Sevenwaters [06] Flame of Sevenwaters

by Juliet Marillier

  “We’re not eating a single crumb. Do you understand, Finbar? These folk have been kind to us. But they are what they are. The important thing is getting home safely. I don’t want any of us risking that simply because we’re hungry.”

  Luachan turned his blue gaze on me, somewhat bemused. I wondered if he thought it not quite appropriate for me to make a decision for the three of us. Yet he’d seemed quite content for me to be the one who spoke to Caisin when she first came.

  “This might be the only chance we get to speak alone,” I said. “This is important. Maybe you don’t care if you’re stuck in the Otherworld for a hundred years, but it’s not going to happen to me and Finbar. And yes, I did already eat some things that were growing in the forest, but that’s no reason to start accepting every bit of fey food that’s offered me.”

  “Quite right,” said Luachan after a moment, and I heard in his voice that he was struggling not to laugh.

  “Don’t worry, Maeve,” said Finbar. “We weren’t going to eat it anyway. We talked about it while we were bathing.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maeve,” said Luachan.

  I looked at him.

  “It’s going to be all right. You’ll be safe, both of you. I promise.”

  He believed his own words, no doubt. On the other hand, he’d given up his weapons, we were surrounded by magical folk, and outside this haven the uncanny darkness lay over the forest. “It’s not Caisin’s people I’m worried about,” I said. “It’s Mac Dara.”

  DRUID’S JOURNEY: WEST

  W hen the druid comes to the old woman’s hut, he is no longer alone. A warrior walks by his side, tall and somber. Keeping pace along the forest track, they might almost be brothers, for each carries something in his bearing of the unknowable Other, a subtle difference that marks him out as not fully of humankind.

  His journey has brought the druid back toward Sevenwaters. Forest, keep and family are three days’ walk from here, perhaps two for a fit man. The hut lies in a hollow of the woods, circled by leafless willows. No garden here; the place is low to the ground, its stones moss-coated, its timbers erratically patched and its roof thatch dark with the wet. Bushes and briars wrap it close. There’s no thread of smoke from the chimney. Nothing stirs but the wind in the trees.

  “She’s not here.” The warrior’s tone is flat with weariness.

  “So,” says the druid, “we rest, and we wait. You’ve come a long way. Some time for reflection can only benefit the two of us.”

  They make a fire between stones, prepare food, sit awhile in a silence that is not quite companionable, for each has too much on his mind for that. Eventually the druid says, “You brought them with you, then.”

  “Brought. That is not quite the word. I knew I must come. Clodagh was adamant that if I did so, she must travel with me, and the little ones as well. Believe me, I weighed that risk over and over. They are protected by ancient magic. We must hope it holds.” After a moment, the warrior adds, “My wife believes the time for standing back and staying safe is past. We must step forward boldly and confront our enemies, or our lives—long as they may be—will not be worth living.”

  The druid nods. There’s a little smile on his lips. “That does not surprise me. Her sister Maeve put forward a very similar theory not so long ago. And if Sibeal were here—I thank the gods that she is not—no doubt she would tell us just the same.” Suddenly he is as somber as his companion. “I admire their attitude, though it is based on an incomplete understanding of the situation before us.”

  The warrior glances up, his eyes full of shadows. “Oh, Clodagh understands perfectly well. We keep no secrets from each other. She is afraid for me and for our future. But that fear has not made her any less resolute.”

  They wait some time longer. Nobody comes. The grove grows a little darker. Birds begin to wing their way in, alighting on the roof of the hut and in the bare branches all around. Thrush, robin and swallow. Dove and raven. Even a small owl, though it is not yet dark.

  “My bones tell me time is running out,” the warrior says, getting up to pace. “What if the wise woman is gone? Her way of life was to wander from one household to another with her stories. If this was her home, perhaps she was seldom here. And she was old. What if—”

  “We need the last lines of the geis.” The druid speaks in a murmur, as if that telltale word might in itself be dangerous. “Incomplete, it cannot help us. And only she knows them. Exercise patience. Her sister said she would be here. Or implied it, at least.”

  “What of your own visions? Have you sought wisdom on this matter?”

  The druid looks into the flames of their little campfire. “What I saw troubled me. Like you, I feel the sand running swiftly through the glass. Still, we will wait. I am not ready to give up hope.”

  When the old woman comes, she, too, is not alone. She leans on a girl of perhaps ten years old, a mouse-haired waif in a gown too big for her skinny frame. The child looks too frail to provide the crone with much support, but perhaps she is stronger than she seems.

  “Ah, visitors,” says the woman. “Greetings. I believe I know the two of you and I believe I know what you’re after. A story, hmm? Or a verse?”

  “Our greetings to you, wise woman,” says the druid with a little bow. “And to your young companion. We do indeed seek a verse, or rather the missing part of one.”

  The woman ignores him. She’s scrutinizing the warrior through narrowed eyes. “How’s that wife of yours?” she asks. “I liked her. Got a brood of little ones by now, I expect. She was cut out to be a mother if anyone was.”

  “Two,” says the warrior. “A son and a daughter, lovely as stars. Precious to us.”

  “Mm.” Her look has softened somewhat. “And now you’re in a rush to set the world to rights for them, yes?”

  A silence unfolds.

  “I wish it were as simple as that,” the warrior says eventually. “I would that courage alone were enough to make this good. I know that for every victory, a man may expect a corresponding loss. There’s a balance about these things, and it cannot give every man what he wishes for. Of course I want them to grow up in a world of justice and courage and mercy. I want them to know that their father was a good man, a man who fought for what matters.”

  After a while, the druid echoes quietly, “Was?”

  But the warrior says nothing at all.

  The wise woman does not invite them into the hut, but seats herself beside them on a tree stump, wrapping her cloak more closely around her against the evening chill. The girl goes inside. A lamp is lit, and sounds of clanking dishes suggest she is preparing a meal.

  “My student and helper,” the wise woman says. “I’m not getting any younger.”

  “If there’s anything we can do for you…”

  She smiles, awakening a map of lines on her weathered skin. “Me, ask such as you to fetch wood and water, or mend my roof, or feed my feathered friends? Holly will attend to that, and what she can’t manage I’ll do for myself. There’s only one thing I want from the two of you.”

  “Tell us what it is, then.” The warrior’s tone has an edge now; the need to be gone pulls at him.

  “Not so fast, young brother. Everything in its own time.”

  With a visible effort he remains silent.

  “I will not invite you to supper. I will not offer you the shelter of my roof. What I want from you is the answer to one question. My gift to you is powerful. Tell me how you will use it.”

  The men exchange a glance; mulberry eyes and black.

  “For change,” says the druid. “For good.”

  “For the future,” the warrior says.

  “There will be pain in this,” says the wise woman. “A measure of sorrow, a measure of loss. There will be sacrifice and a long farewell.”

  They sit in silence awhile, as the light fades and the air grows chill. The warm glow of the lamp beckons from within the hut; it is too cold out here for an old woman.

>   “Very well, then,” the crone says. “The words you want are these: Held by hands that cannot hold stands the steed so proud and bold. A season ago, it would not have been clear to anyone how these conditions might come to pass or, indeed, what they might mean. And now, I hear, Sevenwaters has both an exceptional horse and a young woman with disfigured hands.”

  “Maeve,” the druid breathes. “I was right, then: this does require her presence.”

  “There’s more.”

  “Out with it,” the warrior snaps, then adds, “I’m sorry. Please tell us, and let us move on with haste.”

  “If you didn’t care for the first part, you’ll like the second still less. Chieftain’s son with seer’s eyes observes the Lord of Oak’s demise. That’s all I know, and now you have the whole, if you’ve seen three of my sisters in turn. I believe my lines come first.”

  “Finbar,” whispers the druid. The blood has drained from his face. “I thought his part in this was done. The risk is high indeed.”

  “Observes,” says the warrior. “To observe is not in itself perilous.”

  “It means, at the very least, that he must be there at the end. That, I like little. I like even less a reference to Maeve and to fire in the same verse. There is a cost in this beyond that which we already know and accept.”

  “You would not act on it then?”

  “If you do not act, and act soon,” says the old woman, “another will. And you will like that even less.”

  The two men become a pair of statues, gazes fixed on her.

  “You thought this would be easy? You thought that once you had learned the terms of the geis, you might set them in place and watch your enemy fall victim to the ending this verse laid out for him? These things are never so simple. What man would put a child at risk of his life, or a crippled kinswoman, even with so much at stake? For you, the gain must always be balanced against the risk. Another, without your scruples, might think differently. A human life or two might weigh little in that person’s balance.”

  “Another,” echoes the warrior. “What other?”

  “A rival,” says the druid, comprehension coming fast now. “He has a rival for his place as ruler. Hence the urgency, hence the spate of attacks, the increase in activity. He’s panicking, desperate to get what he wants before this person mounts a challenge.”

  “And it is possible,” says the old woman, “that with all his attention on that challenge, he has failed to notice the return of a woman with crippled hands to Sevenwaters.”

  “How can there be a rival?” the warrior asks. “There’s nobody there with the authority, the wits, the power to challenge him. I’m quite certain of it.”

  “Ah,” says the old woman, “but it is some years since you walked among them, and time passes differently in that realm. I should not have to tell you that, young man. I have heard that one is come who will indeed challenge him, and soon. If you would avert this, you must go quickly; the dark is at the doorstep.”

  “Who?” demands the warrior. “Who is it?”

  “My informants told me only that there is a rival, and that this rival is devious, clever and without any sense of right and wrong.”

  “I thought only you and your sisters knew the geis,” says the druid.

  “By means of torture,” she says, “it seems another party has obtained the verse. Not from one of my sisters, but from a smaller being who had the misfortune to be present when the geis was first spoken. The small one paid a heavy price before she gave up her knowledge.”

  “So we may already be too late,” the druid says.

  “Too late? No. But you must act swiftly. My spies believe all will soon be in place.”

  A silence, then the two men speak as one. “How soon?”

  A beam of warm light comes from the door of the hut, where the girl has appeared, wanting to call her teacher in to supper, but reluctant to interrupt.

  “All right, Holly, I’m coming. It’s too cold for my old bones out here.” The wise woman rises slowly to her feet. “Tomorrow,” she says. “Walk as a man walks and you will come too late. Run as a deer runs and you will come too late. Fly as a bird flies and perhaps you will be in time. Farewell, and may the breath of Danu lift your wings.”

  CHAPTER 12

  W e had not been waiting long when Caisin Silverhair entered the chamber, accompanied by Fiamain and two men of the fey, one young and well made, with russet curls and a merry face, the other much older in appearance and wearing the dark robe of a councilor or sage. That struck me as odd; I had thought the Fair Folk might possess the secret of eternal youth, or at least the magical arts to make folk seem young. I’d heard something of that kind about Mac Dara—that it was difficult for folk to tell him and his son, Cathal, apart, so alike they were in looks. Yet Cathal was only part fey. Although Mac Dara was his father, Cathal’s mother carried a blend of human blood and that of the Sea People. And Mac Dara was years and years Cathal’s senior. He had fathered scores of daughters over the years, but only the one son. The tale was one thread in the complicated family tapestry of Sevenwaters. Mac Dara’s quest to retrieve his son, or his grandson, to rule his Otherworld princedom after him, was the stuff of legend.

  “My sister, Fiamain Flamehair,” said Caisin, seating herself at the head of the table. “My brother, Dioman Owlfriend. My councilor, Breasal Wiseheart. We welcome you. It is late and you are weary. Please, partake of these humble provisions; all are safe for you to eat.”

  Owlfriend. I liked that name. Stealing another look at the young fey man with his cheery smile and bright eyes, I saw that on his shoulder, half-hidden in his exuberant hair, a small owl was perched, its gaze fixed unnervingly on me. It was so still it might have been a thing created cleverly from feathers and linen and wadding, but I knew it was alive. It put me in mind of the little dog I had seen among those nighttime riders, seated on its mistress’s knee and scarcely aware of the world around it. It reminded me of the girl who had helped me bathe. I could not repress a shiver.

  “Thank you, my lady.” Luachan stepped in when I failed to respond. “We acknowledge your generosity. But we will eat from our own provisions.” He had his bag with him, and now he took out the cloth-wrapped bundle that held his store of food.

  “So careful.” Caisin’s eyes were not on Luachan. She was studying me with altogether too much perception. “You still don’t trust me, Maeve? Twice now I have given you my aid and asked for nothing in return.”

  In my mind I heard the voice of Uncle Bran, a man who had gotten himself out of more tight corners than most folk see in a lifetime. Don’t let small things—a flicker of the eyes, a movement of the hand—reveal what’s in your mind. “It is not you, my lady,” I said. “In all the old tales I have heard, human folk cannot partake of Otherworld food or drink without some ill effect.” I realized as I said this that Ciarán’s story of Finn and Baine was an exception, for they had drunk from the forbidden stream, and all that had resulted was exceptional physical beauty. There was a joke in that somewhere, a joke I might make at my own expense. “Since Luachan has brought food from home, it makes sense to exercise caution and to eat that.” When she simply regarded me, brows up, I added, “In fact, the first time you offered me food I accepted. My dog and I both ate what you provided and it was welcome.”

  “This food, too, is from your world,” put in Fiamain. “My sister anticipated your caution. You may eat it safely.”

  “For the love of Danu, leave the girl be,” said the young man, Dioman. “If she prefers sodden bread and moldy cheese, let her have it. Or are we to be all night debating the niceties of supper? I’ll eat this if nobody else will. What’s in the flask, mead?”

  He sounded so ordinary, so down to earth, that I was almost convinced the food was safe. But Luachan was passing me a share of his own supply and providing Finbar with the same, and although the bread had indeed suffered a little from rain seeping into its package, it would suffice for now. It was a big step up from raw bones.<
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  The Fair Folk ate what was on the table with apparent enjoyment. Finbar helped me with my food; my hunger was stronger than my need for privacy. Nobody said much until the meal was almost finished. Finbar was struggling to stay awake. His eyes were shadowed in a face wan with weariness. I was about to ask if he could go to bed when Caisin spoke.

  “We must speak privately, Maeve. But first, I have something to show you.”

  “Of course,” I said. “But Finbar should go to bed; he’s worn-out.”

  “Oh, I think Finbar will want to see this,” Caisin said. “The young man may come, too, if you wish.”

  She led us through such a maze of passageways that I no longer knew in which direction we were headed. Everywhere those lanterns floated above us, setting a warm light on the birch trunk walls and the leafy roof, above which no sign of the sky was visible. Were we outside? Inside? Somewhere between? This grove, if grove it was, seemed untouched by Mac Dara’s eldritch darkness and quite sealed off from the wintry weather that had attended our journey. It was a dream world, the kind of place one might invent for a tale of magic and wonders; a realm to which a lonely, unhappy child might long to escape for a while. All was warmth, light, peace, beauty. There was nothing like the bustle of orderly activity I was accustomed to see in the Sevenwaters keep or in Aunt Liadan’s house at Harrowfield, only people strolling in little groups, or drifting along by themselves as if their thoughts were elsewhere.

  Caisin’s high status in the household was obvious. Folk greeted her with reverence and she was gracious in her responses. Our supper companions had all come with us. I could not imagine what she wanted us to see. The opportunity to talk with her alone might be useful. Perhaps I could summon the courage to ask her about Mac Dara and the Disappearance. At Father’s council, everyone had seemed to agree that information was what we needed to defeat him, and where better to get information than in the Otherworld itself? Whether she would tell me was another matter, of course. But I should try.