Finbar, then at me. “You’ll be weary. Cruinn, you and I have matters to discuss. We might remain here awhile, if that suits you, and join the family later for supper.”

  “Of course.” Cruinn’s eyes went to his sons, as if he could not bear to let them out of his sight. “And there’s another challenge to face: getting a small army back to Tirconnell. We should depart as soon as they can be ready. We’ve trespassed on Lady Aisling’s hospitality long enough.”

  Artagan and I looked at each other. The notion that one of us might go to Tirconnell while the other remained at Sevenwaters was simply unthinkable.

  “What is it, Maeve?” My mother had seen the look and perhaps guessed what it meant.

  I cleared my throat, not sure if I should speak up or not. After all, Father had not yet given us permission to wed. “This may seem odd to you,” I said, “but while we were in the Otherworld I was tended to by a healer of the Old Ones. He—or maybe it was she—gave Artagan and me some very strict instructions, not only about my broken hand, but…” With the concerned eyes of my parents and sister fixed on me, I found myself unable to go on.