Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  “Ah,” he said, and he reached out his hand to tuck a wayward strand of my hair behind my ear, a curiously intimate gesture. “That’s a remarkable thing about you, Fainne. You always say what you think, straight out.”

  I felt myself blushing again. “Perhaps I lack the refinement of manners a girl should possess in a household such as this. I do speak my mind. I have never learned otherwise. But I would not wish to embarrass you by saying something inappropriate.”

  “You don’t embarrass me, my dear,” he said with a half smile. “I like your honesty. Now come, you should not be sitting on this cold stone floor. Let us go in search of a fire, and some ale perhaps. And then I have a proposal for your consideration.”

  He put out a hand to help me to my feet, and I took it. His hand was dry and warm and his grip very strong. I had no idea what he was about to tell me, but anything was better than facing that little chamber full of weeping girls. Their sadness only compounded my shame for what I had done.

  The kitchen was the only place that was really warm, so we settled there in a corner. It was hardly private; serving men and women came in and out, chickens were being plucked and puddings wrapped for boiling, and there was a steady stream of damp-looking men-at-arms passing through for a quick tankard of ale, a hunk of oaten bread, and a moment or two before the big fire. At least, with so much noise and activity, a quiet conversation might go unheard, if not unobserved. The old woman, Janis, sat exactly where I had first seen her, bolt upright on her chair, dark eyes sharp on everything and everyone. I poured ale from the jug, and put a tankard in Eamonn’s hands.

  “Thank you, Fainne,” he said gravely. “Now tell me. I have not yet seen my sister, or your uncle. There’s flooding in one of the outer settlements, and Sean is gone to see what can be done for the folk there. I’m informed Aisling is indisposed. The situation here makes me a little uneasy. You have observed this at every stage. Is the child likely to die? And the druid? How was it this fire took hold so quickly, and could not be stopped before so much harm was done? It’s unlike Sean to allow such a thing to happen. I’m concerned about the state of his security here.”

  I stared at him. “You mean you suspect some form of mischief? The infiltration of an enemy?”

  “I don’t know what I suspect. The circumstances seemed—unusual, that was all. I would not like to think another such accident might occur to undermine us. At such a time we cannot afford even one slip. What if this fire had touched a store of weapons, or carefully conserved supplies? I want you to tell me exactly how it happened.”

  “I can’t. I had retired for the night when the fire broke out. And my chamber is on the other side. By the time I came down, the damage was already done.” That was no more than the truth.

  “And the child?”

  “She is badly hurt. Burned on her face and hands. The druid is worse. But there is still some hope. They expect my aunt Liadan any day.” I did not miss that change of expression that seemed to flash across Eamonn’s features whenever this name was mentioned. Whatever had been between them, so long ago, had left an impression that still lingered painfully just beneath the surface. “They say she is a wonderful healer. Muirrin believes she can make the difference.”

  “I see.” Under firm control now, his features were impassive. “What of my sister? She, too, is unwell?”

  “Aunt Aisling is very upset. That’s to be expected. She’s deeply concerned for Maeve.”

  “Not surprising.”

  “She is much distressed. The girls feel it. She has little time for them, and finds their presence a burden. She fears greatly to lose another child. The household relies on her strength, I think, and finds itself somehow adrift while she is so distracted by grief. She does all that must be done, but she is—not really there.”

  Eamonn nodded. “Perceptive of you. I felt this as well, from the way I was received here. Life goes on, but not as before. Let us hope—let us hope Sean’s sister can indeed work miracles.”

  “They certainly seem to think so. It’s said she possesses some powers beyond the ordinary.”

  He gave the grimmest of smiles. “Oh, yes. That much is certainly true. It’s her judgment that lets her down. Now, to the immediate situation. I’ve a suggestion to make, one which should suit my sister well, I think. But I need to know, first, if you are in agreement.”

  I raised my brows in question.

  “I’ve a fine empty house at Glencarnagh, with plenty of folk to maintain it. Too big by far for a man on his own. Gardens to walk in, horses to ride, warmth and space. These children are wearing you out, and upsetting my sister. They could come back with me, and remain there until the situation here is resolved one way or another. And you might accompany them, not as nursemaid, you understand, but to provide another familiar face. This would please me greatly, Fainne. I’d like to see the color back in your cheeks. I’d welcome the chance to show you my home. And there are women there who can tend to the children. You’d have time to rest and recover yourself. What do you think?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I stammered, for this had taken me by surprise. “The girls would like it, I expect; Eilis is always talking about your fine stables. But—” I could not tell him what was in my mind; that his suggestion offered me the chance to do exactly what my grandmother would wish, and that the very thought of that turned me cold with misgivings. “I’ll do as Aunt Aisling wishes, of course,” I said rather weakly. Aunt Aisling would refuse, I thought; it did not seem at all appropriate that I should be included in such a family visit.

  “That’s settled, then,” Eamonn said. “I’ll speak to Sean as soon as he returns. I doubt if he’ll object. It’s a practical solution. We might leave in the morning, if this rain eases.”

  “Maybe,” I said, managing a smile. “That way, we’d be gone before Aunt Liadan arrives.”

  His gaze sharpened. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

  Across the kitchen, the old woman was watching us.

  “I—I simply heard the two of you take steps to avoid one another,” I said. “I meant no harm by it.” I did not like the sudden edge to his voice.

  “It is no joking matter.”

  “I have offended you. I’m sorry. Whatever was between you and my aunt Liadan still hurts. I see that.”

  “These things are past. I don’t speak of them.” His mouth was tight, the brown eyes full of bitterness.

  I was lost for words. It seemed I had strayed into deeper waters than I knew how to navigate.

  “Fainne! There you are!” It was Clodagh, running across the kitchen from the inner doorway with the others behind her. There were still red eyes and blotched complexions, but at least the weeping had stopped. “Oh, hello, Uncle Eamonn. Where were you, Fainne?”

  “Nowhere,” I said with a weak smile. Tiresome as the girls could be, there were moments when they had their uses. “Your uncle Eamonn’s got an idea. We’ll tell you all about it. But it’s only if your father agrees, mind.”

  Sean had some reservations when finally he returned home and was asked permission. There was enough upheaval already, he said, and besides, I had barely settled in at Sevenwaters. It was a little soon for another move. And the weather was inclement. But Aunt Aisling overruled him.

  “It’s a practical enough suggestion,” she said briskly. “It would suit me well. The girls are best out of Muirrin’s way for now. You could stop at St. Ronan’s for one night, and break the journey. It’s not such a very long ride.”

  “It’s long for Fainne,” put in Eilis, who had been listening hard. “She can’t even ride properly, and all the horses are scared of her.”

  “Eilis!” her mother exclaimed. “That’s less than kind. You must learn to guard your tongue.”

  “It’s true, though.” Deirdre spoke up in unaccustomed defense of her small sister.

  “As to that,” Eamonn said casually, “I have brought a horse for Fainne. A mare of exceptional temperament, highly suitable for a young lady. We�
��ll take it gradually. There’s no cause for concern.”

  Sean and Aisling both glanced at him sharply. I looked at the floor, somewhat embarrassed but just a little pleased as well. Clearly, there had been more forward planning than his casual invitation had suggested.

  “I see,” said Sean, frowning. “I’m not at all sure about this.”

  “The girls should go.” Aisling seemed to have made her decision. “This house is not the best place for them just now; there is too much sadness here. It’s best if they go, Sean.”

  “We might leave in the morning, I thought, if the rain clears.” Eamonn seemed keen to press what advantage he had.

  “Very well,” said Sean gravely, glancing at his wife. “But there’s no rush. The girls must have time to say their farewells.”

  “Excuse me—” Aunt Aisling turned away abruptly and made for the door, almost at a run. I thought she was choking back sudden tears.

  “Come, girls,” I said briskly. “We’d best have a look at your things, and make sure your boots are clean and your cloaks dry.” I glanced at Eamonn. “Thank you for being so thoughtful,” I said quietly.

  His expression was very serious. It usually was. I thought it would be quite a challenge to persuade such a man to laugh. Grandmother had no trick for that. “It’s nothing, Fainne,” he said.

  “The garden’s nice at Glencarnagh,” observed Deirdre when we were back upstairs. I had opened my wooden chest and was sorting through my pitifully small store of belongings, wondering what might be judged suitable for such a visit. “There’s a pond with fish in it, and a maze of hedges, and nut trees.”

  “And lots and lots of horses,” said Eilis. “I wonder if Uncle Eamonn would let me ride that black one?”

  “Your legs are too short. Wait ten years or so, then he might consider it,” said Deirdre dryly.

  “Fainne,” said Clodagh.

  “What?” I asked absently.

  “I think Uncle Eamonn likes you.”

  “Of course he likes her,” said Eilis, puzzled. “He’s our uncle, he likes all of us.”

  “He’s not Fainne’s uncle,” said Clodagh. “Besides, I mean likes her. You wouldn’t understand, you’re too little.”

  “You mean, sweethearts sort of likes?” Deirdre’s eyebrows shot up. “But he’s ancient. Older than Father.”

  “I’m right,” Clodagh said. “See if I’m not.”

  “I think you should go off and do some packing,” I said sternly. “Sort your things out. We might be leaving tomorrow, after all.”

  Sibeal did not speak often. Now, her voice was soft, but her words sent a chill through every corner of my body. “What if Maeve dies, and we’re not here?”

  The twins went very quiet, their freckled faces white. Eilis’s lower lip began to tremble ominously.

  “Don’t say such things.” I kept my voice as steady as I could. “Isn’t your aunt Liadan coming, and her the best healer in all of Ulster? Of course Maeve won’t die. By the time we get back she’ll be as good as new, see if she isn’t.” It was a credible imitation of Peg Walker’s briskly positive style. But how could I hope to convince them, if I did not believe it myself?

  “Fainne?” Clodagh’s voice lacked its usual confidence.

  “What?”

  “We need to see Maeve. Before we go. Muirrin said we couldn’t. But we have to. Will you ask her? She’ll listen to you.”

  Four pairs of around eyes were fixed on me with the same expression. I had no doubt Clodagh spoke for all of them, and I wondered afresh about messages of the mind, and just who had inherited which special skills.

  “I—I don’t think—” I stammered.

  “Please, Fainne,” said Sibeal in a little, polite whisper.

  “Very well,” I said. “I’ll ask her. But you must do two things for me. First, go to your own quarters and tidy up your things. Set aside what you plan to take with you. And stay away from the sickroom until I call you. Don’t wait for me outside the door. You know how Muirrin hates that.”

  They disappeared without a sound. I was shivering, my heart cold with dread. I had used every excuse I could find since the night of the fire to persuade myself that I need not go into the sickroom and see what I had done. Muirrin had no use for me. She had plenty of helpers far more skilled. I was not really family anyway. It would be an intrusion. I was better occupied looking after the children. Most of the excuses were true enough. But the reason I had not gone was none of these. I had stayed away because I feared that, once I saw what was in that room, I would not have the will to go on with the task set me. And if I failed in that, my father would die in agony. But today there was no choice. I had promised. I had to go. I had to go now, right away, before I lost what little courage I could summon. It was just a matter of making my feet go straight down the hallway, one after the other, and when I got to the doorway, instead of walking past quickly and trying not to hear the sounds, I would simply go in and…

  I picked Riona up and tucked her under my arm. And there was the shawl which had been wrapped around her, the wonderful, sun-drenched shawl. How could I wear it? It would be like letting Darragh see what I had done, like pretending I was worthy of such a gift, when what I saw before me confirmed that it was true, that my kind was capable only of destruction and mischief. But something made me put it on, all the same. Over the top I wrapped my serviceable woollen shawl, so that only the silken fringe showed, just a little at the bottom. Then I walked along the hall and tapped at the door, and I went in, my heart thumping and my skin clammy with sweat.

  “Fainne!” exclaimed Muirrin in surprise. She was stirring something in a little pot by the fire. Maeve lay on a raised pallet, and Aunt Aisling sat beside her, shielding the child from my sight. There was a small, warm fire on the hearth, and a pleasant smell of herbs. Over by the window two serving women were busy folding newly washed linen. This room adjoined the other, where the injured druids lay, but I could not see through. It was quiet, save for the sound of a man’s voice reading or reciting softly.

  “I’m glad you came,” Muirrin said to me in an undertone, nodding toward her mother. “See if you can make Mother go and rest. She’s wearing herself out, and to no good purpose. There’s little for her to do here. Now you’ve come, perhaps she’ll go.”

  I made myself walk forward to the bed; forced myself to look down at the child who lay there in a sort of restless half-sleep. Her hands were heavily bandaged. I could only guess at the damage she had inflicted on them, clutching at hot iron in her headlong flight. But the wrapping had been taken from her head, and on one side her bright hair was all frizzled and burned away, the left eyelid grossly swollen, brow and lashes gone. A hideous, oozing patchwork of purple and red and brown spread like a canker from the eye all the way back past the small ear. On that side, her face was a monster’s. I made myself keep looking. I controlled my expression. After a little, I found I could speak.

  “I’ll sit with her awhile, Aunt Aisling. You should go and rest. Eilis was asking for you. She’d dearly love to show you the little cloth she’s hemmed. She’s very proud of it.”

  Aisling stared at me, her blue eyes quite blank. For a moment, I think she scarcely knew who I was.

  “I’ll stay here with Maeve. It’s all right, Aunt. You can go.” I used the craft subtly, to make my voice more convincing. I conveyed the message that she could trust me. Inside, I shuddered at my own duplicity.

  Aunt Aisling blinked and seemed to come to herself. “I suppose that would be quite suitable,” she said reluctantly. “Thank you, Fainne. Muirrin, I’ll be back later.”

  For a long time I simply sat there staring at the child. To look at her was to punish myself. But all the guilt in the world would not right the wrong I had done her. If these people knew, if they understood I was responsible, I would indeed be outcast. I would be hated and reviled as my grandmother had been. No matter that I must act thus to prevent my father’s suffering. No matter that I must carry out a task of such m
agnitude that none of their lives would ever be the same. I stared at the child and knew I had stolen her future. What I had done was every bit as bad as what Conor had done to my father. If Maeve lived, she would be scarred and hideous. I thought myself plain and awkward, with my tight-curling hair and my twisted foot, my gangling height and my shyness. But my skin was smooth and pale, my hands deft and free of blemish, my body healthy, for as Roisin had said, the limp was nothing. I was not disfigured. Not like this. It was at that moment I vowed to myself I would never again use the Glamour to make myself look beautiful. I would thank the goddess I was so lucky, and go forth as myself. Gently I let the veil of loveliness go, knowing that in the nature of things, folk would see nothing odd in the change.

  “She’s waking up,” Muirrin said quietly. “These drafts are effective, but they don’t last very long. We’re all short of sleep. The pain’s been bad. Will you stay while I put on the fresh dressing?”

  I nodded and retreated back from the bedside. Clutching Riona to my chest, I watched as the child awoke, her damaged eye slitted by the swelling of the flesh around it, the other round and fearful, watched as Muirrin bathed her burned skin with cool herbal waters, listened as her faint, thready whimpering grew to a thin, painful keening sound while a poultice of onion skins was laid against the burned skin efface and scalp and tied there with a bandage of clean linen. I held it in place while Muirrin made the knots, and I felt Maeve’s cries vibrating through my own head, as if they would lodge there forever. Then the bedding was changed, as a strapping serving woman lifted the child in her arms as carefully as a basket of new eggs. By the time Maeve was safely returned to her pallet and attempting to sip from a cup Muirrin held to her lips, I was cold with horror.

  “Now, Maeve,” said Muirrin calmly, “you have a visitor. Fainne is here to see you. Did you notice? Drink up, all of it, mind, and then she’ll sit with you awhile. She might even tell you a story.”

  The child swallowed obediently, laboriously. This draft might give her another short spell of rest. I wondered at Muirrin’s strength of will. She did not weep with fear at her own helplessness. She did not rail at the gods for thus striking her sister down. She did not collapse with exhaustion or ask me why I had left it so long to visit the child. She simply went on quietly doing what had to be done, accepting that matters were as they were, and taking her place in the scheme of it with a purpose that left no place for doubt. And yet, it took its toll. You could see that in her shadowed eyes.