Child of the Prophecy

by Juliet Marillier

  “Come,” I whispered. “Come on. Hurry.”

  Now she was moving away from me, down the line of the hedge, blending into the shadows.

  “Wait.” I hastened after. By the stone wall that kept wandering pigs from the kitchen garden, she halted.

  “Good,” I muttered. “Good. You know how it’s done, I see that.” Pulling on my shoes, I scrambled up on the wall and thence to the horse’s back, where I perched precariously without saddle or blanket, without bridle or rein to help me. “All right,” I said softly. “I’m going to need all the help I can get here. You’ll have to travel fast. And quietly. And not let me fall off. Understand? Now find Aoife. Find Darragh for me.” I put my hand against her neck, willing her to hear me, willing her to know what must be done. Foolish, really. It was not I who could whisper in a horse’s ear and win her lifelong friendship. It was not I to whom a wild creature would return, for love alone. But the gray horse lifted her head and pricked her ears, and she moved off steadily westward, past the hedges, across a little bridge, by the hazel trees and out into the shadowy night. I twisted both hands into her mane and gripped on with my knees. I would not fall off. I would not. I would get there and back by dawn. I must. When I found him I would tell him he must go straight home to O’Flaherty’s and never come near me again. I would tell him that, and bid him goodbye, and then I would ride back to Glencarnagh. It was simple, really.

  Time passed and the horse moved onward into the night, at first steadily, as if the moonlight were enough to show her the way. It was cold. It was so cold, I could not unbend my fingers for the cramp. My feet were numb and my ears ached with the chill. I could feel spasms of shivering through my body, like waves of icy water on a bone-cold shore.

  Just as well she seemed to know where she was going, I thought grimly, wondering how long I might last before my frozen body lost the will to cling on, and I slipped from her back to the hard ground. One thing was certain. If I fell off there was no way I could summon the strength to get back on.

  At first the world of night had seemed a silent one. But as we traveled onward into the west, I became more and more aware of subtle sounds. Over the quiet footsteps of the gray mare came a rustling and a creaking, as if the trees bent to observe our passing. Once I thought there was a distant howling, as of hungry wolves. I told myself I was mistaken. Something hooted in the dark branches above. A croaking chorus greeted us as we passed a darkly shining stretch of marshland. Once, there was a sudden whirring of leathery wings, and a high-pitched ringing as bats flew over our heads and away to some subterranean cavern. I was so cold I could barely stay awake, for all the urgency of the journey. I was so tired I thought I might stop pretending I could hold on, and simply curl up in the bracken and sleep. A nice long sleep. After all, who’d miss me?

  The horse had slowed. Her head turned one way and then the other. She took a step and halted. She took another and paused. I was abruptly awake again, my heart thumping with alarm.

  “You must know the way!” I said to her sharply. “You must! Why come so far, to give up now? Can’t you follow Aoife’s tracks as a hound would? What’s wrong with you?”

  She trembled a little, standing there in the night. We were on the verge of open ground; the moonlight showed gentle hillocks studded with groves of small trees.

  “Go on!” I hissed. “Quick, before we both freeze! Don’t you know we must be there and back before morning? Go! Please!”

  I kicked her sides with my feet and squeezed with my knees. I had so little strength left, I doubt she noticed. “Oh, please,” I whispered into the darkness, but the mare stood unmoving. My mind pondered, on some distant level, what explanation I might give Eamonn when I was discovered out here in the morning, half-frozen, with a horse that did not belong to me. Maybe I would die of cold. At least that would save having to make up excuses.

  There was a hooting overhead, and something dark flew by with a sudden whoosh of wings. I thought I felt a small feather drift downward past my nose. I sneezed. There was another hoot. The tone of it sent a clear enough message. Come on then, stupid. We haven’t got all night.

  The little horse moved forward. Ahead of us the owl flew from side to side, waiting on a low branch, on a stone wall, on a rocky outcrop. Impatient. Come on. Can’t you go any faster? The horse began to trot, and then, when we emerged onto some sort of real track, to canter. I was bounced up and down like a sack of grain. I gripped her mane anew and bent forward, willing my knees to keep hold. Pain arched through my legs and back. I clenched my teeth tight.

  The owl flew onward, and the mare followed. I was put in mind of Fiacha, the raven. Just so was his manner of flight: a little in front, a little behind, a pause on one side or the other, giving the distinct impression that he thought humans unbelievably, tediously gradual, but that his job was to keep an eye on them, so he had better do it. I wondered where Fiacha was now. Did he perch on a ledge above the Honeycomb and watch the sorcerer Ciarán as he coughed out his lifeblood among the shattered tools of his ancient craft? Or had he been banished by my grandmother, leaving my father quite alone? Why did they come, these creatures of the Otherworld that guarded us and guided us as no simple owl or raven had the wit or the will to do? The bird flew onward into the night, leading my horse forward up hill and down glen, through marshland and woodland and safe beyond the borders of Glencarnagh.

  At last, under bare-limbed apple trees, we halted. The owl sat above us, perched on a moss-covered branch, silhouetted against the moon. I saw her reach down, fussily, to adjust her plumage. I felt as if I had been picked up, and shaken like a churn of cream, and set suddenly down again. Every bone in my body ached.

  The woodland around us was still. The mare stood immobile. The owl made no sound. They were waiting for me to do something. I forced my body to move, and half-slid, half-fell from the mare’s back to the ground. My legs were like jelly. I stayed on my feet only because my hand still gripped her mane. She stood steady, unperturbed; a rare gift of a horse, this one.

  Down a gentle slope before us there were more trees, and water glinting silver in the soft light of the moon. And there was another small light as well, a warm, flickering sort of light. I detected a faint smell of something savory in the chill air: surely it could not be oaten porridge? Then the mare gave a little whickering sound, and from down the hill there was a reply, a soft whinny. I saw a figure rise to his feet beside the glowing camp fire, and turn slowly toward me. Leaning heavily against the horse’s shoulder, I stumbled forward.

  Then a lot of things happened quite rapidly without a single word spoken. Soft running footsteps and a sharp intake of breath. An arm around me, supporting my faltering progress to the fireside. A cloak over my shoulders, blissfully warm. I could not sit down, my body was too sore; a folded blanket smelling strongly of horse was produced, and I was eased to a half-lying position, as close to the fire as was safe. There was a tiny clank of metal, as of a pannikin being used to fill some other vessel. Then a hand curled my frozen fingers around a cup of something hot and fragrant. Tremors coursed through my body, my teeth chattered, I could not have uttered a word even if I had known what to say. Darragh busied himself building up the fire, throwing on a log or two, blowing on the coals. The flames licked up; my face began to thaw. I took a sip of the beverage he had provided. It was a tea, very hot and very sweet. I had never tasted anything so good. At last Darragh settled himself across the fire from me, and looked at me direct.

  “That’s a fine wee mare you have there,” he observed. “Learned to ride, I see, since you left me.”

  For a moment I was speechless. Was that all he could think of to say? On second thoughts, it was typical.

  “The way I remember it, you left me,” I snapped, but my voice came out sounding shivery and pathetic. “But yes, I can ride. A bit. Just as well. I have to be back before dawn.”

  Darragh looked at me. “Is that so?” he said.

  “You don’t need to sound like that,” I reto
rted.

  “Like what, Fainne?”

  “Like you know best. Like you think I’m stupid for coming here. I don’t know why I bothered.” A new bout of shivering seized me, and I clutched the cloak tighter around me.

  Darragh watched me in silence for a while. The little gold ring in his ear glinted in the firelight.

  “Why did you come?” he asked eventually.

  “T—to tell you. To tell you something important.”

  Now he was stirring his pannikin over the fire. The savory smell arose again. Peg and Molly and the others always cooked an oaten porridge in the mornings. Kept out the chill, that was what Peg said. He took the pot off the heat, and brought it around to me.

  “No golden platters here,” he said. “No silver spoons. Not used to catering for fine ladies, you see. But the food’s good. Come on, Fainne. You must eat.”

  “I’m too tired to eat.”

  “Here,” he said gently, and settled himself by me. “Eat, and don’t talk.” He dipped the horn spoon into the pot, and I found myself opening my mouth and being fed like a bird in the nest. It would have been humiliating, but the cautious expression on his face, the great care with which he went about the task, somehow made it all right between us. Besides, the porridge was delicious, and I discovered I was very hungry indeed.

  “Good,” said Darragh from time to time. “Well done. Good girl.” And soon enough it was all gone.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice somewhat stronger. “Was that going to be your breakfast?”

  Darragh did not reply. He was sitting close by me, looking into the fire, arms folded. The silence drew out. At length he spoke with some diffidence.

  “Better tell me. Better tell me what it is.”

  “You tell me first. Why you came to Glencarnagh. What you’re doing so far from home, and in the middle of winter. Aren’t you supposed to be working for O’Flaherty?”

  “I am. On our way back there now, me and Aoife. He wasn’t overkeen to let me take the time to come to Sevenwaters. Had to get Orla to sweet-talk him. In the end he said I could go, but I’ve given my word to be back there by dark of the moon. Not a lot of time.”

  I did my best to take this in. “Who’s Orla?” I asked.

  Darragh glanced at me sideways. “O’Flaherty’s daughter. The younger one.”

  “I see.”

  “No you don’t, Fainne.”

  “Yes I do. I suppose she’s good with horses, is she?”

  “Very good,” he said, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness as he grinned. “A capable rider, for a girl. Understands all the tricks.”

  “Yes, well, she would, I suppose. And no doubt she’s a beauty as well?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Darragh, stretching out his hands to warm them at the fire. “Long golden hair, cheeks like roses, eyes blue as a summer sky. Same as her sister. They’ve suitors lining up from here to the Cross, the two of them.”

  He was teasing me.

  “Forget I asked,” I said crossly. “Now answer the question. Why are you here?”

  “I got anxious. Worried about you. Seemed to me you might be in trouble, and need help.”

  “What?”

  “No need to sound so shocked. Rode to Sevenwaters, was told you were gone. Came on to Glencarnagh, discovered you’d no need of me whatever. Now I’m on my way home. Simple tale. I made a mistake. Not the first.”

  I could not think what to say, so I remained silent. I was starting to feel almost warm at last, what with the fire and the cloak and the porridge. My body felt better, for all the aching and the shivering. It was my mind that didn’t seem to be working very well. All I could think of was how short one night was, and how many things there were to say, and how every time I opened my mouth it was the wrong words that came out.

  “Fainne?” His voice was gentle in the darkness.

  “Mmm?”

  “Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong. Why would you ride all that way in the dark to find me? What is it? What can be so important that you let yourself near freeze to death?”

  His kindness came close to overwhelming me. It all flooded back, my father, Grandmother and the amulet, Maeve and the fire, Eamonn. I longed to tell him everything, every part of it; to unburden myself of my guilt and my fear. But I could not. He must stay outside it. I must keep him outside it.

  “I came to tell you to go home, and never come back,” I said flatly. “You mustn’t come back, Darragh. You mustn’t try to see me again. It’s important.”

  There was a pause.

  “You rode out here in the dark to tell me this?”

  “Yes. It’s what must be. Believe me.”

  “I see,” he said tightly.

  “No, you don’t.” I could not disguise the misery in my tone. “You don’t see at all. But we are friends, despite everything. I must ask you to trust me, and do my bidding.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Tell me. What’s this fellow to you, the lord of Glencarnagh? Unpleasant piece of work, that one. What’s he to you?”

  “None of your business. What did he say to you?”

  “Sent me on my way, quick smart. Suggested an armed escort to the border. And me a traveling man. I declined his kind offer. He told me no, I couldn’t see you, today or tomorrow or any day in the year. Said you were there as his very special guest, and you were not to be disturbed. Riffraff such as myself should know better than to pester a lady. Words to that effect. Made me wish for a moment or two that I was a fighter, not a musician. What does that mean, Fainne? Very special guest?”

  “I’m sorry he treated you thus.” My voice was shaking. “I was ill. Indisposed. I did not know you were there.”

  “And are you happy to let this fellow make your decisions for you? Content to have him choose your friends?”

  I did not answer.

  “Fainne. Look at me.”

  I turned my face toward his. He seemed very pale, and very serious.

  “Would you wed this man? Is that what it is? Tell me the truth.”

  “None of your business,” I whispered.

  “Oh, yes, it is. Now tell me.”

  Reluctantly I nodded. “It’s not impossible.”

  “A bit old for you, isn’t he?” said Darragh bluntly.

  “Such a match is not unheard of. It’s the woman’s age that is more important, surely, if a man wants to get an heir.”

  Darragh never got angry. That was one of the good things about him. I thought he came close to it then. His jaw tightened. But he kept his voice calm.

  “So, you would wed for a name and a fortune. You would bear an old man’s sons, for that.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “You couldn’t understand.”

  Darragh was silent for a moment. Then he observed, “Told me that plain enough before, didn’t you? Something about a stray dog, I think it was.”

  “I spoke without thinking, that time. I’m sorry if I hurt you. But this is something I can’t explain to you. I’m simply asking you to stay away, that’s all.” Oh, but I ached to tell him the truth.

  He waited a little. As the night wore on, the air about us was growing colder and colder. Now the small fire, the warm cloak were not enough to take away the frozen feeling which seemed to come from deep inside me. I thought, if I were able to weep, my tears would turn to drops of ice before ever they could fall from my eyes. “Do you love this fellow?” asked Darragh flatly, not looking at me anymore.

  “Love!” I exclaimed, sitting up in my shock and suppressing a groan of pain. “Of course not! Love has nothing to do with this. Who’d wed for love, anyway? That’s just foolishness. There’s nothing in such a match but sorrow and waste.” I thought of my mother and my father, and how both their lives had been destroyed by the bond between them.

  “Then you’d advise my sister Roisin not to wed Aidan, would you? They’ve plans for a wedding in the autumn, when she’s seventeen. Aidan has his own little bit
of land now. You think they’d best not go ahead with it?”

  I scowled at him. “That’s different,” I said.

  “How different? You mean, because they’re simple folk, unlike yourself and your great lord back there?”

  “Of course not! I thought you knew me better than that!”

  “So did I,” said Darragh mildly. “But you keep surprising me.”

  “It’s different because—because—I can’t tell you. But it is.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Darragh. We sat in silence for a while. The cold seemed to come in from all sides. The only parts of me that were even half warm were my hands, which I was holding out close to the fire. The rest of me ached with the chill, not to speak of the damage the ride had caused. I thought, vaguely, of how I must climb back on the horse before dawn and do it all again.

  Darragh sat with his hands around his knees, looking into the flames. He was solemn; not his smiling self at all.

  “You haven’t convinced me,” he said.

  “Convinced you of what?”

  “That you’re all right. That you don’t need keeping an eye on. I don’t believe it for an instant. Your words are giving me one story and your eyes another. Come on, now. You can talk to me. There’s no secrets between us, you and me. What is it that’s troubling you so badly?”