Luachan finished eating his apple and threw the core over the wall into the cow enclosure. “A man of Duald’s kind doesn’t like being shown how to do his job,” he said. “Especially not by a young woman, I imagine. He would have felt some shame in front of that particular audience, since every one of those grooms knows horses and their ways.”
I was not sure whether he was offering a compliment or criticism. “If I hadn’t acted when I did, Swift would have been over the wall and away, possibly kicking a few heads as he went. Quite apart from the likelihood that he would have hurt himself or one of the onlookers, letting things go on the way they were could have undone much of the work we’ve put into training him. Long months of it.”
“Long months of training and the horse is still as flighty as that?”
“Don’t judge, Luachan.” Perhaps I was not quite as calm as I had thought. “Swift’s been taken away from everything he knows. He’s had a sea voyage, which is unsettling for any horse. Of course he’s upset. He doesn’t need to be put through his paces in the ring and prodded by strangers. He needs a rest. Time to himself. Time to recover.” I glanced around the clearing. “This place does seem ideal. Whom should I ask about it? Ciarán?”
“I don’t suppose you want my advice,” Luachan said with more delicacy than I expected after his previous comments. “But I’d suggest you put it to your father first, and let him deal with both Duald and Ciarán. I don’t say that because I doubt your judgment in any way. After seeing you quiet the horse, I recognize that you know what you’re doing. But there’s a way of going about these things that allows men to keep their pride, and I think that’s the best way to follow.”
I attempted to digest this statement. “You’re telling me that women can make decisions, but that they have to let men think they’ve made them,” I said. “Forgive me, but that sounds quite undruidic. It suggests a degree of dishonesty, even deviousness.”
“What’s deviousness?” asked Finbar, passing me a slice of apple.
“Going about things in an indirect way, in order to keep the truth from someone,” said Luachan. “I don’t believe I’m being devious, Maeve. Merely thinking that your arrival at Sevenwaters may be a little like a sudden storm in a calm sea—not easy for the inhabitants to accept.”
“I didn’t want to come,” I said without thinking. The expression that appeared on my brother’s face made me cringe with shame. “But I’m glad I did now,” I added hastily. “It feels good to have a brother.”
If Finbar saw through this, he hid it well. “I have lots of sisters,” he said, “but they keep going away. Are you staying at Sevenwaters, Maeve?”
I drew a deep breath. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll be here until Swift is settled, at least. Then I’ll see.” In the long term, the truth would be less cruel than a comforting lie. “I know it’s hard when people go away.” It was just as hard to leave the people you loved behind, I thought. In the ten years I had lived at Harrowfield, Bran and Liadan had been father and mother to me. I missed his quiet strength, her wise and loving advice. No wonder Sevenwaters did not feel like home.
“I went away once,” Finbar said. “When I was little. Mac Dara took me to the Otherworld. But I can’t really remember. Not clearly.” He passed me another piece of apple.
“Not at all, I should think,” I said, wondering when I would get used to his odd manner of talk. “Weren’t you a newborn babe at the time?”
“There was a fire. Someone screaming. Mac Dara threw the baby in the fire. Not me, or I wouldn’t be here. The other baby. It burned all up.” His eyes looked into a different world.
Who had told him this? Whether the terrible tale was true or not, it was clear that Finbar believed he had seen it. “Did Clodagh tell you the story?” I asked. I wanted to change the subject completely. I wanted to take that look off his face by whatever means I could, even if it meant making a fool of myself in front of Luachan. But Finbar was too subtle to be taken in by such an obvious ploy.
“I’ve never met Clodagh,” he said. “Not since I was a baby. She stays away, because of Mac Dara. But she told the story before she left, and Eilis told me.”
It was hard to believe that Eilis would burden a child, especially this child, with something so disturbing.
“Finbar,” said Luachan, “the other baby was not all burned up. Remember? It was not a human baby, and after it was scorched in the fire, your sister mended it and breathed life into it, and then gave it back to its mother. That part of the story had a good ending.” His tone was gentle. It sounded as if they had been through this explanation many times before.
“So you know the whole story, too,” I said.
Luachan gave me a crooked smile. “It was deemed appropriate, in view of my current duties. Of course, the bare bones of it are common knowledge: the abduction of a chieftain’s son does not go unnoticed. The details I had from Ciarán, who heard Clodagh’s account after her return from the Otherworld.”
“That baby was hurt,” Finbar insisted. “He went all black and shriveled, and one of his eyes fell out into the flames. Clodagh burned her hand picking it up. And when Cathal poured wine on him to put out the fire, smoke came out of the baby’s mouth.”
“Perhaps you did see it, Finbar,” I told him, and I put my arm around his shoulders. He did not shrink from my touch, but under it he was strung tight. “But you couldn’t remember it. People don’t remember what they saw as little babies.”
“I see it in the water. I see it in the smoke. I can’t help it. It’s there waiting for me.” He hesitated, clearly wanting to say more but for some reason holding back. He glanced at Luachan.
Suddenly I was angry: angry with my family for burdening this child with the whole dark story, furious with Luachan for allowing his charge to dwell on the hurts and cruelties of the past. Surely if Finbar were kept busy with riding and running and games, he would not be eaten up thus by worries. At his age, Eilis had been fearless and full of life. Finbar was an anxious little wraith. I had seen snatches of a different boy once or twice, and I made up my mind that I would extricate him from his cloud of trouble whether his tutor approved or not.
“But I’m sure it’s true that the other baby was mended and went safely back to his mother,” I said briskly. I would seize an opportunity to speak to Luachan alone as soon as I could. He did not seem an unreasonable man. He was kind, clever, able. But not, it seemed, especially sensitive, or he would surely see how unhappy Finbar was. “If there’s one thing I remember about Clodagh, it’s that she would never tell a lie, not even to make someone feel better. By now that baby will be an Otherworld boy of your own age, Finbar. I wonder if you’ll ever meet him?”
A tear rolled down Finbar’s cheek. He did not seem to notice it.
“I must head back to the keep,” I said, rising to my feet. “Rhian’s probably still stuck in the sewing room mending shirts. Finbar, thank you for helping me with my food. You did a good job.”
That won me the ghost of a smile. “Rhian’s nice,” my brother said. “You’re lucky to have a friend.”
CHAPTER 5
At the supper table I was placed between my sister and Rhian, with a big dish full of fruit in front of us. Someone had judged things finely, since this obstacle was just high enough to screen my platter and my hands from most of my fellow diners, but not so high that it would stop me from meeting someone in the eye while conducting a conversation. In short, it was perfectly placed to assist me without embarrassing me. I glanced at Deirdre and she winked at me. My spirits lifted.
There were still many guests in the house, so the dining hall was almost full. The family table stood on a raised area. The most important guests sat there with us. Tonight they included Ciarán—who was family, of course, though he did not live at the keep—and a pair of local chieftains with their wives.
Everyone else sat at the three longer tables on the lower level. At Sevenwaters the whole household ate together, save for those who cooked
and served the meal, and those required to watch over young children. And guards, of course; with the threat of mischief hanging over Sevenwaters, their armed presence around the keep would be maintained constantly. Indeed, I noticed that the women this evening greatly outnumbered the men.
Finbar sat by Luachan. Ciarán was on his other side. If his white robe did not make it obvious, his bearing—almost kingly—and his dark red curls confirmed his identity. It was hard to think of Ciarán as Conor’s brother. Conor had been an old man even before I left Sevenwaters. Ciarán looked younger than my father. It was the fey blood, I supposed. Liadan had explained to me that a person born of an alliance between humankind and Fair Folk lived far longer than an ordinary man or woman. I thought what a hard choice it must be to wed such a person, as Clodagh had. When my sister was old and gray, Cathal would probably still look like a man in his prime. I supposed they had thought this through before they decided to marry. There was a world of sorrow in such a choice.
Eating without drawing undue attention was not easy, even with the fruit dish as a screen. As a result, I contributed almost nothing to the conversation. Deirdre talked about her children with love, pride and humor. I saw a warmth and wisdom in this sister that had not been evident when she was younger, and I found myself sad that she was returning home in the morning. Illann asked me some perceptive questions about Swift, which I answered politely; while I was speaking, Rhian avoided passing me anything. I saw Ciarán watching me, but he made no attempt to engage me in talk. Indeed, he was saying even less than I was. Father and the two chieftains were avoiding any topic likely to swing around to the regional conflicts and the shadow of the Disappearance, which no doubt hung heavily over them all. People talked about the meal, the weather, the autumn culling of stock, the need to arrange clearing of undergrowth along a certain path through the forest so laden carts could pass more easily between Sevenwaters and Illann’s domain to the south.
Then my father and Ciarán turned the talk to Conor. Ciarán spoke of his half brother’s kindness, his wisdom and humor. Father mentioned the many times his uncle had visited Sevenwaters to offer good advice on everything from growing vegetables to tackling a strategic challenge. Illann confessed that he had gone to Conor for advice on how best to approach my father when asking for Deirdre’s hand in marriage.
“And what did he say?” Deirdre asked her husband.
“Ah,” said Illann. “That’s a secret. But it worked, gods be praised.”
“He said this: tell Lord Sean that as he has so many daughters, he can easily afford to let one go.” My father delivered this outrageous statement with a solemn face.
“Father!” Deirdre protested. “I’m sure he said no such thing!”
“It was a great deal more respectful than that, or your father would have given me short shrift,” Illann said, smiling at his wife. “I did approach him with much trepidation. In fact, Conor told me I must appear confident even if I was shaking in my shoes. He was a good man, wise and kind. A wonderful storyteller.”
“His tales were full of light and shade,” my mother said. “One moment you’d be laughing fit to burst; the next he’d have you on the verge of tears.”
“Speaking of tales,” said my father, “what better to honor his passing than a fine one tonight? Ciarán, I was hoping you might oblige us, once the meal is finished.”
“Of course,” Ciarán said. He had eaten very little, I noticed; perhaps that was part of the druidic discipline. Luachan, too, had partaken only sparingly of the meal. As for Finbar, I had not heard a word from him all through supper. I tried to remember at what age we had been expected to sit at the family table rather than take our meals in a corner of the kitchen, overseen by Nuala or a maidservant. I’d liked those kitchen feasts. Bounder used to sit by my feet, where I could slip him tasty morsels. I glanced around the hall, noticing various children seated by their parents. All looked older than my brother. Deirdre’s children were already in bed. Emer was five, Oisin only three.
When the meal was finished, tables were moved to make an open space before the hearth. People moved, too, seating themselves around that area ready for the evening’s entertainment. Mother was trying to catch my eye. Perhaps she had chosen a spot for me, somewhere I could be unobtrusive. But I had my own plan. I sent Rhian to find space on a bench while I headed straight for Finbar.
“Come and sit with us,” I said. “I need you to tell me who everyone is.” I shepherded him away from the two druids and into the spot Rhian had chosen, not too close to the hearth with its roaring fire, but near enough so we could hear the story clearly.
When we were settled, Finbar whispered in my ear, “I’m supposed to sit with Luachan. Mother said.”
“Tell her I made you do it.” He hardly needed a bodyguard right inside my father’s hall.
“Shh,” hissed Rhian, for Ciarán was beginning his story.
“I offer this tale in Conor’s memory,” he said, his deep, compelling voice drawing his audience in with the first words. “He was especially fond of it. The story contains a geis, which you will know is a form of curse, though sometimes it can be a blessing in disguise. If a geis is pronounced over a person, sooner or later it will catch up with him, however careful he is to avoid it. Take the case of the famous hero, Cú Chulainn. He had the ill fortune of being subject to two geasa. The first said he must never refuse food offered him by a woman. The second said he must never eat the flesh of a hound. There came a time when a woman offered him a joint of meat, and he ate it. Only afterward did he discover that it had been dog flesh, and that he had complied with the first geis only to violate the second. To do so meant death; the untouchable warrior became vulnerable from that moment on, and soon after was slain.
“A geis does not always set out the terms of a man’s death, of course. It can be more along the lines of this: On the day when you walk under a leafless birch with three crows perched in its branches, you will lose all that is dear to you. A geis may doom a person to silence or servitude or blindness. It may offer a hope of redemption, provided certain requirements are met. It depends on the will of the person pronouncing the geis. That person is more often than not a woman: a powerful woman, such as a sorceress. Thus it is with tonight’s tale.”
Ciarán looked around the hall, taking in his whole audience. I had forgotten what unusual eyes he had. The shade was a deep red-purple, like ripe mulberries.
“There were once two chieftains,” Ciarán said. “One was named Maelan, the other Torna. Each lived on a wooded hill, and around each hill lay good grazing land. The best grazing of all was to be had in a place right between the two territories, along the banks of a fair stream that passed through the fields. That stream was known as the Silverwash, and it had its source in the Nameless Wood, a place so full of magic that no man or woman had ever dared set foot across its margin. Folk knew something lived in the perilous forest, something strange and frightening. Many were the tales of its nature and its deeds, so many that there was no knowing what was truth and what imagining. It was a beast; a ghost; a monster; a dragon. More than one, perhaps. Ten. A hundred. A thousand. Folk told the stories around the fire at night, in whispers, glancing over their shoulders into the shadows behind. Children grew up on the tales, and that was why nobody from either territory ever journeyed up the Silverwash beyond a certain point, and nobody drank the water from the stream, though it sparkled in the sunlight, clear as dewdrops.
“Cattle being cattle, and the boys who tend to them being boys, sometimes a cow or two would stray over Maelan’s border, or over Torna’s border, and wander down to the Silverwash. And since the beasts of the field know nothing of frightening tales, the cows would drink from the stream while they were there. They seemed to take no harm from it. Indeed, both chieftains bred cattle that were the envy of all Erin—sturdy, glossy-coated, gleaming with good health. Their milk had a sweet, rich taste found nowhere else in the land, and the children of those two territories, growing up on the mi
lk and butter and cheese from those contented cows, were especially bonny and rosy-cheeked, though perhaps they suffered just a little from nightmares. Maybe folk thought about what it all meant. Perhaps they were happier not thinking about it.
“For years the two chieftains had been peaceable neighbors, as their fathers and their fathers’ fathers had been before them. But then there came a season of cold and storm in which supplies ran low and tempers grew short. Torna’s cattle were housed in his barns for the winter, sheltered and warm, if not as well fed as usual. Maelan’s cattle went between barn and fields, for on the rare days when rain and sleet did not fall from the lowering sky, he preferred his stock to roam out of doors, gleaning what nourishment they could from the waterlogged fields.
“Now, it happened one day that the lad who was with Maelan’s cows had his mind on something else—his mother was sick with a racking cough, and he was worried about her. So he did not notice his hungry charges crossing the border of Maelan’s land, splashing through the Silverwash and heading off into Torna’s fields. When he saw them the boy ran after them, wading through the swollen stream, racing onto Torna’s land, herding the cattle back home. But the damage was done. While the cows had been trampling all over Torna’s fields, they had been seen. Torna’s son, a lad of sixteen summers, happened to be passing and caught a clear view of the herd and its frantic attendant. If he’d known what the result might be, he would likely not have mentioned this to his father. The rain would have washed away the evidence, and a great deal of unpleasantness would have been avoided. But this was a responsible lad—Finn was his name—and he went straight to Torna and told him what he had seen.
“It was a small enough incident, and at any other time a simple apology and a promise of increased vigilance in future would have been enough to soothe any ruffled feathers. But this was a hard winter, and tempers were already frayed. Such is often the way of territorial disputes: they start with a rolling pebble and become landslides.”