Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  “It’s not fair,” Deirdre had added, glaring at nobody in particular.

  The smaller ones had nothing to say. Sibeal was a shadow of a child; Eilis sucked her thumb. In the morning they came down in their cloaks and riding boots, and were helped onto their ponies, and soon enough we were on our way deep into the forest and headed for Glencarnagh.

  Chapter Seven

  Anything I knew about horses I learned from Darragh. But I had not always listened to his tales as attentively as I might, and so I did not know much. The little mare that carried me safe to Eamonn’s house was very old in horse years, but still as steady as a rock. I knew she was old because Eilis told me so. You could tell by the teeth, she said. The horse was silver-gray, and gentle of eye, and like Aoife, she seemed to know where she was going without being told. She did not tremble and edge away from me as the other creatures in my uncle’s stable had. Of course, now that I had shed the Glamour any animal would have been more ready to trust me. But I thought it was more than that. This mare seemed in some way different, special.

  “Where did you get her?” I had asked Eamonn early on, wondering whether a great lord and owner of wide lands would travel to a horse fair, or send a man to drive bargains for him, or shun such commonplace events entirely and simply breed his own fine stock.

  “She was left behind, a long time ago.” Eamonn rode beside me, as if to make sure I did not stray. Perhaps he doubted my ability to handle even such a well-trained creature as this. “By a lady. She’s a fine beast, and remarkably sound for all her years. Under-used.”

  “Has there been no lady to ride her, until now?” I ventured.

  He glanced at me. “That is indeed true. For many years there has been no mistress at Glencarnagh. And since Aisling wed your uncle, my other holding at Sídhe Dubh has been a place of men. It is a long time now.”

  “Why did you not return the horse to her forgetful owner?” I asked him.

  I thought he was not going to answer. His mouth tightened, and the brown eyes turned chill. Once again I had blundered into forbidden territory.

  “There was no opportunity,” he said at last. “She never came back.”

  I did not press him further. He had the same look on his face that had appeared when I spoke the name Liadan. I wondered if the horse had been hers.

  Glencarnagh was a pretty place. I had not noticed much when I had camped here before with Dan Walker’s folk, save that the house was solid and fine, and extremely efficiently guarded. Then, my head had been full of thoughts of Sevenwaters and what I might find there. Now, I had time to observe and listen.

  This house had been fitted well for a family. Eamonn’s own mother had grown up here, until she was wed to his father and went away to Sídhe Dubh. Later, there had been a bride in the house, the young wife taken by Eamonn’s grandfather, Seamus, in his old age. There had been a child; but it seemed he had not lived to see his seventh year, and the old man had never quite recovered from the sorrow of that. When Seamus died his wife had gone back to her own folk. Now both Glencarnagh and Sídhe Dubh belonged to Eamonn himself: a middle-aged man with no wife and no heirs, and seemingly no inclination to acquire either. That was strange. Even I knew enough to realize the sudden demise of such a man, always possible in the nature of things, would lead to a time of immense instability and great risk to his neighbor, Sean of Sevenwaters, whose own lands were near-encircled by Eamonn’s. There would be chieftains and petty kings from all over Ulster claiming some form of kinship and vying for the túath. In the midst of preparation for their great battle for the Islands, that would be the last thing they needed. Besides, what of Eamonn himself? Did he not care that he had no son to inherit his vast holding, his two fine houses, his personal army of warriors, his grazing lands and his various other enterprises?

  There was an opportunity here that might be used, a secret Grandmother would want me to uncover, I was certain of it. That secret still made Eamonn’s face tighten and his eyes darken when my aunt’s name was mentioned, these long years after. Common sense told me that if Grandmother wanted these folk to be defeated, it would not be achieved by superior numbers or military strategies or even by a spectacular display of magical power, even supposing I had the mastery for such a thing. Defeat would only come from within themselves, by the division of ally from ally, and brother from sister. I knew that without ever reading it in any book, or hearing it from any teacher. I knew it from the way my grandmother had played upon my love for my father, and used it to trap me. The strongest weapons were those of the heart: hate, hurt, fear. Love, too. That could be used most cruelly. Grandmother understood that. Did not she herself act out of the desire to wreak vengeance on those who had slighted our kind? Her hatred was a force more powerful than any army. It seemed to be so easy for her to command me, to make me do bad things even when I didn’t want to. I would never have hurt Maeve, never; the child was innocent, she had barely begun her life. I would never have done that. But I had done it, with a click of the fingers and the summoning of a charm, as if it had no more significance than the lighting of a little campfire to boil water. And now, even as I quailed before the prospect of completing my grandmother’s task, it came to me that if I failed to progress as she wished, there were others she could make me damage. Which might be next? Fey, watchful Sibeal with her deep eyes, volatile Deirdre who had as many moods as an autumn day? Practical, perceptive Clodagh or Aunt Aisling’s baby, tiny Eilis? All had become dear to me despite my best efforts to remain apart; as dear as sisters. Would I not risk them all if I did not keep to Grandmother’s plan?

  I knew what she would have me do here at Glencarnagh. She herself would have handled it expertly. I could almost see her, in her guise of glossy auburn curls and sweetly curved figure, of innocent smile and wide merry eyes, dancing attendance on her victim, blinding him to reality with her dazzling butterfly charm, always staying just out of reach, so that he blundered off the path of safety in his desperate pursuit. I knew how to do that. She had shown me in quite some detail. But I would not, not if there were any other way. There was something tawdry about achieving a goal by such means, however important that goal might be. It was a branch of the craft I would far rather leave untouched. I would wait a little; I would seek a different way. And so, for now, I settled at Glencarnagh with the simple gratitude of a prisoner delivered unexpectedly into freedom, and I watched the girls play ball on the grass, and chase each other through the maze, and roast nuts on the fire in a chamber cozy by candlelight, and I felt the chill on my spirit ease just a little.

  I had expected to continue as before: companion to the girls by day, watcher by night, perhaps included in adult conversation from time to time if it happened to suit my host. I had no talent at music; I could not entertain. One could scarcely recite the druidic lore in company after supper. Those talents I did possess were not for sharing. I hoped to have a little time to myself, to set my thoughts in order. I did not wish to think beyond that.

  But Eamonn had different ideas, and he made them clear as soon as we came to Glencarnagh. The girls were worn out by the ride and went to bed early. I too had planned to retire, for I had a fine chamber all to myself and I longed for solitude and quiet. Lately, since the fire, even my nights had rarely been spent alone, for it was common for one child or another to tiptoe in, woken by a nightmare and seeking company to keep out the dark. That they came to me was ironic indeed, and did nothing to improve my opinion of myself. But here, the children had been accommodated in a well-appointed chamber for four, with their very own maidservant, and, said Eamonn as the two of us stood before the fire together that evening, I would be able to sleep undisturbed. The hall at Glencarnagh was much smaller than the great space at Sevenwaters, and the fire’s warmth spread to every corner. The furniture was polished to a gloss you could see your face in, with skillful carving on the chair backs; little creatures and scrollwork. I sipped the goblet of fine wine I had been given and nodded without speaking.

 
“I have observed how my sister employs you at Sevenwaters,” Eamonn said evenly. “Your origins may be obscure, but you are her husband’s niece, nonetheless, and should be treated as such. To use you as a convenient servant is not at all appropriate. Here, you are my guest.”

  “I—” His words had taken me aback. I realized, to my own surprise, that I had come to accept the tasks my aunt set me quite readily. Indeed, I almost enjoyed them. “Aunt Aisling has never been less than kind. The children are no trouble. But I thank you for your courtesy. I will look forward to some quiet time, some time on my own.”

  “I must confess,” said Eamonn carefully, “that that is not entirely what I intended. Although you shall most certainly have solitude and peace here, if that is what you crave. My motives are not entirely selfless. I imagine you are aware of that.”

  I glanced quickly at him, and back down at my wine cup. Did that mean what I thought it meant? Surely not.

  “I did hope,” he went on, “that we might spend some time together. I have the business of the estate to attend to, of course, and the children seem to value your company. Still, there are the evenings. And if this clear weather holds, we might ride out together. There’s fine land here: grazing fields, wooded valleys, a waterfall. I’d enjoy showing you that.”

  “Ride?” I queried. “That’s hardly my strong point.”

  “You did well enough on the way here, Fainne. You’re quick to learn, I think.”

  I smiled. “That has been said of me.”

  Now he was looking at me very directly, and there was a brightness in his eye that my grandmother would have recognized well. “I’m a good teacher,” he said softly. “You’ll discover that, when you know me better.”

  I felt a hot blush rise to my cheeks. “I’ve no doubt of that,” I murmured. He did mean that. I could scarcely believe it. For I had not employed a single one of the little tricks Grandmother had showed me, not since we rode away from Sevenwaters. I had offered him no encouragement whatever. Yet his meaning seemed clear. This was both strange and worrying. As early as was within the bounds of good manners, I pleaded weariness and retired to the solitary safety of my chamber.

  The weather held fair, though cold. My cousins explored the long, low house with its walls of solid stone and its cunningly thatched roof, they investigated byre and barn, they helped feed the chickens and took little treats to the inhabitants of Eamonn’s well-appointed stables. Eilis was cultivating the friendship of a long-legged black horse which dwarfed her completely. I could see she had hopes of riding forth on this daunting creature as soon as she could talk her uncle into giving permission. I envied her confidence. Clodagh worked out the way through the maze, and showed the others with a certain air of superiority. Deirdre fell into the pond chasing a ball, and had to have all her clothing cleaned and dried before the fire. They kept themselves well occupied, and smiles returned to their anxious faces. Sibeal remained quiet. She had brought her small writing tablet from Sevenwaters, and while her sisters chased each other down the paths, or threw their ball, or fed carrots to the horses, she could be seen making careful letters on the waxen surface with her little stylus. I was the one to whom she brought her work for correction, a fact that did not go unnoticed.

  “You have some skill in writing, then?” Eamonn asked me later as we sat in the hall after supper. There had been others present before the meal: his brithem, his factor, his master-at-arms, and several other men of the household, with one or two wives as well. But Eamonn, it seemed, did not eat in company. This was not a place like Sevenwaters, where all sat together over supper, and the talk was vigorous and punctuated with laughter; where the children joined their parents at table, and the working folk shared the fruits of their labors with chieftain and lady. Here, the small group of trusted advisers met together to discuss serious matters: territorial disputes, cattle trading, a problem in the armory, the dispatch of men to collect goods from a vessel that had landed somewhere. The women contributed little but I could see I was under keen observation. It was men’s talk. I listened carefully, but could not make a great deal of sense of it. It was odd enough to have been included in this group. My presence gave rise to a few raised eyebrows at first, and even a wink from one fellow, though I noticed they made sure Eamonn saw none of that. Then, when it was time for the meal to be served, they all melted away as if on unspoken command, and I was left with Eamonn, sitting in some splendor at a table whose fine oak shone mirror-bright. I refrained from comment, although I would indeed have been far more comfortable supping with my cousins and their waiting woman in their own quarters, or snatching a bite in a corner of the kitchens or wherever the rest of the folk of Glencarnagh ate. I thought offish roasted over a small fire, with a turnip or two thrown in for good measure. I did not belong in this man’s company, and I did not understand what he expected of me. I employed the table manners Grandmother had taught me, and said little, and at length the meal was over and we went to sit by the fire, with the flask of wine on a little table. That was when he commented on my helping Sibeal with her letters.

  “I can read and write, yes,” I said cautiously. “I can render Latin into Irish, and Irish into Latin. I can scribe a fair half-uncial. The teaching was excellent.”

  “You would be well trained, I suppose, in a house of prayer; though I understand a holy sister cannot expect the level of education provided for a young man in such an establishment. They clearly intended you for a future within those walls. And yet you have not emerged a convert to the Christian faith.”

  “How do you know that I am not?” I asked him, wondering how far this conversation might develop before I would have to lie.

  “I know Conor was impressed by your skills and knowledge, and that he put a word in Sean’s ear about maybe recruiting you to join his brothers and sisters in the nemetons. Somehow you have held onto the ways of your father. I’m told he was a druid. I found that interesting.”

  I made no response. The wine was good; it warmed the heart, and made the head a little light. Eamonn seemed to be able to down cup after cup and show no effect whatever.

  “Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.

  I said nothing.

  “I think it would be something of a waste.”

  “What would?”

  “That you should become a druid. You love children, that much is plain. I think you would not be averse to—to the opportunities a fuller life might provide for you.”

  I looked at him as levelly as I could manage, not so easy after the wine. “One might say the fullest life is that of the spirit,” I said severely. “The spirit, and the mind. I was brought up to believe that.”

  “But you don’t believe it, do you, Fainne?” He had moved closer, and I felt wary all of a sudden, uncomfortable, as if he were sounding me, scenting me, the way a predator fixes on his quarry. It frightened me that I had allowed him to gain control so quickly.

  “I don’t know,” I said, swallowing. “I’m only fifteen years old, and my future is uncertain. There will be choices to make. I suppose my uncle Sean will guide me.”

  “Still,” he said smoothly, and his hand came out to pick up the wine flask from the table, and to brush against my arm in passing, as if quite by chance, “no choice should be made blindly. It would be wise to explore the possibilities, before fixing a course. Would it not?”

  “Maybe,” I said, willing myself to stop shaking, willing my heart to stop thumping.

  “There’s no need to be frightened of me,” said Eamonn.

  I could not attempt an answer to such a statement, and so I ignored it. My hand moved up over the amulet, hoping desperately for some inspiration. I took a deep breath. Perhaps the only defense was to attack. “May I ask you a question?” I said.

  “By all means.”

  “It seems to me this is a house for a family. A comfortable, pleasant house; it is full of brightness. The little girls like it here; it is safe, and they feel that.”

  Eamonn inc
lined his head slightly in apparent agreement, but his eyes were wary.

  “The master of such a house must be a careful steward,” I went on. “It is immaculately kept, and maintained in all its prettiness and comfort. It is a house—it is a house intended to please a woman, and to shelter her children. And yet you have chosen to have neither here. That seems odd to me.”

  There was a silence, and I began to regret my bold words.

  “I’m sorry if I have offended you,” I added.

  Eamonn glanced at me, and away. “You do indeed speak what is in your mind. As for Glencarnagh, it was my grandfather’s home before it came to me. Seamus Redbeard, they called him. He married late in life, a second time, and improved upon the amenities here to please his young wife. It was always a fine home. I do not live here; I visit from time to time, and I have folk who maintain it for me. My other place is quite different.”

  “A fortress surrounded by marshlands? That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Indeed. You might think that a more appropriate setting for a solitary man of middle years.”

  “Still, you have chosen to keep Glencarnagh as it is. The garden must be lovely in spring. Why would you take such trouble, when you are scarcely here to see it?”

  Another little silence. “There would be an easy answer to that. I could say, so that such as yourself and my nieces could enjoy it, when you visit.”

  “But?”

  He grimaced. “Does it matter why?” he asked. “Hope dies, and still one finds oneself going through the paces. Glencarnagh is an empty shell, Fainne. A shrine to what could never be. And yet, I cannot bring myself to let it go. It would be—it would be like the final death of dreams. Dreams that should have been buried long ago.”

  I stared at him. “That’s terrible,” I blurted out, shocked out of any fear I might have felt. “How can you say that?”