“Before the autumn gales set in.” Bran turned his gaze from Swift to me. I thought he was about to express regret or sympathy, for both were in his steady gray eyes, but what he said was, “There’s something further I want to put to you.”
“Oh?” I could not imagine what was coming, unless he was about to ask me to break the bad news to Garalt for him.
“The most even-tempered of horses hates the motion of a boat. I don’t need an expert to tell me what a risk it is to transport this particular creature over to Erin. Swift is going to need more than the attentions of a groom or two, even if they’re as capable as Emrys. Liadan tells me Garalt’s injured foot won’t heal in time for him to travel with the horse. Would you be prepared to go?”
My jaw dropped.
“Only as far as Sevenwaters, of course. You’d take your maidservant with you. Your father can arrange for Swift to be safely conveyed on to Tirconnell.”
When I did not answer—I was still trying to put the pieces together in my mind—my uncle added, “It’s a great deal to ask; I know that. You have your reasons for not wanting to go back and I respect them. But this isn’t a request that you return to live with your parents. I’m asking you to do a highly skilled job; a job nobody else can do. It’s not so much for my sake as for your father’s. He’s in a difficult position, and this will help him. It’s for the horse’s sake, too. I know you’re attached to the creature. With you there, we can be reasonably sure Swift will survive the trip without doing himself serious damage.”
Emrys had brought the yearling to a halt. Garalt had limped over to speak to him and was standing beside Swift, one hand resting on the animal’s neck. Swift stood still for now, but he was trembling. They’d lead him into the stables for a rub-down, and then, I supposed, Bran would break the news. What if I told my uncle the truth: that the thought of going home awoke the frightened child inside me? What if I refused to do it? Then Garalt would not even have the reassurance that Swift would travel safely. He would be as quick as I was to imagine the possibilities if a highly strung creature, taken away from everything familiar, were to be loaded into a boat and sent off across an expanse of unpredictable ocean.
“I have some questions,” I told Bran. What sort of insult or injury required restitution beyond the means of a prominent Irish chieftain? What in the name of the gods was the Disappearance? “But you should tell Garalt now. I can’t pretend to him that nothing’s happened. Can we speak about this later?”
“Of course. So you will consider it?”
Through the gathering clouds of misgiving in my mind, I recognized his courtesy in making this a request, not an order. Bran and Liadan were my foster parents; they had authority over me. Bran could simply have told me I was going home. Instead he had shown respect, and I honored him for it even as I shrank from the task itself.
“I’ll consider it, Uncle. You should tell Garalt that you’ve asked me to go with Swift; that will soften the blow.” I drew a deep breath. “I’ll come with you when you tell him,” I made myself say.
My foster father offered me his heavily tattooed arm and I hooked mine through it. “Thank you, Maeve,” Bran said. “You have a gift for imparting fortitude, and not only to creatures. Come then, let’s do this.”
After supper, I sat with my uncle and aunt in a little private chamber, and Bran gave me Father’s letter to read. Much of it concerned matters my uncle had already discussed with me, and all of it was couched in careful language, for such missives, even when borne by the most trusted of messengers, could still fall into the wrong hands. In a time of unrest this might lead to the destruction of alliances and the breaking of treaties. My father wrote in part:
Of recent times there has been a marked increase in the activity of which we advised you some time ago: unexplained acts of violence against both people and property, instances of malevolent meddling, the circulation of strange rumors and tales. We have been plagued by events of this kind since before the time of Finbar’s misadventure; it is easy enough to guess their source. You understand, as I do, that there is a possible solution to this difficulty, involving the return of a certain family member. This would involve immense risk. It seems a monstrous thing to ask of anyone. I seek your honest advice on the matter.
There have been accusations from all sides regarding the events to which I refer, and many of those are directed at me and mine. In the past it has generally been possible to make peace with the offended folk, in some cases through restitution in goods or silver.
However, an event has occurred that dwarfs the previous occurrences. It is a deeply troubling development. The offended party is Cruinn of Tirconnell. If he were able to prove the fault was mine—the circumstances suggests that it was—this could become a matter for the High King. I am, therefore, now reassessing my approach in consultation with my druid uncles.
You may already have heard what occurred through other sources, but in summary it was this: a troop of Cruinn’s warriors, led by his two sons, was riding southward on the track that skirts the western margin of the Sevenwaters forest. We know they passed our northwestern guard tower about two hours after dawn, and that there were sixteen of them, all well-armed. My sentries reported this, and it tallies with what Cruinn told me later. Their purpose was to visit a chieftain of the southern Uí Néill, whose daughter was betrothed to Cruinn’s elder son. My sentries commented that the riders seemed to be in high spirits.
What happened next, nobody knows. The sixteen men never arrived at their destination. They did not pass our southwestern guard tower or Illann’s watch posts south of our border. They did not come home. Messengers were sent. A search was carried out. Once I was informed of their disappearance I set my own search in place, since outsiders do not easily find their way in the Sevenwaters forest. Nothing. No trace. It was as if those sixteen men had vanished into another world.
Long after, when all possibilities had been considered and discounted and Cruinn’s accusations were becoming personal, the lost men began to reappear. One was found squeezed into a hollow tree, his knees against his chest, arms curled over his head as if to shield him from attack. Stone dead. A man taking pigs out to forage discovered another on the ground beneath a bees’ nest, his body reddened and swollen by stings, his face smeared with honey. His body was still warm; he had lived for close to two moons from the day of the disappearance. The third man was discovered sprawled at the foot of a cliff with his neck broken. The clothes he had been wearing when he rode out were gone; instead, he was clad in strange garments made from feathers.
As time passed, twelve men were discovered within the Sevenwaters forest, each in a different place, each killed in a different way. None had been dead long. Someone was playing with us. Cruinn was beside himself with fury. This was happening on my land, under my watch. And his sons were still missing.
The last four have not yet been found. Perhaps our adversary has tired of his game. In any event, he has made his point. In doing so he has divided me most emphatically from those I had considered allies, both to the north and the south, for the chieftain whose daughter was to wed one of these men clamors against me as loudly as Cruinn does. What occurred has already become legend in these parts. Folk refer to it as the Disappearance.
Brother-in-law, I would welcome your counsel on this matter, and that of my sister. I will offer compensation to Cruinn, of course. Although this was not my doing, the bodies of these men were found on my land, and I must bear some responsibility. But what can compensate for the loss of a son? Of two sons? I understand Cruinn’s grief more closely than he can ever realize. I will provide gifts; a fine stallion, perhaps, though I doubt there is any animal in my stable that would match Cruinn’s standards—horses are his passion and he breeds the best in Tirconnell. That is one issue. The other is tackling the cause of this disaster, and that task is beyond you or me, I believe.
Let me know your opinions as soon as you can. Meanwhile, my regards to Liadan and to my daughter. I ho
pe Maeve is thriving. We miss her.
Well, I missed them, too. But not so much that I wanted to go home.
“Does Father mean Mac Dara is responsible for what happened?” I asked. The letter lay on the table before me; the candle cast its flickering light across my father’s strong black script. He had chosen not to have a scribe write this for him. I could understand his reasons for that. “Has Cathal’s father continued to stir up trouble ever since he failed to get his son back?”
“That’s what Sean means,” Aunt Liadan said, “though he won’t say so directly in writing. He’s implying that Cathal could return to Sevenwaters and attempt to confront his father. That would be perilous. Mac Dara is a creature of the Otherworld, powerful and without scruples. If Cathal put himself in his father’s path he’d be risking everything. When Mac Dara abducted your little brother and used him as bait to lure Cathal back under his influence, he cared nothing for who might be hurt along the way. And now Cathal and Clodagh have the children…It’s surely too high a risk, even at this extreme.” My aunt’s neat features were grave, her lovely green eyes full of disquiet.
“Sean must take some action,” Bran said. “If he allows this to continue he will lose all his allies. The whole of the north could be plunged into conflict once more. Sevenwaters has long been a stable domain amid the Uí Néill disputes, and its chieftain a peacemaker, despite the natural misgivings of other leaders concerning the Sevenwaters forest. Folk sense it is a haven for the uncanny, even if they have no proof of it. They know the tales of your family’s past. But even in the most confronting of those, the Fair Folk have not taken this sort of malicious action toward humankind. Mac Dara’s on a quest. A quest to bring his heir back to his own realm, if necessary by waging a campaign of fear throughout the entire region until Cathal feels obliged to return and challenge him. Sean’s right; this must be stopped.”
“Wouldn’t my father disapprove of your sending me home at this particular time?”
Bran opened his mouth to reply, but Liadan answered for him. “He would be concerned for your safety, as indeed are we. I expect Sean is relieved that your sisters have left Sevenwaters now, since anyone in the family could be the target of Mac Dara’s malice.”
“Would Mac Dara attempt another abduction?” Bran asked.
“Perhaps what happened with little Finbar taught him how powerful the bonds of love can be as a means to manipulate humankind,” said Liadan. “In the end that attempt failed, of course, but it did draw Cathal into the Otherworld for some time.” She and Bran exchanged a glance. If there were anything to make me regret the married life I would never have, it was the little looks and touches and soft words between these two. Master and mistress of a grand estate they might be, but in private they often reminded me of a pair of young lovers, constantly surprised and delighted by each other.
“We don’t underestimate the danger you’ll be facing if you choose to undertake this journey, Maeve,” Bran said. “It is real enough. But there are dangers everywhere in the world, even here at Harrowfield.”
“And there are opportunities everywhere,” put in my aunt. “This would certainly be challenging for you, and not only because of Mac Dara. The decision is entirely yours. But if you plan to face this particular difficulty at some point, now seems a good time to do so. Swift must travel; you’re the only one who can keep him safe on the journey.”
I cleared my throat. “Once I reach Sevenwaters they will expect me to stay there,” I said. “Mother and Father. When they sent me here, it wasn’t meant to be forever.”
Bran regarded me levelly. “True, Maeve. And once you reach home, it will be Sean and Aisling who make the decisions about your future.”
“But don’t forget,” Liadan said, “that your father has seen several of his daughters follow paths of their own choosing. It’s fortunate that Deirdre made such a strategic marriage; she made up for the rest of you girls.” Her smile was wry. “We would send a letter with you, letting your parents know that you were welcome to return to us and make your permanent home here, if that was what you preferred. Whether Sean chose to overrule your wishes would be up to him, of course. But, Maeve”—my aunt’s tone softened—“I am sure he and your mother really miss you. Aisling must be quite lonely with all your sisters gone, even Eilis. She would be happy to have you back home.”
Briefly, I imagined myself as the unwed daughter of Sevenwaters, growing gradually older and sourer as I played the role of companion to my aging parents, while remaining incapable of setting a hand to any useful work around the house. I did not much care for that picture. Who’s that? a visitor to the house would ask, seeing my drooping figure on the stairs. Her? That’s the fourth daughter, the one who never married. A cripple; terribly burned. Can’t do a thing for herself. I wondered whether Father would let me help in the stables.
“I can’t refuse to go,” I said, feeling a sensation like a cold stone in my belly. “It’s enough of a blow for Garalt that Swift’s being sent away.”
There was a little silence. I watched the candlelight playing across the curiously patterned features of my uncle and the vivid, watchful ones of my aunt.
“But I know that’s not a good enough reason to say yes,” I said, talking more to myself than to them. “I will tell you the truth. This scares me more than anything has done since…since those days after I was hurt, before I came to Harrowfield. The moment I step inside the borders of Sevenwaters it will all come back, not just for me, but for everyone who knew me then. And I hate that. I hate pity. I hate people being sorry for me. I hate them saying what happened wasn’t fair and calling me ‘that poor girl.’ This is the life I’ve got; there’s no changing it. I’d rather just get on with it. Going home feels like going backward.” And when neither of them said a word, I added, “It sounds selfish, I suppose. They are my parents. I imagine they do miss me. And I would like to meet little Finbar.”
Liadan smiled. “Not so little anymore. He’ll be seven years old by now. Close to the same age Sibeal was when you last saw her. And now she’s married and living far away in the south. It is a long time, my dear.”
“Ask yourself,” said Bran quietly, “which is the braver choice.”
There were no excuses left. I drew in a deep breath and let it out again. “I know what I have to do, Uncle Bran. And I will do it. After tonight, I’ll set my feet forward and hold my head high the way I always do. You’ve taught me well. You’ve been good examples to me, the two of you. I can’t imagine you ever being afraid of anything.”
Bran gave a crooked smile. “Everyone is afraid of something. Know your fears and you’re a step further away from letting them rule you. But you’re right—on the field of battle a brave face will help you stand strong. If you put on the semblance of courage, courage itself is easier to find.”
Rhian was packing for our journey. She had already set out what she thought I would need, and now held up each garment in turn for my approval before placing it on the length of linen she had spread on my bedchamber floor, ready to make a bundle. The quick turning of her head, the look of bright inquiry in her eyes reminded me of a little bird of some kind, perhaps a sparrow. Her slight stature and cloud of wispy brown hair emphasized the likeness. Her hands were deft and sure.
It was fortunate that my maid and helper spoke fluent Irish—it would make the journey easier for her. Rhian’s mother had been an Ulster girl. When Rhian’s father, a crewman on a trading vessel, had chosen to leave the sea and work the land, the family had settled in his home region of Cumbria, in the village that lay close to Harrowfield. This would be Rhian’s first visit to her mother’s homeland. She was somewhat nervous about the voyage, as the daughter of a seafaring man might well be after years of witnessing her mother’s anxiety. Concerning Sevenwaters itself she had no fears, only endless questions.
“What are druids like?” she asked me as she spread out a gown for folding. It was hard to know how much to pack, since I had no idea how long I would be
staying at Sevenwaters. A turning of the moon—just long enough, I judged, not to seem an insult to my parents—or the rest of my life? “Didn’t you say some of your kinsmen belong to that brotherhood?” Rhian went on. “Do they have magical powers?”
“Not that blue gown, Rhian. I don’t suppose I’ll be attending any grand banquets or suchlike. Keep it to plain, practical clothes. One good outfit for company, a reasonable supply of shifts and stockings, a couple of comfortable skirts and tunics for outdoors—that should be all I’ll need. I daresay my sisters will have left a few things behind that I can borrow if I must. We don’t want to be weighed down with bags.” She would be the one carrying them, and she was a tiny little thing.
“Isn’t one of your sisters a druid?” she asked, not waiting for a reply to her earlier questions. In private, with just the two of us, she did not use “my lady” but called me by my name. Rhian was my hands, and had been since soon after I first came to Harrowfield. Brows had been raised at the time, I was later told. There was I, ten years old and severely injured, and the maid Aunt Liadan chose for me was less than a year my senior, a little girl herself. My aunt had been wise. Rhian and I had finished our growing up together. My handmaid had helped me in more ways than anyone understood. She was closer to me than the sisters I had not seen for so long. They felt like characters in a story, and never more so than when Rhian asked me about them.
“Sibeal, yes. We all thought she was destined for a spiritual life, and she has one, but not at Sevenwaters. She lives in the south now, and she’s married, which was a big surprise. The druids there are of a different kind. They work hard out in the community, teaching and healing. They don’t sound much like the druids of Sevenwaters, whom I remember as quite solemn and mysterious. You may meet my father’s uncles when we get there. Uncle Conor’s very old now. He is chief druid. I don’t know much about Uncle Ciarán. We saw far less of him. They live in the forest. They come out to perform the seasonal rituals, as well as handfastings and burial rites.”
Sevenwaters [06] Flame of Sevenwaters Page 2
