I was deep in my thoughts and did not hear Ciarán approaching until he had walked right up to the encampment. Perched on his shoulder was his raven, Fiacha. The bird’s plumage was glossy, his eyes preternaturally bright. The hair stood up on the back of my neck.
“A message is on its way to your father,” Ciarán said, putting a little bag down by the fire and seating himself opposite me, cross-legged and straight-backed as a child. The raven fixed me with its gaze.
“Thank you.” I felt ill at ease in the bird’s presence and suddenly shy without Sibeal. Knowing Ciarán’s story did not mean I knew the man. He was Conor’s half-brother, born at Sevenwaters after Conor’s father, Lord Colum, took a second wife who proved to be more than she seemed. She had spirited Ciarán away as a small child, but his father had found him and brought him back to be raised in the protection of the nemetons. My sisters and I had never met Ciarán until four years ago, when he had come to the aid of my father and Johnny in the resolution of a feud with the Britons. That was quite odd, since Conor had more or less brought him up and Conor himself visited our home often. It was one of those subjects both my parents seemed reluctant to talk about; a part of our family history that held secrets.
“We spoke of talismans earlier,” my companion observed now. “I believe I was right about your presence being sufficient to protect Cathal. But it won’t hurt to take this as well.” He opened the bag and took out a simple strand of dark twine. On it was strung a small white stone with a hole in it.
“This is more precious to me than you could possibly imagine,” he said, following my gaze. “It belonged to your father’s sister Niamh.” His voice changed as he spoke this name, and in that moment the mystery became plain to me, so plain that I wondered how I had not seen it before. His eyes were just the same as my cousin Fainne’s, dark mulberry eyes, the legacy of the sorceress. We had been told that Fainne was Niamh’s daughter by an unnamed second husband, someone Father’s elder sister had met and wed far away from Sevenwaters. That was the official story. If Ciarán was Fainne’s father, there was a compelling reason to keep the fact quiet; his union with Niamh would have been forbidden by laws of kinship. If he was Fainne’s father, he had lost his only daughter to the Fair Folk four years ago. And long, long ago, he had lost Niamh. I said nothing.
“Take it,” Ciarán went on, handing the necklace to me. “I gave it once as a gift of the heart; it was all I had to offer. Niamh gave it to the daughter who was so precious to her. In time it made its way back to me. When you find Cathal, place it around his neck. It is a reminder that love outlasts the strongest enchantments.”
“Thank you,” I said. “It must be very hard for you to give this up. I’ll do my best to bring it back safely.” I motioned to the other item he had brought, a gray stone shaped like an egg. “Uncle Ciarán, what is that?”
“You have several challenges ahead of you, Clodagh. Getting in may be quite easy. Finding Mac Dara may not be difficult, that’s if he believes you are no threat to him. Gaining access to Cathal could be hard. If Mac Dara thinks there is any chance his son may still want to escape the Otherworld, he’s unlikely to want him to see you. But he’ll have been working on Cathal. He may use this as a test. If Cathal meets you and remains indifferent, or if he fails to recognize you, Mac Dara will know he’s got his son back body and mind.”
I felt cold all through. “You’re saying that if I ask to see him and Mac Dara says yes, it probably means Cathal has forgotten me?”
“Perhaps. If there’s one thing you should remember in there, it’s that nothing is what it seems. Expect tricks, puzzles, mysteries. Remember that love is the only truth. Now let us imagine you succeed in finding Cathal, and that he wants to escape. Your next challenge is likely to be Mac Dara’s capacity to see you, wherever you go. Such a one can summon whatever he wishes to the scrying bowl. He can follow you into the most secret places; he can spy on your most intimate moments. To flee from an individual who possesses such power is nigh on impossible unless he chooses to let you go.”
“There was a safe place,” I said. “A place of the Old Ones, protected by a hedge of thorn. I don’t think he could see us there. And when I went into his pavilion, he didn’t seem to know where Cathal was, even though I had left him not far away in the forest.”
“You could retreat within the hedge, yes,” said Ciarán, as if he knew the place. “But he would guess where you had gone. He would send his henchmen to wait for you just beyond the barrier. The Old Ones could not lead you back to their portal without venturing out into Mac Dara’s territory. You would be trapped. If I could be with you, I could keep you concealed until you were safely out. But I will not go there, Clodagh; now is not the time for that. Take this, and use it only when you must.” He passed me the egg-shaped stone, which felt smooth and cool in my hand. “Throw it to the ground and it will provide concealment for a time. It will not hide you long; you must choose your moment carefully.”
“I will,” I said, stowing the stone in my bag and trying not to look astonished. However accomplished my uncle might be as a druid, I had not expected him to be in possession of an item so like a sorcerer’s charm.
“One more thing,” Ciarán said. “I have never met this Lord of the Oak, but his arrival in these parts has interested me. I have made a study of him over the last few years. Clodagh, this is extremely dangerous for you. Do not attempt it unless you are fully aware of what the consequences could be, not only for Cathal, but for you as well. Your father will be appalled that I did not prevent you from going.”
“I know that I could die. Just as Cathal knew, when he chose to come with me, that he was at risk of losing his future in the human world. The stakes are very high.”
“You could die. Or you could suffer a different fate. Mac Dara likes women. Has it occurred to you that he may decide to take you for himself?”
“I don’t think he would do that,” I said, shuddering in disgust at the very idea. “He did make a comment along those lines, but he was just saying it to goad Cathal. I shouldn’t think I am the type to interest him in that way.”
“Maybe not,” Ciarán said. “But he could have other motives. From what you tell me, he’s spent years trying to lure his son back to the Otherworld. To the extent that his kind can love, he loves this only boy of his. He might assault you as a demonstration of power or to punish Cathal in some way. He’s devious.”
A plan had begun to form itself in my mind as he spoke, a plan that just might win me some time alone with Cathal, if I could bring myself to try it. I found myself reluctant to speak of it. To put such an outrageous idea into words might cause me to lose my courage. “Is it true that the Fair Folk can’t understand selfless love?” I asked him.
“Indeed,” Ciarán said, and his face was a very image of sorrow. “They don’t see the point of it. For them love is tied up with power and influence. Mac Dara prizes his son because through him he can exert control over his realm for generations to come. He values Cathal as another self, a younger, fresher, more energetic one. Such a parent works hard to impart his own knowledge and his own skills; to impose his own view of the world on his child. I know it from experience. It can be hard to resist, especially with promises of untold power held out as reward. But it comes at a most terrible cost.”
“And so,” I breathed, frightened by the speed with which my plan was taking shape in my head, “having a son to carry on after him is what Mac Dara values most of all. He would expect Cathal, in his turn, to father sons.”
Ciarán regarded me in silence. After a little, he said, “You must not make him promises you intend to break. He would destroy you.”
“I won’t,” I said, though the plan might take me perilously close to it—I would have to stay alert and keep my wits about me, no matter what happened. Even if Mac Dara hurt me. Even if he hurt Cathal. I hoped I was strong enough.
“By all the gods,” muttered Ciarán. “I wish there were some way I could aid you further.”
“It’s probably better not,” I made myself say. “I let Cathal help me, and look what’s happened to him. I do have a question.”
“Ask it, Clodagh.”
“That charm, the verse . . . If there are three or four versions of the story, and the last two lines are different in each one, how can I know which one Mac Dara spoke when he worked the spell over Cathal? Supposing we could make ancient enemies into friends, and somehow tame the sea, impossible as that sounds. Mac Dara could turn around and say he didn’t use that version of the rhyme, but one in which the last part was something different. You’ll be mine forever more, until the stars tumble from the sky and Eilis volunteers to do the mending. It could be anything at all.”
My attempt at humor had brought a faint smile to Ciarán’s lips. “If that was the story as the old woman told it,” he said, “then that is the correct version of the rhyme. Willow gave you the key to undoing the charm. It seems she wished to help this much younger brother of hers. That she did so cryptically, through a tale, was doubtless for her own protection. Mac Dara’s anger is greatly to be feared. Should the last part of the rhyme become true, he will be obliged to let his son go. How could an old woman know such a thing? I expect there were witnesses to the casting of the charm. If a wandering storyteller asked those witnesses a question or two, why wouldn’t they answer? Mac Dara has at least one weakness. Over the years, it seems he has underestimated women.”
“But,” I protested, finding it almost too much to take in, “Willow told that story a long time ago, well before Cathal and I went to the Otherworld. How could she know what spell Mac Dara was going to use? And why couldn’t she just explain to Cathal the danger he was in?”
“You’re not thinking, Clodagh.” For a moment Ciarán sounded like what he was, a teacher of druidic lore. “The spell would have been cast long ago, on the day Mac Dara first discovered his son’s whereabouts. It would have hung over the boy like a doom from that day forward. Who knows, Willow may even have heard it spoken. As for explaining to Cathal, would that have made him act differently? Would he then have left you to undertake your quest alone?”
I knew he would still have come with me. “All the same, it would have helped if she’d explained it to us.”
“She is a storyteller. She gave you what you needed.”
“I hope I’ll know how to use it.” My heart was beating hard with anticipation and dread. “Now I suppose I’d better be off, if you’ll show me where to find the portal. Please don’t give Father too many details about what I’ll be trying to do. He’d be so worried.”
“Bring what you need and I will take you to the doorway. You need not travel quite alone; Fiacha will go with you.” Ciarán glanced at the predatory-looking bird on his shoulder, then back at me. “He can guide you, guard you and warn you,” he added. “And he knows the way home.” With that, the raven spread its dark wings, launched itself off his shoulder and flew to perch on a branch of a nearby tree. Its restless stance and piercing eye said quite plainly, Come on, then.
I shouldered my bag. “I’m ready,” I said.
“One more thing,” said Ciarán as we set off down the hill between the birches. “As I said, Mac Dara likes women. My advice would be to approach him in an apparent spirit of conciliation. Ask for Cathal back, since Mac Dara would think it odd if you didn’t, but do it nicely. Let him talk; encourage him to confide in you. Perhaps he is not so unlike his son as you imagine. Play his game as long as you can. My guess is that he will see this as an opportunity to test how well Cathal has learned his lesson.”
“Lesson?” My voice was shaking now.
“The lesson of forgetting,” said Ciarán. “You must prepare yourself for any possibility, Clodagh. Even that the man for whom you risk so much may no longer want to be rescued.”
CHAPTER 15
I bade Ciarán farewell at the entrance to a shadowy passageway that opened between rocks close by a spring. I could not tell if it was the same way by which the Old Ones had brought me out of the Otherworld. Sometimes the raven flew ahead, stopping with visible impatience for me to catch up, then winging on and leaving me no choice but to scramble after him. Sometimes he did not seem so confident, and rode perched on my shoulder, his claws sharp through shawl and gown. Without the Old Ones’ torches it was dark; the faint glow of fireflies, clustered here and there on the tunnel roof, barely made the journey possible. In some places I had to feel my way with arms outstretched to graze the walls. My knees were soon bruised from falling; I jarred my left hip painfully on a spur of stone. My eyes longed for the sun. Even the strange, muted light of the Otherworld would be better than this.
I stopped twice to rest and forced myself to swallow food and water. Crouched there in the semi-dark with Fiacha’s eyes on me, the only thing I wanted to do was go on walking so we could be out as soon as possible. But I must keep up my strength. I would need all my wits about me when we reached the other end.
There were obstacles. At one point I teetered on the edge of a drop, a breath away from plunging down into the unknown. I stepped back from the brink and blundered about in the dimness until I found a different way. There was a narrow place where water trickled down the stone walls and pooled under my feet; I ducked through, balancing Fiacha, and came out with my skirt dripping. Later I entered a cavern tented with spider webs of monstrous thickness, their occupants invisible in the dark corners from which these sticky nets were suspended. Fiacha stopped to probe a crevice with his beak; I saw him swallow something. Several times I came to what seemed dead ends, my progress halted by impassable barriers of stone. Each time there was a path to be discovered. One was the merest slit, concealed behind a rough protrusion. Fiacha hopped through and I squeezed after him, ripping my shawl. One was a tiny aperture at foot level, through which I made a wriggling, eel-like passage. Another seemed to have no opening at all, but when I set my hand against the rock wall and sent a silent request to the Old Ones for guidance, a little door appeared, just large enough for me to step through.
Day was over when we finally emerged in the forest of the Otherworld. Now to find the way to Mac Dara’s hall. With luck he would be holding another audience tonight. If I could play this game right, he would at least agree to talk to me.
I walked forward under a stand of huge old trees that somewhat resembled oaks. Beneath my feet, dry leaves crunched; these forest ancestors were almost bare of foliage. The air was chill. Berries hung shriveled and dry on the bushes around me. A mist was forming in the forest, twisting its way around the boles of the trees like creeping fingers. The woods surrounding the nemetons had been alive with spring sounds, birds singing, insects chirping. The trees had been resplendent in new season’s green. In Mac Dara’s world it was autumn.
I ordered myself to be calm. I would be ready, no matter what. I would do this even if years and years had passed. I had the green glass ring, I had the necklace, I had the egg stone and I had Fiacha. And I had a plan, a plan that frightened me half out of my wits, but then the very notion of confronting Mac Dara would be enough to make most young women turn tail and flee, I thought. Perhaps, to survive in a place like this, a person had to be half mad; as mad as a man who would sacrifice his future to save a friend; as mad as a woman who could love a child made of sticks and stones.
Fiacha did indeed know the way. I followed him along the forest tracks to the grand avenue where the Fair Folk had passed on the night Becan was burned. I was about to step onto that open ground when the crow let out a warning caw and edged back along the branch where he was perched, letting the shadows swallow him. I shrank against the trunk of the tree.
Down the broad path beneath the arching boughs Mac Dara’s folk came in their stately procession. Lantern light announced them; their strange, compelling voices lilted over the sward, laughing and singing, and the music of a harp rang out, with a whistle adding a piercing tune that made my feet want to dance, almost. The hooves of their horses made no sound on the soft grass; t
he great gray hounds that padded by them did not look to one side or the other, but only straight ahead. There was the man with the black owl—Fiacha shifted on his branch—and there the woman I had thought, for a little, was Deirdre of the Forest come to help me. Her lovely blue eyes were cold as frost. There was the person in the butterfly-wing robe, and there a lady all in brilliant feathers, tossing her head as she laughed at something the man beside her was saying. There was no sign of Mac Dara, or of Cathal. A new fear crept into my heart. Perhaps they had gone away, back to the west where the Lord of the Oak had his origins. Perhaps they had gone still further, somewhere I could never reach them.
I waited until the last riders in the procession were disappearing down the avenue, lanterns held high, then glanced up at Fiacha. He winged ahead; I took a deep breath and followed. We walked the green way in silence, though it seemed to me my heart was beating so hard it must sound like a drum announcing my approach. At the edge of the open space bordered by white stones, Fiacha flew up into a tree and settled there. He busied himself with preening his feathers. It was quite clear that he was not planning to accompany me any further.
“Wonderful,” I murmured, looking up at him in disapproval. He ignored me. “Make sure you’re close by when I need you, then.” There was no way to tell if he heard or understood. For now, I was definitely on my own.
I stepped between the white stones in my plain, well-worn gown, and out among the assembled folk of the Tuatha De Danann. I held my head high and walked straight toward Mac Dara’s pavilion. The hanging that concealed its doorway was closed and there was no sign of light inside. The entry appeared unguarded. I maintained a steady pace forward. Nobody was quite looking at me, but the crowd parted to let me through.
Heir to Sevenwaters Page 38
