I would need some reason to summon Grandmother; a progress report, that should please her. The plan I had outlined for her involved spying for Eamonn, finding out the information he needed to destroy his old enemy, the one they called the Chief. What was the fellow’s name? Bran? I must do it, and glean some news to show her I had not been idle. And I could not spy unless I could transform. It was time for an exercise of the craft.
“Good,” said a strange little voice right behind me. I froze in shock, there where I sat before the cold hearth in the semi-darkness. For a moment I had thought—I had really thought—but no, this soft hooting tone was nothing like my grandmother’s.
“You think so?” I asked cautiously as my heart went back to its normal pace, and I turned to observe the owl-like creature as it stood round-eyed by my window in its feather cloak and little red boots. I must indeed have been absorbed in my thoughts if I had sat unaware while it flew in, and changed.
“I know so, fire child. I see it in your face. A different look. So what’s it to be? A ginger cat, maybe, all hiss and danger? A flea? That would give you an intimate insight. You’ll learn something tonight, for they all sit up by lantern light, behind closed doors. Best be quick.”
I frowned. “Reading my thoughts now, are you?” I queried, wondering whether I might risk trusting this small personage which seemed to understand so much without being told.
A gurgle of laughter. “Not us. Just waited for you to work it out, that’s all. And we’re everywhere, though folk don’t see us. We read it in your eyes. Took you long enough to find your way through this puzzle, and you a druid’s only daughter.”
There seemed no possible answer to this, save maybe a question. “Do you think—do you think my father intended—?”
“You’d have to ask him that question. Now come on, time’s passing. What’s it to be?”
I shivered. “I must make my way unseen to the chamber where they meet, enter by a locked door in the dark, remain there unobserved, and return safely here. No cats, that’s certain. A creature of night, quite small; one which can enter through the crack between door and frame.”
“A cockroach?” the creature suggested helpfully.
“I thought, a moth,” I said, my voice shaking with the very idea of it.
“Good idea. Go on, then.”
I recalled, belatedly, that an owl was also a creature of the night, and I remembered the camp of the traveling folk, and a certain miniature predator swooping down on its prey with needle-sharp claws and snapping beak.
“I hope you’re not here just for an easy supper,” I said, frowning.
“I’ve eaten already, thank you,” replied the creature politely. “Come on, hurry up. Can you do it or not?”
“I’ve never tried this before.”
“We know. That’s why I’m here. A watcher. You need one, the first time. This sort of thing’s second nature to our kind. Be warned. You’ll feel it afterward. Takes quite a toll. Be sure you’re back in here before you undo the charm.”
The first step. It was necessary to create a picture in the mind, a sort of map of what must be done, plain enough for even the smallest and simplest of creatures to retain. I closed my eyes and made myself visualize the path I must follow, out of my chamber, beneath the door where a gap admitted a chill of winter draft, along the dark passageway to the chamber where they would be meeting, a smallish, private room at the top of the stairs. I captured in my mind the faint outline of that doorway, light showing dimly from within. I must make my way through the crack at the top of the door, then simply cling to wall or ceiling, and listen until I heard something, anything I might use to convince my grandmother I was moving forward with my plan. Then I made myself feel and see the return journey, back through the tiny slot, along the hallway on rapid wings, coming to rest at my own doorway, creeping under, safe again. This pattern must be very clear in my mind before I began, and so must the charm of reversal. These two things I must hold, and my knowledge of myself, or be lost forever in that other form. My heart pounded in anticipation. I must do this. I would do this.
“Now,” said the owl-creature.
The second step. I thought moth. I felt the shape, the lightness, the alteration of balance, so that instead of up and down, floor and ceiling, there were simply different sorts of planes, and different kinds of touching. I felt the power of the wings, and the strange pull of the light. I felt my consciousness dwindle and alter and focus into something far simpler and more direct. In my head I spoke the words, and changed.
For a moment there was only blind panic. I could not sort out legs from wings, my eyes did not seem to be working properly, I blundered and toppled and fluttered in helpless circles on the floor.
“Door,” said a voice, and it scared me, but somewhere there was a pattern and I understood I must follow it. I flew erratically to the faint crack of light and crept through beneath the door. Brightness. Warmth. I wanted that. I wanted the light, and it was there, not far above. I flew, more boldly now, drawn to its glow, knowing I must go to it, I must get closer…
“No, fire child. Not that. Remember who you are. Remember the pattern.”
The voice. I should heed the voice. But there was the light. The light called me so strongly…
“You will burn if you fly into the lantern. Follow the pattern. Do not lose yourself.”
Somewhere, the sense of self, deep within, my father’s training. I was Fainne, daughter of Ciarán. This moth-form was only a shell, and I must disregard the way it pulled me toward that sweet glow of warmth. My fragile wings carried me high along the hallway, safe above the tantalizing flame of the lantern. I could not see my strange companion; perhaps the creature had stayed behind the closed door of my bedchamber. But its voice still guided me.
“Good, fire child. Remain yourself. Do not give in to that other mind, or you are indeed no more than an owl’s next meal, and not much of one at that. Now go in.”
I had reached the entry to the small council chamber. There was only just space enough to crawl between oaken door and frame. Inside there were lights again: two lanterns, and candles. They summoned me the way a stream of clear water calls to a thirsty man after a long day’s journey. With an effort of will, I held myself on the wall by the door. My vision was strange: there were no colors, only light and dark, and I could see right around me, not just in front. I could scarcely begin to interpret what my new eyes showed me; to do so, I would need to learn to see all over again. I concentrated on hearing and, with an effort, made out the separate voices of Conor, Sean and Liadan, and, to my surprise, Johnny. It came to me that I owed it to Johnny that any part of the conversation was spoken aloud. But for his presence, they might have used the voice of the mind, and conducted it in total silence. None but a seer might have spied on such a council.
It was hard to listen and harder still to understand. Part of me heard only sounds, sounds of danger, and part of me saw and felt only darkness and light: the darkness of unseen predators lurking in the shadows, the coaxing, wonderful, flickering light there on the table that called me, called me so strongly. Focus. The words, the pattern. I must not lose myself in that other. The pattern was listen, door, fly, door, safe. Then the charm of reversal. First, listen.
“What it means, I cannot guess,” Conor was saying gravely, as if he had just reached the conclusion of some narrative. “What influences there have been, I shudder to contemplate. The question is, what action do we take now?”
There was a brief silence.
“Are you telling us,” Sean’s tone was careful, “that you believe young Fainne has come here as an emissary of the lady Oonagh? That seems quite fanciful, and I cannot bring myself to believe it. I’ve never concurred with your doubts about the girl. She’s a good child. Aisling speaks quite highly of her. She’s had a strange upbringing, and is a little shy and awkward, but no more than that, surely.”
“You forget the use of sorcerer’s magic.” Liadan’s voice was chill.
“We have seen that. She’s strong; strong and able, like her father. And it would be just the lady Oonagh’s way, would it not, Uncle, to seek to harm us by using as her weapon a child we long to take to ourselves, to love and to welcome? Niamh’s own daughter. It’s cruel indeed, and has the unmistakeable stamp of the sorceress on it. Did you not say Fainne knows how to conjure fire with her fingers? Doesn’t that tell you anything?”
“You can’t be suggesting—but that’s preposterous, Liadan!” Sean spoke in a shocked whisper. I crept closer to hear, moving from wall to ceiling so that I clung upside down in the shadows. Below me, one of Sean’s great dogs twitched its ears and began a low, ominous growling. I sensed the scurrying movement of other small creatures close by me; I felt a sudden terror without understanding its cause.
“That can’t be right, Mother.” Johnny spoke with absolute confidence. “I’ve seen Fainne with the children. She loves them. You should hear her telling stories, or see her by Maeve’s bedside. There’s no evil there; indeed, there’s a simplicity about her that makes the very idea unthinkable.”
Liadan sighed. “You can’t know. But Conor could tell you, I think. Wasn’t it just so with the lady Oonagh?”
“Not exactly,” said Conor heavily. “We never trusted the sorceress, not from moment my father first brought her home as his intended bride. But she had a kind of charm; like a faery Glamour she would put on to convince people she was sweet and well-meaning; to trap them. My father was ensnared thus, and my brother Diarmid as well. A sorceress has the ability to do this. It will not succeed with one such as myself or Liadan. But with you, son, or with Sean here, it might.”
“Impossible,” said Johnny flatly. “I may not be a seer, but I know how to read a man’s character, or a woman’s. Fainne is confused, scared; that’s the truth. Underneath that, she’s a child, and innocent. What is it you’re afraid of?”
“I’ll tell you,” said his mother in an oddly constrained voice. “Once, long ago, I was presented with a choice. The Fair Folk came and ordered me to remain here in the forest so that my child could be kept safe from the influence of the sorceress. Conor will vouch for that; he gave me the same advice. They came close to saying that the prophecy would not be fulfilled unless I did as they bid me.”
“But you disobeyed,” said Johnny. “Why?”
“I suppose there seemed no choice really. I could keep you safe, or I could risk your future, and the future of Sevenwaters, the forest and the Islands themselves. Most folk would find what I did hard to understand. But there was Bran. He could not stay with me, here in the forest. To protect my son, I would have had to cast away the man who is the other part of me; to deny him his own child. That I would not do. I defied their orders and set my back to Sevenwaters. I went against Conor’s good advice. And it was through my own intervention that Niamh escaped her husband and fled to Ciarán. But for that, Fainne would never have existed. They warned me. The Fair Folk warned me that—that—no, I cannot put this into words. I hoped I would never have to tell you this, Johnny. I have never told your father.”
“You’re saying Fainne’s presence is somehow a threat to me? To my safety?” Johnny was bemused. “How can that be, Mother?”
“The lady Oonagh sought control of Sevenwaters once,” Sean said slowly. “She was defeated then by my mother’s strength; by human strength. It may be the sorceress tried again, through Ciarán; and now tries once more through his daughter. That was what my mother believed. When Niamh and Ciarán first set eyes on one another, and cast a darkness on this house, she saw that as the lady Oonagh’s hand reaching out over us once more. She believed that old evil would continue to make itself known, generation by generation, until the prophecy was fulfilled and all made right again. It could be true. If the lady Oonagh indeed still lives, she must move swiftly to thwart us now, for our venture seems likely to succeed by summer. But if we do not have the child of the prophecy, we are doomed.”
“The girl is troubled,” said Conor. “She has much of her father in her, with his intelligence and his sensibilities. Were it not for this foolishness with Eamonn and the pressure that places on us, I would prefer to take the time to gain her trust, and convince her she may be a power for good, whatever she may have been taught. Fainne does not seem to me bent on a course of evil.”
“Forgive me, Uncle, but I think your own feelings blind you to the truth,” Liadan said tightly. “You felt the loss of Ciarán keenly; you never found another with such talents, and the brotherhood dwindles. Be careful you do not trust too much, seeing in Fainne only what you want to see.”
Conor’s response was immediate. “She saved Sibeal. She is your sister’s daughter, and only in her sixteenth year. What would you have me do?”
“Common sense tells me, send her straight back home,” Liadan said flatly. “Let Ciarán take responsibility for her, since he chose to raise the child in the knowledge of a sorcerer’s arts, and exposed her to his mother’s influence.”
“I don’t think we can do that.” Sean spoke with authority. “My niece is frightened; I saw it when I told her we must seek Ciarán’s permission if she were to wed Eamonn.”
“You what?” His sister’s voice was shocked.
“The idea’s unpalatable, certainly; but I have learned a little from experience. I could hardly dismiss her request without explanation. She refused to countenance the idea of sending a message to her father. The girl’s terrified for some reason; terrified of making contact with him.”
“But not frightened of him,” put in Conor quietly. “She speaks of him with the greatest loyalty and respect.”
“I won’t send her back to Kerry,” Sean said, in a tone which indicated a decision had been made. “Not against her will. We cannot know what forces are in play here. It’s hard for me to believe Fainne might mean any harm to us, but I trust your judgment, sister. I would not wish to jeopardize our venture, nor to risk my family.”
Liadan was silent.
“There’s only one solution, then.” Johnny spoke with cheerful confidence. “We’ll take her north with us. Put Eamonn off politely; say his intended bride wishes to wait for her father’s approval, and that Ciarán cannot be reached just now. Meanwhile Fainne is whisked out of harm’s way, and all’s well. There’ll be no shortage of enthusiastic suitors for her on Inis Eala, and every one of them younger and likelier than Eamonn of Glencarnagh, if somewhat less well-endowed with worldly goods. She’ll forget him soon enough.”
“You haven’t been listening to a single thing I’ve told you,” Liadan said wearily.
“I always listen, Mother,” said Johnny with a smile in his voice. “I’ll make a wager if you like. I’ll wager I’m big enough and strong enough to stay out of harm’s way, sorceress or no sorceress. How’s that? Besides, if you think Fainne’s confused or frightened, what better place to seek guidance than Inis Eala? If she wants answers, that’s where she’ll find them, surely.”
“The lady Oonagh tried to kill you once.”
“I’m still here, aren’t I?” said Johnny blithely.
Listening with all the concentration I could summon, I had forgotten for a while that I was moth as well as girl. I moved my feet to go closer, but one foot was caught in something, and I sought to free it, and my legs were suddenly tangled. I flapped my wings, struggling to break away, and the sticky thread tightened around fluttering wing and fragile limb, and could not be broken. In the darkness behind me I sensed a presence, hungry, waiting. The part of me that was still Fainne told me Web, spider. Free yourself now, quickly. The part of me that was moth was seized by a blind terror that held me fast as I beat my wings in frantic, futile effort. The presence came closer, moving like a clever dancer on its delicate cobweb bridge.
“Quick!” said the voice of my feathered guide as I felt my death at my back. “One short, sharp jerk. Quick now.”
I pulled to the side, using all the weight of my body, slight as it was, moving my wings as hard as I could while the spi
der made a sudden dart out toward me, and at last breaking free, spiraling downward out of control with fragments of the sticky fiber still clinging to my legs. My blundering flight took me into the side of the lantern; hot. I fell to the table, landed on my back; felt death close again. The dogs were barking. I was lifted in a large hand; another hand came over, trapping me between. I struggled, flapping, until I regained my feet. I waited for one final, crushing blow.
“Poor thing,” Johnny said. “Doesn’t rightly know which way it’s going.” There was movement, and the hands opened, and I crawled off the warmth of human skin onto the stones by the doorway in the shadows. Having thus released me, my cousin went back to the table, and with my strange insect-sight I thought I saw him lay a reassuring hand on his mother’s shoulder. “That’s settled, then,” he said as I crept out through the crack above the door and flew away down the hallway, high above the lure of the lantern, all the way along until I reached my own door. Quickly down and under. Safe. Rest.
“Now the charm.” My Otherworld companion stood by the window; I sensed the small red boots not far from me, felt the threat of their hard heels. I did not want to move for now. It was dark here; I could be still.
“The charm. It is not finished. Speak the words, fire child.”
Dimly it came to me: the charm, the pattern. Door, fly, door. Listen. Door, fly, door, safe. The charm. Somewhere the words of the counter-spell still dwelt within me, and I sounded them out in the silence of my moth-mind, words that seemed to have no meaning, only power. Around me the room tilted and changed; dim colors appeared, the candlelight gold, the russet of a gown laid across the bed, the green and crimson of a holly wreath Clodagh had tied up over my window to welcome spirits abroad at Meán Geimhridh. The chamber faded and brightened, faded and brightened; the figure of the owl-creature swam before my eyes. I looked down and saw that I was myself again. I looked up, and around me candle and window and owl-being shifted and merged and jumbled all together. Then I was falling, and everything went black.
Child of the Prophecy Page 39
