Seer of Sevenwaters

by Juliet Marillier

  I pause as we reach a stile. Ciarán waits for me to cross first. He says nothing at all as I clamber up and over. I stand there as he follows me, all graceful economy of movement.

  “I was hoping there might be a place for me among your novices at Sevenwaters.” There, I’ve said it. Now I dare not look at his face. I take heart from the fact that he has not broken into derisive laughter. “I am prepared to work hard. To learn. You will have heard the story of our mission by now. I hope that shows you I am a man of principle. I have not been raised in your faith, but I believe there is a lifetime of learning in it, and I love and respect learning. I have some skills that could be useful: languages, scribing ability.”

  “And singing, I hear,” Ciarán says. He could be thinking anything at all, so little does his tone give away.

  “I can sing, yes. I can make poems.” I wonder who has told him this.

  “Let us sit down here awhile.” Ciarán seats himself on a convenient rock; I find another. I look into his eyes and am none the wiser.

  “Felix,” he says, “Sibeal is the most outstanding novice to enter the Sevenwaters nemetons in living memory. She has certain very special gifts, gifts we believe may be unique to her. You’ll have seen some of them at work during your mission. Her gifts make her precious to our kind, not just in the nemetons at Sevenwaters, but everywhere in Erin. But they also make her vulnerable.”

  The silence draws out as I try to guess what it is he wants from me. “I understand,” I say eventually.

  “Do you? I think not. After less than a full summer’s acquaintance you believe you know Sibeal. Yes, you have seen a little of her ability; you have caught a glimpse of her fine qualities. But your understanding is a drop in the ocean; a blade of grass in a meadow. Sibeal is my kinswoman, my protégé, my student. She is closer to me than a daughter. I have taught and guided her since she was twelve years old. She will make a druid of exceptional power and goodness. Within the nemetons she can develop her talents to their full capacity. And she can be protected.”

  “Protected? From what?” I am unable to keep my voice calm now; my outrage trembles in it. I draw breath deeply, once, twice, three times, as she might.

  “From herself, perhaps.”

  In my head, I count to ten. “Sibeal is like nobody I have ever met before,” I say. “Rare, precious and wonderful. The brightest star in the sky; the fairest flower in the field; the subtlest and most beguiling of tales. The loveliest note of the harp. I do know her. Her vocation may be as strong as iron, but she’s deeply unhappy. If you are so close to her, why can’t you see that?”

  “Answer me one question, Felix.”

  I wait.

  “You request a place in the nemetons at Sevenwaters. Are you telling me you have a spiritual vocation?”

  Breathe, Felix. Be calm. “That depends on how you define a vocation, Master Ciarán. I have not been visited by Otherworld presences, as Sibeal was in her childhood. I have not heard the voices of gods or spirits whispering in my ear. It is as I described it before—the sense that a light reached me in a place I thought would be forever dark. The merest candle in a catacomb of doubt, but a light nonetheless. I saw it in Sibeal’s gift with the runes, in her ability to reach Svala, the sea woman, in the wisdom of her tales and the kindness of her advice. I saw it in Gull’s friendship, a friendship that came with no conditions. I saw it in my brother’s raw courage. Now I see it every day in the power of the waves, the flight of the sea birds, the wild dance of clouds across the sky. I hear it in the cry of a newborn babe. I see it in the tranquil face of an old man, waiting for death.” My grandfather’s parchment skin; his soft, beguiling voice, telling me tales. His eyes closing for the last time, with as little fuss as if he were taking an afternoon nap. When the Ankou came for him, he came gently.

  Ciarán regards me for a while. He seems to be giving my words serious consideration. I allow a fragile hope into my heart.

  “You’ll have business to attend to, I imagine,” he says. “I’ve heard a good deal of your story from Johnny and Gareth. The king of Munster will need your report, at the very least. You will not quit such employment without some negotiation.”

  I wait for the next part: But after that, if you haven’t changed your mind, you can come to Sevenwaters for a trial.

  “Come back to me in ten years’ time,” Ciarán says. “In those ten years, go off and live your life. Your parents have lost one son. You will only punish them if you allow your principles to keep you from home. Would you leave it to a stranger to tell your mother that her firstborn is dead? Make peace with your family. Ply your trade as scribe, translator, poet, lover of ideas. If your mind is unchanged in ten years, come to Sevenwaters and speak with me again.”

  He might as well have hit me. I am breathless with fury, and a bitter sorrow fills my heart. I quell the urge to shout at him. “Ten years,” I say, and despite my best effort, my voice is shaking. “That is a long time.”

  “You are young. Sibeal is even younger. The two of you, together, in the austere, celibate setting of the Sevenwaters nemetons . . . I think not.”

  “I—”

  “Felix. You are transparent. Your feelings for her are written on every part of you. I saw it the moment the two of you stepped off the boat. Your plan is nothing but a rod for your back, and perhaps for hers as well. Go home to Armorica. Before ten years have passed you will have found a wife, fathered a child or two and made your parents happy.”

  I spring to my feet, too angry now to guard my words. I meet the druid’s impassive gaze full on. I square my shoulders. “You diminish what I feel, and what she feels, when you speak thus,” I tell him. “What is between us is as deep as the earth, as wide as the sky, as boundless as the great ocean. To deny it is to deny the turning of the seasons, the ebb and flow of the tide, the journeys of sun and moon. I have always respected Sibeal’s vocation. I have not tried to divert her from it against her will; all I have done is confront her with the need to be honest in her choices. I know how unhappy she is. She grieves for the parting to come. What I suggested to you is not what my heart most desires. I make no secret of that. I want her to choose me as her husband and the father of her child. I know the little girl she has seen in visions is our daughter, hers and mine.”

  A subtle change crosses Ciarán’s face at this, masked almost as soon as it appears.

  “But Sibeal believes there is no third choice, no compromise by which she can honor both her feelings for me and her love of the gods,” I say. “I cannot leave her forever, Master Ciarán. I cannot bear to be parted from her. If we cannot be husband and wife, then let me be close to her, let us live as colleagues.” I bow my head. “I will never wed another. She is the other half of me.”

  “Are you sure Sibeal’s feelings are as powerful as your own?”

  I would like to strangle him, right now. “Perhaps you dismiss her sorrow as fleeting and insignificant,” I say. “Maybe you do not know her as well as you think.”

  He opens his mouth, and I expect that he will say something like, All things pass, or You are young. But what he says is, “I respect your sorrow, Felix. Tell me, how old are you?”

  “I am in my twentieth year, Master Ciarán. You will tell me, no doubt, that I am too young to know my mind on such matters; too much of a boy, still, to understand true love with its wild joy and its piercing heartache.”

  He looks at me then, and his eyes are full of a terrible sadness. “At nineteen,” he says, “one understands it only too well. We will talk again, Felix.” He rises, gives me a nod and leaves.

  We will talk again. I could laugh at that if I were not so full of bitterness and rage. This is like one of those cruel tales of lovers parted. The hero can win his lady if he undertakes a mission, and the mission is of such long duration that by the time he returns for her, they are old and gray and beyond the pleasures of the flesh. Or worse, she is dead or wed to another man. After ten years in the nemetons, Sibeal will have become like him, s
o deep in the study of lore and the love of the gods that she will have forgotten how it feels to weep and shout and laugh and be alive. If she remembers me, it will be with regret and kindness, not with love and longing.

  I run. I cannot stop running. I run until my chest heaves, my breath whistles, my head reels. When I can go no further I stand on the cliff top and hurl stones over the edge. Each missile bears my anger out into the world. I have no words for what is in me; I only know my heart might burst with it. I run out of stones. All around me, gulls are rising in startled, squawking protest. I stand still, breathing. Slowly, piece by piece, Inis Eala comes into focus around me. The waves far below, crashing against the cliff’s base. The sea stretching out before me, transformed by the summer sun to a carpet of deep blue-green and glittering gold. The birds. The vast, open space. Smaller things: a fern-like plant between the rocks at my feet; a juniper some distance away, like a tenacious old woman, clinging on against the westerly wind. There must be something to learn from what has passed today. A druid finds learning in everything, success and catastrophe, triumph and bitter defeat. In the destruction of the lovely flowering thing that grew between Sibeal and me, I can find no wisdom at all.

  It is some time before I return to the settlement; the sun is high. When I seek out Sibeal, I find she has disregarded Muirrin’s advice to rest, and has gone to the seer’s cave. She is not expected back until supper time. As I head back toward the men’s quarters, Sigurd comes to fetch me—Johnny wants to talk to me.

  Sigurd leads me into the practice area, through the iron gate. Pairs of men are locked in intense, expert-looking battles all over the open area. Swords seem to be the weapon of the day. Rat is up on one of the benches, arms folded, eyes narrowed as he watches. Snake stands at the other side in a similar pose.

  “The Connacht men are near the end of their training,” Sigurd comments. “Final display of battle-craft soon, before they leave the island. Johnny’s sending some of the new swords back with them. Not compensation, exactly; Rodan’s was an accidental death. But such a gift silences talk of possible negligence. That’s what I’ve heard. This way, Felix.”

  We enter a small chamber set within the massive double wall that rings the enclosure. Johnny, Gareth and Gull are standing around a table on which documents and writing materials are spread. I see a map showing the southern coasts of Erin, Britain and part of Gaul. Sigurd closes the door, remaining inside.

  “Welcome, Felix,” Johnny says. “Be seated, please.” He has already congratulated me on the safe return of the three abandoned men; he spoke to each of us in turn last night, before we slept. He gave me his personal thanks for diving in after Gull, though our survival that strange day owed little to me. As a leader, Johnny misses nothing.

  “I’ll get to the point quickly,” he says now. “Gull tells me both Donn and Colm will be fit to return home in about ten days’ time, provided an adequate escort can be arranged. I don’t know what your plans are for the long term, with your brother gone, but you’ll be wanting to report back to the king of Munster about the voyage and the losses, at the very least. The items salvaged from Freyja should be returned to him. Gull says it would be ideal for Colm if you were to accompany him on the journey. I understand he is plagued by nightmares.”

  “He will need me, yes,” I say. “He will recover more quickly at home. His father is one of Muredach’s grooms; his mother works at court as a seamstress. He has brothers and sisters.” Lucky Colm. But unlucky Colm, to witness such horrors before he is a man. Once safely home, he may never want to leave again.

  “I regret the need to act on this so soon after your return, Felix,” Johnny says quietly. “But I know you have duties to fulfill elsewhere. What are your plans after you speak to King Muredach? Will you stay on at his court awhile? From the story you told us that night, I understand it could be difficult for you to return to Armorica.” He is taking care not to ask me who will bear the news of Paul’s death to my mother and father.

  “I will not linger at Muredach’s court,” I say. “I regret greatly that I cannot take the ill news to my parents. Duke Remont is not a just ruler. He is greatly influenced by the local bishops, whom I angered by speaking too freely. My presence would, at the very least, lose my father the position he has held for twenty years. It could cost him even more dearly. I cannot take that risk. I suppose I must dispatch a letter.” Such a letter is long overdue for writing. I have not been able to bring myself to do it.

  Sigurd clears his throat.

  “We have a proposal to put to you, Felix,” Johnny says.

  I find I do not care very much what his proposal is. After my interview with Ciarán I feel shattered and weary, caring little for the future. “Yes?” I say.

  “Sigurd will explain it to you.”

  “You remember we spoke of my Armorican comrade, Corentin,” Sigurd says. “A close member of the Inis Eala team; a valiant, fine man and a great friend to me. Since we had that talk, I’ve been thinking how good it would be to know how he’s getting on and whether he managed to win back his family holdings. I’ve explained to Johnny what you told me, that the region where your folk live is close enough to the place where Corentin was headed when he went back there. Johnny’s given me leave to come with you, Felix. It’ll lighten the job of getting Donn and Colm safely back to Munster if there are two of us. I was thinking, if you’re not set on staying at the court there, that we might find a ship for Armorica.”

  I am about to interrupt with my reasons why this cannot happen, but Sigurd holds up a hand to silence me.

  “I know why you’re reluctant to go, and I respect that, Felix. But the thing is, Corentin’s most likely a wealthy landholder now, an influential man in the region. Even if you can’t get back to your home, if we find him he’ll be well-placed to get a personal messenger to your parents, someone who can break the news kindly. If your father can travel, we can probably arrange a safe meeting. We’re Inis Eala men, Corentin and I. We’re expert at organizing this kind of thing.” After a moment he adds, “I’d like to see him again.”

  His big, blunt features are softened by a look that disarms me completely. And, after all, I have nowhere else to go. Not now. Ten years of nothing loom ahead.

  One thing troubles me. “My brother came with me to Erin,” I say, “and on to the north, to watch over me. For his care of me, Paul paid with his life. I would not have the same fate befall another good man.”

  Sigurd gives me a searching look. “Taking risks is part of being a man,” he says. “It’s part of living, Felix. You can’t wrap up every friend you have and put him away in safe storage, lest he trip and hurt himself. Nobody would thank you for that. If you’re still thinking of those ill luck rumors that once dogged you, forget them. I’m offering to go with you because I want to, and because I think we can help each other. That should be enough for you.”

  I nod. I cannot argue with this.

  “Our man on the mainland will arrange horses and supplies for your trip south to Munster,” Johnny says. “There will be resources at your disposal. It’ll be up to the two of you how you use them. What do you say, Felix?”

  “It is good to have a purpose,” I say. “I will do this. I thank you, all of you. I thank you for your faith in me.”

  Now they are all looking at me, and I see that perhaps my tone has not matched my words. Right now, it is not possible to sound anything but sad.

  “Good,” Johnny says. “I’ll leave you and Sigurd to work out the details in your own time. You may need to make haste if you’re to secure a passage from the south before the worst of the autumn storms. I’ve given Sigurd up to a year’s leave of absence.”

  A year. Once, that would have seemed long. Now, it only tells me that there will then be nine more years to wait. Nine years in which I grow older, and Sibeal grows older, and our paths grow steadily further apart.

  “Felix.” Gareth speaks now, quietly. He is the affable, friendly man he was before the voyage, and yet n
ot quite the same. His eyes are more guarded; his mouth holds something in reserve. “I realize your plans for the long-term future may be somewhat hazy at present. I must tell you that several of us, independently, have suggested to Johnny that he offer you a place on Inis Eala, a permanent place, once you have completed this other business, and that he has agreed. You might return here when Sigurd does. The men hold your courage in high regard. We would welcome you as one of us.”

  I am astounded. I know what an honor this is, how rarely a place on the island is offered. “I am no warrior,” I say, “nor ever will be one.”

  “You are a young man of exemplary bravery.” Gull speaks. His voice is soft and deep. It makes me think of oak wood and shadows. “That is a weapon stronger than the most finely crafted sword, Felix. You are a man of great heart. Besides,” he adds with a grin, “we like your songs.”

  “Thank you,” I say to all of them. “I am more honored than I can say. Much in my future is unknown. Much is still to be decided. Whether my path brings me back here or takes me far away, I will never forget that you recognized me thus.”

  Nobody says anything. Johnny nods. Gareth smiles. Gull gives me a look that reflects his knowledge of the truth: that my courteous speech and calm demeanor conceal a bitter, wretched, sorrowful man.