“He will not die,” Ciarán said, “but he will…fade. The Tuatha De do not retain their power and vigor eternally. In time Mac Dara will diminish, and another will take his place.” A pause for consideration; he looked unusually somber. “Though I have to say, the clever use of spellcraft can lead to the demise of such a one, especially if that one is caught off guard. I have seen it done.”
“Indeed,” murmured my father, glancing at him. Neither of them chose to elaborate.
“Even Mac Dara must have a weak spot,” I said. “To trick someone as clever and devious as he seems to be, you’d need to know as much as possible about him. Though where you would find out about a prince of the Fair Folk, I’m not sure. You’d have to go back to old tales, I suppose.”
Ciarán nodded; everyone seemed to be listening with interest. Encouraged, I went on. “And Cathal must know about his own father, even though he didn’t grow up with him—he did spend some time as his captive, in the Otherworld, before Clodagh went to fetch him back. We should ask him.” I realized how that sounded. “I mean, you could ask him, Uncle Ciarán, through Deirdre. If you found out what Mac Dara’s weak spot is—I’m not speaking of those tales in which a dragon or monster is defeated because it is missing a scale under its chin or between its toes, but about a chink in a different kind of armor—that could give you the means to trap him. You might be able to turn his own cleverness against him.”
“You are something of a strategist, Maeve,” Ciarán murmured.
I felt my cheeks grow warm. “You can blame Uncle Bran for that. He encouraged my interest in such matters. Fintan did as well. As Aunt Liadan’s son, he could hardly fail to learn that women can be as strategic in their thinking as men, even if they may be destined to use those skills to organize a household, not an army.” I caught Mother’s eyes on me; she was not smiling, but I sensed her approval.
“If you agree, Sean, I will go to Dun na Ri,” Ciarán said. “I will ask Deirdre to communicate with Clodagh and, through her, with Cathal.” He hesitated. “Illann can bring word of the result to you. I have another journey to make before I return to Sevenwaters. Finbar asked me about geasa and put an idea into my mind. Has it occurred to you that such a curse may lie over Mac Dara himself?”
A geis! That, I had not considered. I saw from the expressions of my companions that the notion was a surprise to everyone, save perhaps Luachan. It wasn’t easy to surprise a druid.
“A remote possibility,” Ciarán added. “But a possibility nonetheless.”
“A geis could explain the increase in Mac Dara’s hostilities of recent times,” Father mused. “Such a thing must catch up with a person eventually; as the years pass, there must be an increased urgency in the wish to set one’s affairs to rights. And that would include having a successor in place before the terms of the geis came to pass.”
“How could you find out?” Luachan asked Ciarán. “Who would know such a thing?”
“Ah.” Ciarán’s expression was grave; I thought he was looking deep into the past. “I cannot be sure of that. But I know where I would begin to seek answers. In his pressing desire for a son and heir, Mac Dara fathered many daughters over the long years of his life, until at last Cathal was born. Very many daughters. Some are ordinary women, some not so ordinary. Some believe themselves to be fully human; some know of their fey parentage and the gifts it brings. If answers are to be had, I will find them among those women.” He glanced at my father. “It may take some time.”
“We could provide you with a riding horse and an escort,” Father said. “But I imagine you will refuse both. You’ll wish to travel by your own paths.”
“I’ve just thought of something,” I said.
“What is it, Maeve?”
“Father, when Cruinn’s men first went missing, they were on horseback, weren’t they? What happened to their horses?”
“Most were found unharmed, close to the track from which the riders went missing. Two had wandered back toward Tirconnell and were sheltered by folk along the way—Cruinn instituted a thorough search of his own. Three were found within the next few days by my men, loose in the forest. They had some scratches and were tired and hungry, but all recovered quickly and were returned to Cruinn. The others…”
“Two were never found, Lady Maeve,” Doran said. “Another we discovered dead, quite some time later and quite some distance away from the area where the others were located. Wolves had attacked it; there wasn’t much left.”
“Why do you ask?” Ciarán had his eye on Bear, who had risen to his feet as if to suggest it was time for us to leave.
“Bear and Badger had been wandering in the forest for some time before I found them. Their condition made that plain. It’s obvious they belonged to someone. They are not wild creatures; Bear obeyed my commands almost from the first. I wondered if…” I really did not want to say this, did not want to set in chain a sequence of events that must end with my losing them. “I wondered whether Cruinn’s lost men had dogs with them when they rode out. It’s common enough for hounds to run alongside such a party. It would mean Bear and Badger had been in the forest for longer than I thought, but it seems possible. And…their behavior earlier today was unusual. They were deeply disturbed by the sight of that man hanging from the tree.”
“Death is always disturbing,” Mother said. “Even for a dog, I imagine. The two of them are closely attuned to you, Maeve. They felt your distress, perhaps.”
“It was more than that. They seemed to know where the man was, or to sense it. Otherwise why did they bolt from the path when he was much too far away for them to see or smell? It was almost…uncanny.”
Silence. Everyone looked at Bear. Bear looked only at me. His eyes were pools of liquid amber in the lamplight.
“There’s another possibility.” Father spoke with obvious reluctance. “One I have heard suggested in this household. That they are Mac Dara’s creatures, sent to lure you off the path and expose you to danger. Spies in our midst; bearers of secret messages. I see your repugnance, Maeve, but the idea must be put in the open. Didn’t we just say we must learn as much as we can about our enemy? Imagine how it might be: Mac Dara looking for a weak link among us, observing you, knowing, perhaps, the circumstances under which you left Sevenwaters as a child. He might have noticed how much you love creatures and want to help them. How better to manipulate you than by placing in your path a pair of starving dogs needing food, shelter and love?”
You will not lose your temper, I ordered myself. You will stay in control. I rose to my feet. “That isn’t so,” I said, summoning every technique Uncle Bran had taught me for keeping calm. “I would know.”
Luachan, too, had risen. “It cannot be so,” he said quietly. “The nemetons are protected against the powers of evil; the hand of the goddess lies over that place and all who dwell there. Maeve first saw the creatures within the borders of our sanctuary. If these are creatures of Mac Dara, they could not have entered there.”
I cleared my throat, wishing I did not have to correct him. “In fact, I first saw them as we were walking from the keep to the nemetons, you and Finbar and I. And they were some distance off the path. They only entered the nemetons after I coaxed them closer.”
“Don’t distress yourself, Maeve,” Ciarán said. “Your parents and I have already discussed this theory; indeed, we did so some time ago, when Lady Aisling had cause to reprimand someone for airing it publicly. I said I thought it unlikely, since it depends on Mac Dara having a true understanding of such qualities as compassion, love and loneliness. To conjure in this way, a man must surely know what lies deep in the human heart. While he has a better grasp of such matters than many of his kind, I do not believe him capable of that.”
“I see,” I said more bluntly than was perhaps polite. “Will you excuse me? I’m tired; it’s been a long day. I think it’s best if you continue this without me.” So they’d been talking this over for some time. Discussing my behavior behind my back, without bo
thering to speak to me first. I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. “Bear, come.”
It was not possible to sweep out of the room in regal style, since I could not open the door on my own. But Luachan was lightning quick; he reached it before I had to call out to Rhian, and opened it for me to go through. If there was the trace of a smile on his well-shaped lips, I chose to ignore it.
Rhian was still seated on the bench outside the door, and beside her was Finbar. They were making something elaborate with knotted string. Badger sprang up when we came out.
“Finbar,” I said, my hurt pride forgotten in my surprise. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“Finbar wanted to tell you something, Lady Maeve,” Rhian said, trying to convey a message with her eyes as she slipped the string into her pocket. “But not here—my back’s sore from sitting on this bench, and I’m thirsty. Why don’t you go on up to our chamber, and I’ll fetch the three of us a little something from the kitchen?”
So, Finbar had something to say that must be conveyed in private, or at least, not so close to the council. Who was it he did not want listening? Mother? Father? Luachan?
“That’s a good idea,” I said briskly. “How about warm milk with honey?”
“I’ll do my best.”
Up in the chamber, my brother seemed more inclined to sit on the floor stroking Bear’s belly—Bear was all too ready to roll over and submit to his attentions—than to spill out whatever important news he had to share. I settled cross-legged beside them and told Badger what a good boy he had been, and other things of the same kind, and he allowed me to fondle his ears and rub under his chin, though there was still a tension in him. I wondered whether the dogs really had come from Cruinn’s household. Perhaps they had belonged to his sons; maybe they had seen what had happened to them. Had they stood their ground and challenged the attackers? Or had Mac Dara’s forces whisked the men away in an instant, using some fell charm, and left Bear and Badger suddenly alone? No smells to guide them; no tracks to follow; no whistle or kind word from a beloved master. Nothing. Nothing but each other.
“Maeve?”
I started at Finbar’s voice; I had been far away. “Yes, Finbar?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you this.”
What was coming? I felt my way cautiously. “If it’s someone else’s secret, something you’ve promised not to talk about…” No, that wouldn’t do. He’d asked to speak to me. “I promise not to pass it on to anyone,” I said. “You can trust me, Finbar. I’m your sister.”
A grim little smile. It disturbed me to see such a look on his face, but I held my silence.
“Luachan says it’s better not to tell. What I see in the water, or in the fire, or in dreams, I mean. Because it might look like one thing but mean a different thing. Telling can upset people. It can make them angry or afraid. Then they might make wrong choices.”
“It’s safe to tell me, Finbar.”
“Luachan says when I’m older I’ll learn to put the things I see in a story, so people can understand it better. That’s what druids do.”
I thought again about the tale Ciarán had told, of the warring families and their destruction of the beautiful valley that provided their livelihood. The brave young lovers; the wise crone in the wood. “That sounds like good advice,” I said. “But sometimes you do need to tell someone, especially if what you’ve seen is…worrying, frightening in some way.”
“Maeve.” My little brother turned his strange eyes on me. His hand stilled against the dog’s dark hair. “What are you most afraid of? What scares you more than anything in the world?”
A chill ran down my spine. This required an honest answer; Finbar was not a child one could placate with comforting half-truths. On the other hand, he was only seven. “I can’t pick out just one thing,” I said, stalling for time.
Finbar waited, pale as a little ghost.
“Being helpless,” I said. “I mean, unable to help when someone I care about is in trouble.”
“What if you had to choose?” my brother asked, and it seemed to me his words had a prophetic tone to them. “What if Swift and Bear were both in deadly danger, and you knew you could only help one of them?”
Now he was really scaring me. “Is that what you saw?” I demanded. “Tell me! Tell me what was in this vision you had!”
“Luachan wouldn’t want me to tell all of it. It would only scare you.”
“Believe me, it’s far worse to get hints and not the full story,” I said grimly.
“I shouldn’t have said.” His head drooped, showing the white skin at the back of his neck. Now he would not meet my eyes.
I made myself draw a long, calm breath. “It’s all right, Finbar,” I said. “You must tell as little or as much as you think is right. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’ve had a horrible day, and I’m tired and out of sorts. But if you think Swift or the dogs may be in danger, I would like a warning about it so I can do something to protect them.”
He looked up then, sad-eyed. “I thought you would say fire,” he said. “After what happened to you, aren’t you afraid of fire?”
“Very much afraid. I of all people know how destructive and dangerous it can be. But we need fire for light and warmth; without it we would die. Right from the start, Aunt Liadan taught me how to live with my fear and not let it rule me. I’ve had ten years to practice. Fire is not my first terror anymore, only my second.”
The silence drew out. It seemed to me there was something more he had planned to speak of and now held close. I did not want to ask a small boy what he was most afraid of, especially just before bedtime. I sensed, though, that this might be what Finbar expected.
“Luachan’s wise,” I said quietly. “It’s easy to frighten yourself with stories, and I imagine it is the same with visions. I have often woken with my heart hammering after a dream I can’t even remember. I should think the hardest thing about learning to be a seer might be keeping track of it all. Working out what is fact and what is…ideas, symbols and so on. I’m sure it is very confusing.” That sounded patronizing, which was not my intention. “It’s good that you have Luachan to help you understand it.”
“Mm.” Finbar was closing up on himself again. He had laid his head down, using Bear as a pillow, but there was nothing sleepy about his eyes. “Maeve,” he murmured against the comforting warmth of the dog, “what if Mac Dara put a geis on me? He could have done it when I was a baby, too young to know about it. He could have done it easily. What if the geis said I was going to die if I went past a certain place in the forest, or if I stroked a gray cat by moonlight, or if I climbed an oak tree with a knife in my pocket? Or it might be that I had to do those things or something bad would happen to you or Deirdre, or to Mother or Father.”
Morrigan save us, the boy had too much imagination by far. Could he have overheard what we were discussing at the council? I must ask Rhian. “That could have happened, I suppose,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “If there really is such a thing as a geis. They are mostly in the old stories, and there are other things in those stories—three-headed monsters, talking animals, men with sheepskin growing on their backs—that make me wonder how much is true and how much is just…story. That tale Ciarán told, about the flood—perhaps someone invented it to remind us that we should listen carefully to our elders’ wisdom and respect the earth with all her bounties. And that we must be brave and resourceful and love one another. A story need not be true to teach us those things. The best tales have a deep kind of truth. It makes no difference whether they actually happened or not.”
“You sound like Uncle Ciarán.” Finbar’s voice was very small.
“Have you spoken to him about this?”
Finbar sat up abruptly. “You said you wouldn’t tell.” His eyes were on me, clear pools in shadow.
“I won’t, Finbar. I keep my promises. But Uncle Ciarán is very wise, and he’s kind, too. You seem worried by this and I don’t think you need be. He would explain i
t far better than I ever could. Or you could talk to Mother.”
“No.” There was an iron strength in the childish tone. “Mother would be frightened. She’s already frightened; that’s why they got Luachan.”
“Finbar,” I said as gently as I could, “I understand why you feel afraid. I’m sure there is nothing to worry about. I mean, there’s no evidence that Mac Dara pronounced a curse over you, is there?”
He simply looked at me, and my stomach tied itself into a slow knot as I gazed back. He’d been only an infant, no more than a few days old. If he’d seen it happen, he wouldn’t have remembered. But we weren’t talking about memory. He had said, in the water, in the fire, or in dreams. We were talking about a seer’s knowledge. I opened my mouth and shut it again. Suddenly, any words at all felt perilous.
“Here we are.” Rhian’s cheery voice came from the doorway, and the chamber seemed instantly lighter. “Warm milk and oatcakes with soft cheese. Finbar, get up off the floor. Dogs in the bedchamber are one thing; eating supper amongst them is quite another.”
I rose to my feet, reminded of how awkward things must be for Rhian sometimes. Finbar was not the kind of child who distinguished between servant and sister. Another chieftain’s son might have taken offense if a maidservant gave him orders, however kindly. He might have had her punished for insolence.
“Thank you, Rhian,” I said, “for reminding us about our manners, and for bringing us such a sumptuous feast. Finbar, when we’ve eaten this you’d better get off to bed or Mother will be cross with both of us.” I wondered if the council was still meeting behind closed doors. I should not have walked out. If people were starting to say strange things about Bear and Badger, or about me, losing my temper wasn’t going to help.
“I’m not hungry,” Finbar said, predictably enough.
“No? Look—apart from the milk, this meal can be eaten entirely with the feet. Shall we try?”
He was, after all, a seven-year-old boy. By the time Luachan came to fetch him, the council being over, Finbar had eaten well, if untidily, and was in much better spirits. I bade him good night and hoped his sleep would be visited only by good dreams, dreams of throwing a ball for a dog, for instance, or picking berries, or making boats from leaves and bark and floating them down the stream. When he’d left, I asked Rhian if our voices had been audible through the door of the council chamber, and she said she hadn’t heard a thing.
Sevenwaters [06] Flame of Sevenwaters Page 18
