“Rabble? From Eamonn’s account, this is no unruly band of oafs. They seem to strike with the utmost control and plan their raids with a keen intelligence.” Sean was still thinking hard.
“They may work cleverly, but they are worse than fianna, for they carry out their missions without pride, without commitment save to the deed itself and the payment,” said Eamonn. “This man has misread me badly. When he dies, it will be at my hands. He will pay in blood if he sets foot on my territory or touches what is mine. I have sworn it. And I will make sure my intention reaches his own ears. His life is forfeit should he cross my path again.”
At this point Sean wisely held his tongue, though I could sense the suppressed excitement in him. Eamonn took another goblet of wine and was soon surrounded by eager questioners. I thought this was probably the last thing he wanted at that moment when his tale had brought the memory of his losses back starkly into his mind. But I was not his keeper.
I suppose that night was the first time I had seen Eamonn come close to conceding he was not in control of a situation. If he had any outstanding quality, it was authority, and next to that was his commitment to what he believed in. It was no wonder, therefore, that the precision and audacity of the Painted Man’s attack, and the arrogance of its sequel, had disturbed him deeply. He was due to escort his sister home the next day, for there were many matters to attend to. I was surprised, therefore, when he came into my garden soon after I had begun my morning’s work, as if our previous appointment had merely been slightly postponed.
“Good morning, Liadan,” he said politely.
“Good morning,” I replied, and I went on cutting the spent blooms from my ancient briar rose. Prune them back now, and they would provide many more flowers as the summer advanced. The hips, later, could be used for a powerful cordial with a multitude of applications, as well as a tasty jelly.
“You’re busy. I don’t wish to interrupt your work. But we leave soon, and I would like to speak with you first.”
I ventured a glance at him. He did indeed look rather pale and extremely serious. This campaign had aged him beyond his years.
“You will, I suppose, have some notion of what it is I wish to discuss with you.”
“Well, yes,” I said, realizing there was no choice but to stop pretending to work and hear him out. It would have been helpful if I had any idea of how I was going to reply. “Would you like to sit here awhile?” We moved to the stone bench, and I sat down, basket on my knees and pruning knife still in my hand; but Eamonn would not sit. Instead, he paced, with hands clenched. How can he be nervous about this, I thought, after all he has endured? But nervous he was; there was not a doubt about it.
“You heard my tale last night,” he said. “These losses have made me think long and hard about many things: death, revenge, blood, dark matters. I did not believe I had it in me to hate so; it’s not a comfortable feeling.”
“This man has done you a wrong, that is certain,” I said slowly. “But perhaps you should set it behind you and move on. Hatred can eat you up if you let it. It can become your whole life.”
“I would not see that happen,” he said, turning to face me. “My father made bitter enemies of those who should have been his allies; thus he brought about his own destruction. I would not wish to be consumed by this. But I cannot put it by. I was hoping that … perhaps I should start this again.”
I looked up at him.
“I need to wed,” he said bluntly. “After this, it seems even more important. It is—it is a balance to those dark things. I am weary of coming home to a cold hearth and echoing halls. I want a child to secure the future of my name. My estate is significant, as you know, my holdings secure, save for this upstart and his band of cutthroats, and I will deal with them soon enough. I have a great deal to offer. I have—I have admired you for a long time, since you were too young even to contemplate such an alliance. Your industry, your application to a task, your kindness, your loyalty to your family. We would be well suited. And it is not so very far to travel; you could see them often.” He shocked me by moving closer and dropping to his knees beside me. “Will you be my wife, Liadan?”
As proposals go, it had been—businesslike. I supposed he had said all the correct things. But I found it somehow lacking. Perhaps I had listened too much to the old tales.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” I said calmly. “When you answer, remember that I am not the sort of woman who seeks flattery or false compliments. I expect the truth from you always.”
“You will get the truth.”
“Tell me” I said, “why have you not offered for my sister, Niamh, instead of me? That was what everyone expected.”
Eamonn took my hand in his and touched it to his lips. “Your sister is indeed very beautiful,” he said, with a trace of a smile. “A man might well dream of such a woman. But it would be your face he wanted to see on his pillow when he woke.”
I felt myself blushing crimson and was quite lost for words.
“I’m sorry. I have offended you,” he said hastily, but he held onto my hand.
“Oh no … not at all,” I managed. “I’m just—surprised.”
“I have spoken to your father,” he said. “He has no objection to our marriage. But he told me the decision is yours. He allows you a great deal of freedom.”
“You disapprove of that?”
“That depends on your answer.”
I took a deep breath, hoping for some inspiration. “If this were one of the old tales,” I said slowly, “I would ask you to complete three tasks or kill three monsters for me. But there is no need to test you in such a way. I recognize that this would be a highly—suitable match.”
Eamonn had put my hand down and was studying the ground at my feet where he still knelt.
“I hear unspoken words here,” he said, frowning, “a reservation. You had better tell me.”
“It’s too soon,” I said bluntly. “I am not able to answer, not now.”
“Why not? You are sixteen years old, a woman. I am sure of my own mind. You know what I can offer you. Why cannot you answer?”
I took a deep breath. “You know my mother is very ill, so ill that she will not recover.”
Eamonn glanced at me sharply, and then he moved to sit beside me on the bench. The tension between us eased just a little.
“I have seen how pale she looks and wondered,” he said gently. “I did not know it was so serious. I’m sorry, Liadan.”
“We don’t speak of it,” I said. “Not many are aware that we count each season, each cycle of the moon, each day that passes. It is for this reason that I can make no commitment to you or to any other.”
“There is another?” His voice was suddenly fierce.
“No, Eamonn,” I said hastily, “you need have no concern on that score. I’m aware of how fortunate I am to receive even one offer such as yours.”
“You underestimate yourself, as always.”
A silence fell again. Eamonn stared at his hands, frowning.
“How long must I wait for your answer?” he asked eventually.
It was hard to reply, for to do so was to set a measure on Sorcha’s days.
“For my mother’s sake, I will make no decision before Beltaine, next year,” I said. “That is long enough, I think. I will give you an answer then.”
“It’s too long,” he said. “How can a man wait so long?”
“I must be here, Eamonn. They will need me more and more. Besides, I do not know my own heart. I’m sorry if that hurts you, but I will return your honesty with the plain truth.”
“A whole year,” he said. “You expect a great deal of me.”
“It is a long time. But I do not mean to bind you to me for the passing of these four seasons. You are under no obligation toward me. If you meet another during this time, if you change your mind, you are quite free to pledge yourself, to marry, to do whatever you wish.”
“There is no chance of that,” he said,
with absolute finality. “None whatever.”
At that moment I felt a shadow pass over me, and all at once I was cold. Whether it was the intensity of his voice or the look in his eyes or something quite different, for an instant the peaceful, sunny garden grew dark. Something about my expression must have changed.
“What is it?” he asked anxiously. “What’s the matter?”
I shook my head. “Nothing,” I told him. “Don’t be concerned. It’s nothing.”
“It’s nearly time for me to go,” he said, getting up. “They’ll be expecting me. I would be happier if we had at least some—understanding. A betrothal, perhaps, with the marriage delayed until—until you are ready. Or—or might not the Lady Sorcha wish to see you happily settled before … might she not wish to be there at your wedding feast?”
“It’s not that simple, Eamonn.” All at once I was terribly tired. “I can agree to no betrothal. I want no commitment. I have told you when I will answer, and that will not change. A year may not seem so long.”
“It seems forever. A great deal can change in a year.”
“Off you go,” I said. “Aisling will be waiting. Go home, sort out your household, put your people to rights. I will still be here next Beltaine Eve. Go home, Eamonn.”
I thought he would leave with no more said, he was silent so long, arms folded, head bowed in thought. Then he said, “It will be home when I see you waiting there in the doorway with my child in your arms. Not till then.” And he strode away through the arch in the wall with never a backward glance.
Chapter Three
My mind did not dwell long on this, for events soon overtook our household with a swiftness that came close to overwhelming us. We were already unhappy, divided among ourselves by Niamh’s unwillingness to so much as consider her suitor’s offer and her total silence as to the reasons why. By Liam’s anger; by my father’s frustration at his inability to make peace between them. My mother was distressed at seeing her menfolk at odds thus. Sean was missing Aisling and snapped with irritation at the slightest thing. In desperation, one warm afternoon close to midsummer, I went out into the forest alone. There was a place we used to visit often in our childhood, a deep, secluded pool fringed by ferns and bracken, filled by a splashing waterfall and protected by the gentle shade of weeping willows. The three of us had swum and played there many a time on hot summer days, filling the air with our shrieks and splashing and laughter. We were too old for that now, of course. Men and women, as Eamonn had reminded me. Too old for fun. But I did remember the sweet herbs that grew lush and wild near that place—parsley, chervil, and abundant cresses—and I thought to make a little pie with eggs and soft cheese, that might tempt my mother’s failing appetite. So I took a basket and tied back my hair and set off alone into the forest, glad of some respite from the emotionally charged atmosphere of the house.
It was a warm day, and the herbs were plentiful. I picked steadily, humming under my breath, and soon enough my basket was full. I sat down to rest with my back against a willow. The woods were alive with little sounds: the rustle of squirrels in the undergrowth, the song of a thrush overhead, and stranger voices, too, subtle whispers in the air, whose words I could not comprehend. If there was a message in it, it could scarcely be for me. I sat very still and thought perhaps I could see them: faint, ethereal shapes passing between the branches, a scrap of floating veil, a wing transparent and fragile as a dragonfly’s, hair that was shining filaments of gold and silver. Perhaps a slender hand, beckoning. And bell-like laughter. I blinked and looked again. The sun must have been making me foolish for now there was nothing. I must return to the house and make my pie and hope my family might become friends again.
There was someone there. Down between the rowans, a flash of deep blue, gone again as quickly as it had appeared. Had I heard footsteps on the soft path? I got up, basket over my arm, and followed quietly. The track led down the hillside toward the sheltered pool, curving under the trees and between thick clumps of bushes. I did not call out. There was no telling if what I had seen was merely a trick of the light on the dark foliage or something more. And I had learned to move through the woods in silence. It was an essential skill for self-preservation, Father said. There it was again, just ahead of me behind the rowans, a hint of blue like a fold of cloth, and a flash of white, a long, delicate hand. This time the gesture was unmistakable. This way, it motioned. Come this way. I went on softly down the path.
Niamh would never believe, later, that I had not come there on purpose to find out her secret. I moved down quietly under the willows until the calm surface of the pool came into view. I halted, frozen with shock. She had not seen me. Nor had he. They had eyes only for each other, as they stood there waist deep, their bodies mirrored in the water under the tree canopy, their skin dappled with the sunlight through summer leaves. Her white arms were wrapped closely around his neck; his auburn head was bent to kiss her bare shoulder, and her back arched with a primitive grace as she responded to the touch of his lips. The long, bright curtain of her hair fell about her, echoing the gold of the sunlight and not quite concealing the fact that she was naked.
Feelings warred within me. Shock, fright, a fervent wish that I had gone elsewhere for my small harvest. The knowledge that I should stop looking immediately. The complete inability to tear my eyes away. For what I saw, though deeply wrong, was also beautiful beyond my imaginings. The play of light on water, of shadow on pearly skin, the twining of their two bodies, the way they were so utterly lost in each other—to see this was as wondrous as it was deeply unsettling. If this was what I was supposed to feel for Eamonn, then I had done well to make him wait. There came a point, as the young druid’s hands moved down my sister’s body, and he lifted her, pulling her urgently toward him, when I knew I could watch no longer, and I retreated silently back under the willows and walked blindly in the direction of home, my mind in a turmoil. Of the strange guide who had beckoned me to find them, there was now no sign at all.
Bad luck. Bad timing. Or perhaps it was meant that the first person I should meet was my brother, that this should happen halfway across the home pastures while my mind was filled with the image of those two young bodies wrapped so closely together, as if they were but a single creature. Perhaps the Fair Folk had had a hand in it, or maybe, as Niamh said later, it was all my fault for spying. I have spoken of how it was between my brother and me. When we were younger, we would often share our thoughts and secrets direct, mind to mind, with no need at all for speech. All twins are close, but the bond between us went far deeper; in an instant we could summon one another, almost as if we had shared some part of our spirit before ever the two of us saw the outside world. But lately we had, in unspoken agreement, chosen to shut off that link. The secrets of a young man who courts his first sweetheart are too delicate to share with a sister. As for me, I had no wish to tell him of my fears for Niamh or my misgivings about the future. But now I could not prevent this. For it is the way of things for those who are as close as Sean and I that when one feels sharp distress, or pain, or an intense joy, it spills over so strongly that the other must share it. I had no way to keep him out at such times, no controls with which to set a shield on my mind. I could not block out the small, crystal-clear image of my sister and her druid, mirrored in still water, locked in each other’s arms. And what I saw and felt, my brother saw also.
“What is this?” Sean exclaimed in horror. “Is this today? Is it now?”
I nodded miserably.
“By the Dagda, I will kill this fellow with my own hands! How dare he defile my sister thus?”
It seemed to me he would rush into the woods that instant, bent on punishment.
“Stop. Stop it, Sean. Anger will achieve nothing here. This may not be so bad.”
He took hold of my shoulders as we stood there in the middle of the field and made me look him straight in the eye. I saw on his face the reflection of what I read in his mind—shock, fury, outrage.
??
?I cannot believe this,” he muttered. “How could Niamh be a willing partner in something so utterly foolish? Doesn’t she know she’s put the whole alliance at risk? Merciful gods, how could we have been so blind? Blind, all of us! Come, Liadan, we must return to the house and tell them.”
“No! Don’t tell, not yet. At least let me speak to Niamh first. I see—I see ill from this, a more terrible ill than you can imagine. Sean, stop.”
“It’s too late. Much too late.” Sean’s decision was made and he was not listening to me. He turned for the house, gesturing for me to follow him. “They must be told, and now. We may still salvage something from this mess if it is kept quiet. Why didn’t you tell me? How long have you known of this?”
As we walked up to the house, a grim-faced Sean striding ahead and I reluctantly following in his wake, it seemed to me we brought a shadow with us, the deepest of shadows. “I did not know. Not until now. I guessed, but not that it had come so far. Sean, must you tell them?”
“There’s no choice. She’s to wed the Uí Néill. Our whole venture depends on that link. I dare not contemplate what this will do to Mother. How could Niamh have done such a thing? It’s beyond all reason.”
Father was out working on one of his plantations. Mother was resting. But Liam was there, and so it was he who got the news first. I was prepared for outraged disapproval, for anger. I was completely taken aback by the way my uncle’s face changed as Sean told him what I had seen. The look in his eyes was more than shock. I saw revulsion, and was it fear? Surely not. Liam, afraid?
When my uncle spoke at last, it was clear he was exercising the greatest control to keep his voice calm. Nonetheless, it shook as he spoke.
“Sean, Liadan, I must ask you for your help. This matter must go no further than the family. That’s of the utmost importance. Sean, I want you to fetch Conor here. Go yourself, and go alone. Tell him it’s urgent, but don’t speak of the reason to anyone else. You’d better leave now. And keep your anger in check for everyone’s sake. Liadan, I am reluctant to involve you, for such matters are not fit for a young woman’s eyes or ears. But you are family, and you are part of this now, like it or not. Thank the gods Eamonn and his sister are no longer at Sevenwaters. Now I want you to go down and wait for Niamh; keep watch by your garden entry until you see her on her way home. Then bring her straight to me in the private chamber. Again, I cannot stress too strongly, no talk. Not to anyone. I will send for your father and break this news to him myself.”