Sevenwaters [06] Flame of Sevenwaters

by Juliet Marillier

  Should I wait for Caisin to speak, since she was my senior, and this was her world? No. I did not want to hear poor child, or oh dear, or any of those remarks folk tended to toss my way without thinking.

  “I regret that I needed to call for your help, my lady,” I said. “I would not have done so had our circumstances been less difficult. I found my brother, and I was on my way home with him and…a friend. We were caught by the storm and a sudden darkness came down. If you are able to shelter us until it grows light again, we will be most grateful.” I hoped the tone of my speech was appropriate: neither too obsequious nor too confident. “And shelter for the horse, if that’s possible,” I added.

  “Let me see your brother and this friend you speak of.”

  They were already emerging. Finbar paused to fold up the blanket before he turned to look at her. Luachan gave her a graceful bow.

  “My lady.”

  “Ah.” Caisin’s brows rose. “A druid. A young, comely, well-mannered druid, right here on my doorstep. Now, that is unusual.”

  “Luachan is Finbar’s tutor. He was searching for us. As are many others. I need to get my brother safely home. But we can’t go by night.”

  “You must come home with me, of course, daughter of Sevenwaters. It is not far. We will guide you. Food, drink, warm water for bathing, a soft bed, a hearth fire—these things can be provided for you. And in the morning we will talk.”

  Warm water. Every inch of my wretched, grubby, itching body yearned for it. But there were some things I needed made clear first. “In the morning, we will go home,” I said firmly. “And if any kind of payment is required for your help, I’d like to know now what it is. I’m sorry if that seems discourteous—I am most thankful to you, especially for your help in finding my brother. But I will not enter into any bargains I cannot keep.”

  Caisin’s laughter was a peal of silver bells. I noticed that her cloak was quite dry, though she must have walked here in the rain. “No bargain, Maeve,” she said. “It would be churlish indeed if I expected anything of you in return for a single night’s shelter. Your company, perhaps, and that of your druidic friend here. No more than that.”

  Even that, I thought, could mean more than it seemed to. And I wanted to ask, My company for how long? Tonight? A hundred years? Forever? But I did not say it, for Finbar was looking like a pinch-faced ghost and Luachan was visibly shivering as he coaxed the cramped Blaze up onto her feet. I must make the choice to trust Caisin. Thus far she had been a friend.

  “Thank you,” I said. “We accept with gratitude.”

  “Just one thing.”

  I might have known it. “And what is that?” I asked, working on calm.

  “Your companion must put down his weapons. A druid should know better than to carry iron across the bridge. The child, too, must give up his knife.”

  Before I could say a word, Finbar had slipped his little knife out of its sheath and laid it on the ground. “I am very sorry, my lady,” he said, in a manner that would have given our mother great pride. “There was nobody else to protect my sister.”

  Caisin smiled. “You are possessed of a courage that well outweighs your size, Finbar,” she said. “Your weapon will be kept safe for you, and returned to you when you need it.” The smile faded. “And you, druid.”

  Luachan looked displeased, as well he might; he had already failed once, as my father had seen it, in his role as Finbar’s bodyguard.

  “You’d better do it, Luachan,” I murmured.

  He set down his short sword, a dagger, a little knife that had been hidden in his boot.

  Caisin lifted her brows. “There is more,” she said evenly. Her lovely eyes were fixed on him; she might have been admiring his chiseled features and well-made body or judging him as an enemy to be watched. I could not read her expression.

  Luachan reached into the folds of his druidic robe and brought out a small spiky object that glinted in the lantern light. He threw it down. I could not see exactly what it was. He straightened, looking Caisin in the eye. “You require me to remove my horse’s harness as well, my lady?” His tone was not a druid’s, measured and calm, but the assured, challenging voice of the nobly born warrior he had been. “Had I known we would be needing to rely on your hospitality, I would have ridden out on my rescue mission with only a rope bridle.”

  Caisin regarded him, unsmiling. “Leave the harness; my grooms will deal with it.” And, as he made to interrupt, perhaps with a query about tomorrow: “All your belongings will be returned when you require them. Now let us walk. You are wet and cold, and the forest is in darkness.”

  Not, and it’s nighttime, I thought. Because she knew, as I did, that this sudden night was an uncanny thing. Once we reached shelter, once I was clean and warm again, I would ask her outright if she believed Mac Dara had done it. I would ask whether she thought Swift had been led or coaxed into the Otherworld with the express purpose of drawing Finbar and me in after him. And I would ask if she knew why.

  I was curious to know what sort of house a fey noblewoman might inhabit. In the old tales, they dwelled in hollow hills, in caverns rich with glowing insects and floored with animal skins, or in airy dwellings under the trees. In that realm there was an endless summer. Yet here we were, in company with Caisin and her attendants, making our way along a pathway strewn with the debris of today’s storm: piles of sodden leaves; scatterings of stones; the sad, small corpse of something that had been dislodged from a nest far above or washed from a snug burrow by the driving rain. Perhaps the endless summer was an invention, along with many other wondrous details of the fey realm. Perhaps Caisin Silverhair and her kind lived in quite modest dwellings. Or maybe they floated around with no need of food, drink or shelter for themselves, their needs constantly met by means of enchantments.

  Two of Caisin’s attendants led the way, holding their lanterns high. Next, at her invitation, went our little party, first Finbar and me with Caisin herself walking beside us, then Luachan leading a nervous Blaze. At the rear came the remainder of Caisin’s companions.

  Her house or hall, when we reached it, seemed woven of trees. One of the attendant women gave a high, melodious call, and our procession came to a halt. Around us, in the circle illuminated by the lanterns, I saw only foliage glinting with damp, and dark saturated trunks stretching skyward. Then a voice called back, a man’s this time, in words I did not understand, though I guessed they might have meant, Come forward! We moved on, and the forest seemed to open and lighten, and we were in a grand chamber roofed with living green, walled with what might have been the silvery trunks of willows and floored in perfect summer grass. The air was warm; it was like the best of sunny days. A shuddering sigh went through me, part relief, part exhaustion, part shock at the utter strangeness of it.

  I felt Luachan’s hand at the small of my back, just for a moment. “Are you all right, Maeve?” he murmured.

  Only a touch, yet it filled me with warmth. I nodded, astonished.

  Caisin gave a little wave of her hand, and a young man—human, I guessed from his appearance—came forward. “As you see, we have visitors,” she said. “This horse needs food and shelter; see she is well tended to.”

  Luachan seemed about to protest, but checked himself and passed the reins over without argument. Blaze was led away. I wondered what might bring one of our own kind into this place to work as a groom; had he strayed here by accident or come by choice?

  “Follow me,” said Caisin, leading us across the enclosed space quite in the manner my mother might do with newly arrived guests.

  We followed. The brightness hurt my eyes; I struggled to take in the details. Lamps hung above us, as though floating in the air. Folk stood about in elegant groups or sat on chairs and benches made, not of hewn branches but of living wood, for all sprouted leaves or flowers or berries, and some were cushioned with soft mosses. The people were dressed as those folk had been last night, richly, as if they were at a celebration. Their hair was dressed in
elaborate confections, and the women wore slippers that resembled flowers or fruit or, in one case, a pair of hedgehogs whose bright eyes seemed to follow my progress across the floor. Finbar tugged at my arm; I had fallen behind the others, staring.

  Caisin led us out of the hall, down a leafy passageway and into a smaller chamber. “I have summoned a woman to help you bathe and dress, Maeve,” she said, giving me a thorough look up and down. “After that, I hope you will join me for some refreshment before you sleep. Young man, take Finbar that way”—she pointed through an arched doorway—“and you will find bathing quarters for men. An attendant will bring you back to us when you are ready. We will, of course, provide all of you with clean clothing.”

  “I don’t know—” I began, finding myself reluctant to let Finbar out of my sight even for a moment.

  “I will keep him safe.” Luachan gave me a reassuring smile.

  “Very well.” I could hardly insist my brother bathe with me.

  The two of them went off, and a girl came. Not one of Caisin’s kind, but human like the groom, or almost human. She was young, rosy-cheeked, smiling. I thought of Rhian, and I felt a pang of guilt that my handmaid and friend was back at Sevenwaters not knowing what had befallen me, while I was here warm and safe. But this girl had none of Rhian’s vivid, bright-eyed energy. Indeed, although her features were pleasing and her eyes lovely, she seemed somehow…distant. As if she were in a waking dream.

  “You will help Lady Maeve bathe and dress,” Caisin told her. Then, to me, “Enjoy your bath, my dear. Take your time.”

  The girl beckoned; I followed. Down another hallway was a chamber with a wooden bathtub. Folded cloths, brushes, jars and bottles stood on a long, narrow table. I could not escape the impression that the knots in its wood were eyes, gazing at me as, with the girl’s help, I took off my borrowed cloak and then my sodden garments, right down to the filthy, waterlogged shoes. My hair was a hideous greasy tangle. I felt ashamed in front of my companion, though she seemed quite unperturbed.

  “Thank you,” I said as she helped me into the bath. The sides were high; it was the sort of everyday task that was especially awkward for me, since I could not hold on. I sat down with care. The water was warm and the bath was deep. Gods, it felt good!

  The girl let me soak undisturbed awhile, then, when perhaps she saw that I was in danger of falling asleep, came over to help me wash myself. She was not quite as adept as Rhian, or as gentle, but she did a good job with my hair, though she could not comb the tangles out without bringing tears to my eyes. When I was out of the bath and dry, she sat me down on a strange stool resembling a mushroom, then got the splinter out of my arm, probing with a bone needle and using her fingernails to extract the jagged piece of bark. She dabbed the broken skin with a green salve; immediately the pain began to fade.

  I had wondered what manner of clothing the Fair Folk might provide for me. They were all so much taller and grander, and their raiment was heavy with decoration—feathers, leaves, jewels, oddities. But the garments the girl helped me into were similar to her own: plain and warm. A shift, good stockings, a gown of very fine wool, a shawl for over the top, with a silver clasp in the shape of a little dog—had Caisin chosen that especially for me, or was it mere coincidence? The slippers were the only item that seemed fey, for although they felt both soft and strong, they had the sheen and hue of butterfly wings.

  Perhaps the young attendant was mute. I had said very little beyond thanking her for her help, but she had spoken not a word. She had used gestures to show me what I should do or what came next. Now she motioned me to the stool again, then began to plait my hair.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  She said nothing.

  “Have you lived here all your life? In Caisin Silverhair’s hall?”

  No reply. Her hands worked quickly, drawing the damp strands of hair into place. I could not see her face.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Perhaps you cannot speak, or are forbidden to speak. I have never been here before—in the Otherworld, I mean. And it seems to me you might be the same kind I am. I wonder…” No, best not ask how she came to be here, and the hundred other questions about the place I wanted answers to. “Never mind.” Her silence disturbed me. Perhaps I had heard too many old tales. Perhaps she was indeed deaf and mute, and Caisin had provided her with a safe haven and work for her hands. Maybe her own kind had not wanted her. There could be a hundred explanations for her unusual demeanor. I must not treat her the way others had so often treated me, as an oddity to be stared at and whispered about. “Thank you for your kindness,” I said.

  My hair was neatly braided down my back. I rose to my feet. The girl set down the comb and pointed to the doorway. A moment later, a woman of the Fair Folk appeared there. She towered over me. Her hair was a river of fire, her eyes gems of piercing blue. She wore a trailing gown of gossamer-fine fabric, dotted with tiny glowing stars.

  “I am Fiamain Flamehair. You are ready?” she asked, reaching out a long-fingered hand as if to draw me along with her. “You enjoyed the bath?”

  “Thank you, yes.” I found myself thinking Maeve Claw-Hands would be quite apt if all the folk here had such names.

  “Come, then. A small feast has been prepared.”

  I made no comment. I would deal with the question of food when Caisin was present. Neither Finbar nor I was going to touch a morsel of anything these people offered us, and nor would Luachan if he had any sense.

  Fiamain led me to yet another chamber, in size somewhere between the grand hall and the room with the bath. The bathing assistant was left behind us, her presence not acknowledged by the lady with the least word or gesture. I murmured another thank-you over my shoulder as we left. The girl would have to deal with my discarded garments. I wondered if I would get them back, clean, dirty or otherwise. Maybe they would burn them. That was what my mother would have done, without a doubt.

  In this new chamber there was a table with benches set on either side. A hearth held a small, smokeless fire, and like the rest of Caisin Silverhair’s dwelling, the place was warm. In my fresh clean clothes, with my body scrubbed and my hair smelling of the sweet herbs the girl had used for washing it, I was precariously close to forgetting that we were still not safely home, and that Mac Dara was out there somewhere plotting mischief. I thought I could recall Uncle Bran telling me that when one reaches a certain point of cold and exhaustion, one’s judgment tends to go awry. Keep your mind sharp, he’d said. Think twice before accepting the first offer of warmth and shelter. And he’d explained why, but it was hard to remember. I was almost asleep on my feet.

  “Sit here, Maeve,” Fiamain said. “Your companions will be with us soon. Eat, drink, make yourself at home. You have come a long way.”

  On the table there was a flask of fine ruby-red glass and a set of little goblets to go with it. There was a large platter containing, not the intricate fey sweetmeats I had imagined they might offer, but a loaf of crusty bread, a round of cheese and a heap of dried plums. My mouth watered.

  “Thank you. I’ll wait for the others.”

  She went out; I saw the little smile on her face. She knew exactly what was on my mind. Alone in the chamber, I resisted the urge to put my head down on my arms and sleep. I must stay alert. I must keep my wits about me. What should I ask Caisin when she came? What knowledge might she have that would be useful? I thought of Father out searching for us. I thought of Cruinn and his lost sons. I thought of Swift, all alone in the forest, perhaps already come to grief. I tried not to think of Bear and Badger.

  I was falling asleep by the time Luachan and Finbar came in, the two of them pink-cheeked from the bath and dressed in clean, plain clothing. Finbar’s hair was the tidiest I’d ever seen it, his dark curls tamed into a ribbon at the back. Luachan looked different without his druidic robe. The blue tunic they’d given him set off his eyes. The lamplight played on his strong features, and it seemed to me that he was every bit as handsome as those men o
f the fey with their high-boned faces and glossy locks. I smiled; Luachan smiled in return, ushering Finbar to sit beside me at the table.

  “Scrubbed, soaped, rinsed and brushed to within an inch of our lives,” Luachan commented, taking the seat on my other side.

  “You look lovely, Maeve,” said Finbar, and yawned widely.

  “Clean, at least,” I said, realizing I had not given any thought to the scar on my temple for some time. I had run from Sevenwaters without veil or scarf and had not considered that, with my hair plaited down my back, the livid mark of my burn was on full display.

  “You are not accustomed to receiving compliments,” murmured Luachan. “Your brother speaks only the truth.”

  I would have done much to prevent the blush from rising to my cheeks. “I can’t fault the two of you on your manners,” I said, hoping my tone warned them both that I wanted no more discussion of my appearance. In this household of uncannily beautiful folk, I was a warty toad among sleek silvery fish. Or a cockroach surrounded by gauzy butterflies. Gods, that bread smelled good. “Luachan,” I said, “we mustn’t eat any of this food. Do you still have your supplies?”

  “Fortunately, yes. My weapons were taken from me, as you saw. My meager and somewhat damp supply of foodstuffs appeared to cause no alarm. I have to say that food on the table is a great deal more appetizing than what lies in my traveling bags. This supper appears quite ordinary in every way. One might expect enchanted viands to be somewhat unusual in appearance.”