Flame of Sevenwaters (31 page)

The woman was tall, taller than most men. A hooded cloak of deep blue concealed much of her form, but her face was illuminated by the warm light of the lantern, which she had set down on a stone. It was a lovely face, perfectly oval, the eyes large and lustrous under fine arching brows, the mouth sweet as a rosebud. The woman’s skin was remarkable, for it seemed to hold a light within it, as if she herself were a lamp. It was not possible to look on such a person and believe her anything but good. And yet…

“My lady,” I managed, feeling the hard thumping of my heart and willing myself to stay calm, to listen carefully, to think clearly. “My brother—Finbar—you know where he is?”

The woman smiled. “Half-frozen, covered with cuts and bruises, all alone in the dark, and the first question you ask me is this? Come, child, wrap this cloak around you and take some refreshment. The night is cold and you are far from home.” Somehow there was now a dark woollen cloak over her arm where
before she had held nothing at all. In her other hand was a little basket, cunningly woven, from which the most delicious smell arose, like fresh-baked bread hot from the oven. Bear made a tiny sound.

“My brother,” I said, not moving an inch, though every part of me longed for the cloak’s warmth around my shoulders. “Finbar. Please tell me where he is. He’s only seven, and it’s cold—I need to find him quickly.”

“Is my kind so soon forgotten,” she said, “that a daughter of Sevenwaters does not know me? Can it be that Lord Sean’s daughter is too proud or too foolish to accept help in times of peril?”

Every instinct told me to apologize, to take the cloak, to accept food for Bear and myself, and only then to seek answers. It was Uncle Bran’s training, perhaps, that held me back even now. “Forgive me,” I said, wrapping my arms across my chest in a vain attempt to stop shivering. “I mean no discourtesy. But I don’t know you. I have never met you. And I have no cause to trust strangers right now, even when, as you point out, I could do with some help. What I need is to find my brother and take him safely home. If you can assist me with that, I would welcome it.”

She smiled. “You will not be strong enough to find him if you refuse to accept warm clothing, food and drink, Maeve. Here.”

Somehow the cloak dropped itself around my shoulders. I was suddenly warm, oh, blissfully warm, the feeling spreading from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. It felt so good that for a few moments I was speechless. I lifted the side of the garment to accommodate Bear.

“Thank you,” I said when I could speak again. “Will you tell me your name?” She was fey, no doubt of it. This was my first encounter with the Tuatha De, and it seemed as though she expected me to know who she was. The only names I knew were the Lady of the Forest and Mac Dara. White Dragon and Black Dragon. But the Lady had gone away years ago, and despite Finbar’s story, I did not imagine this was she.

“Eat first, Maeve,” she said, placing the little basket beside the lantern and unfolding a delicate cloth all embroidered with tiny
images of forest creatures. “And drink.” There was a flask there, too, though I had not seen it a moment ago. The stopper was off, as if she had anticipated what my difficulties might be with using such a vessel. Oh, that smell of new bread!

“No, Bear,” I warned as he edged forward. “My lady, I cannot eat or drink these offerings.”

“No? This flask would be easy for you, Maeve. As for the food, I can help you if that is needed, but it is all in small pieces.”

I found myself somewhat disturbed by this. She had not simply stumbled on me, but had prepared carefully for our meeting.

“That isn’t what I mean,” I said. “It seems to me that this may not be food and drink from the human world. And although I have been long absent from Sevenwaters, I did live here as a child, and I have heard stories about what it means to eat such food. I would rather stay hungry than touch a mouthful of it.”

“Ah,” the woman said lightly. “You are proud, then. And wary. What of this hound? His eyes are hungry. You may choose to go without, but surely you will not deny your faithful friend his supper?”

“And see him trapped in the Otherworld forever? I love him too much for that. He will not die of hunger in a single night, my lady, and nor will I. We are made of sterner stuff.”

Her brows rose. “I see,” she said, and her tone suggested she was genuinely surprised. “Then it may help if I tell you we are not in the Otherworld—not yet—but still within your father’s forest. When dawn breaks you can walk home, if you choose, without crossing any margins save those of humankind. As for these provisions, they are of your own world, obtained with the assistance of a local cottager. You and your friend can eat and drink without fear of falling under a spell. I speak only the truth, Maeve. There is no need to be afraid of me.”

I bit back my first response, which was to tell her I was not in the least frightened. That might be a display of courage, but it would also be a lie. “Please tell me who you are,” I said, “and how to find Finbar. He’ll be lonely and scared. He’s the one who needs a warm cloak.”

“Take this blanket,” the woman said. I did not see her lift anything, but now there was a folded blanket across her outstretched hands. It looked as soft as swansdown, and in the lantern light its color was dove gray. I took it from her awkwardly; it weighed almost nothing. “Carry the basket over your arm. I see you will not eat in my presence, and that I understand. You have your reasons to want privacy. But maybe you will quench your thirst and satisfy your hunger when you are alone with your staunch companion there.” She glanced at Bear, who stood half-shrouded by the cloak, his hair on end as he stared back at her. The forest was full of shifting shadows; beyond the circle of light cast by the lantern, the darkness seemed alive with presences unseen. Birds. Bats. Insects. Stranger things. When I did not move, she said, “You are indeed slow to trust. Is it the hurt that was done you in childhood that makes you like a hedgehog before hunting dogs, a creature all prickles?”

“Tell me your name,” I said, squaring my shoulders under the cloak. I would have liked to shrug it off, but my shivering body would not allow me that gesture of defiance. There is not much point in pride when you are freezing to death. “And tell me how to find Finbar. Then I might consider trusting you.”

“They call me Caisin Silverhair,” the woman said, slipping back her hood. A waterfall of long tresses flowed down her back, gleaming moon-pale in the lantern light. “I am a friend, Maeve. I am kin to those who showed your little sister the ways of the seer; I am kin to those who guided your grandmother through the long, cruel task the sorceress’s curse laid on her. I will help you find what you have lost. For you seek not only your brother, I think, but two others that are precious to you.”

Badger. Swift. “Where are they?” My voice shook.

“Find the child and he will lead you to the others. When dawn comes, go down the valley of the stones and over the bridge of withies. Your brother sleeps as the squirrel sleeps; if you follow the signs, you will find him safe and well. Ask him what he dreamed of, slumbering in the heart of the oak.” She stood quiet a moment, watching me. I said nothing, for I had heard enough old
stories to know that every detail must be remembered, every instruction acted upon. I did not like the sound of
sleeps as the squirrel sleeps
; it put me uncomfortably in mind of Cruinn’s lost men.

“You’re sure Finbar is safe?”

“For now.”

Oh gods, what did that mean—that I should rush off in the dark lest he perish before I find this bridge and this oak? But then, if I’d been told to go at dawn, then leaving too early might mean I walked on and on all day, with never a bridge or an oak to be seen. My head spun. Within the folds of the warm cloak, my heart was cold.

“Put down the blanket, Maeve,” the woman said, and her tone was all compassion. “Eat and drink from the basket. Lie down and sleep until the sunrise. All will be well.” The air stirred, a shadow passed, and she was gone. On the stone, the lantern burned on.

I put down the blanket, and Bear lowered himself onto it with a sigh, as if he had only been waiting for me to show some common sense. Then, feeling like a traitor, I lifted down the basket and settled beside him. I took a mouthful from the flask, and then another. It was some kind of cordial, its flavor that of every berry of the forest mixed together. Its effect was immediate and startling, for those two sips were enough to put new heart in me. I shared the food with Bear. When we were finished he licked my fingers clean. Then we lay down, the two of us, and I drew the cloak awkwardly over us, and we slept until morning.

I never considered running back to the keep. Caisin Silverhair had given the kind of instructions people get in stories, and I knew well enough what happened in the old tales when folk disobeyed. It seemed to me that when dealing with the Fair Folk, stories might be a more reliable guide than plain common sense, though I hoped to apply the latter as well.

“Down the valley of the stones,” I muttered as Bear and I moved on. I had the blanket under my arm and the flask in the pouch at my belt; I’d managed to get the stopper back in with my
teeth. Caisin Silverhair had left us sufficient food for that one meal only, which meant the cordial was all I had for Finbar. I hoped he would find the strength to walk home today. “Over the bridge of withies.” I would not think of the time when Bear and Badger had refused to cross another bridge. Would it break Caisin’s rules if Bear decided to wade or swim instead? Might so small a departure from the instructions spell my brother’s doom? “And look for a big oak tree.” Let this not be one of Mac Dara’s tricks. Let me not find Finbar curled up like a squirrel, cold and dead.

“That’s an odd name,” I murmured, putting out my free hand to stop myself from slipping over on the uneven, pebbly ground. “Caisin Silverhair. Maybe I should call myself Maeve Dog-Friend. Or Maeve Claw-Hands. Not an everyday name, a story name.” Gods, let this not be a terrible mistake, and the two of us heading straight into a trap set by Mac Dara. Let us not be walking boldly forward into one of those tales where human folk get trapped in the Otherworld for a hundred years and come home to find their families long dead and buried.

“Bear the Brave,” I said as he headed downhill, leading the way. “Bear the Beautiful. Faithful Bear.” And although I liked the last one best, it troubled me. It was all too easy to imagine a tale in which those to whom Bear was so loyal came to grief, and he sat vigil beside their bodies, fading day by day from a fine healthy dog to a bony, sad wraith. “We’re going to find them,” I said, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin. “Today we’ll find them all and bring them home.”

At the foot of the little valley we found a path. It snaked forward into a dense, dark area of forest where the low sunlight barely penetrated. Pale nets of spiderweb festooned every tree. These were not oaks, but gray, spiky things of no kind I recognized, their branches thrusting out like hostile arms to block our way. If we kept to the very center of the narrow path we could avoid being scratched. When I forgot to duck I got cobwebs in my hair. There was a faint rustling all around us, as of countless small creatures busy with mysterious work. Above us, from time to time, I caught a snatch of words spoken in a whisper, though the
language was unknown to me. Bear padded on bravely; I followed in his footsteps, trying not to think about situations from which I would have trouble extricating myself. I had only to trip and sprain an ankle or get my gown irretrievably snarled on one of those thorny branches and I would be in real difficulty. I must stay alert. I must not stumble. I must make no errors of judgment.

Before we found the bridge, we heard the river. I did not remember a river from the Sevenwaters of my childhood, but the rushing sound told me a sizeable one lay not far ahead. We came up over a rise and there it was. I drew in a shocked breath. The river was broad, perhaps fifty paces across, and it looked deep. Shreds of mist drifted above the water. On the other side stretched a great tract of oak forest: strong dark limbs, tattered remnants of autumn robes, sun gold, blood red, butter yellow. Hundreds and hundreds of oaks.

And there, not far along the riverbank, was the bridge: a fragile structure of woven withies, broad enough to walk upon, but without rope, chain or rail to keep a person from falling. It sagged in the center, dipping perilously close to the swirling water. The basket-weave surfaces looked sodden, slippery and uneven. For me, it would be an exercise in courage and balance. For Bear it would be impossible.

My gut twisted. “Bear,” I said, “I’ll have to go on without you. She said oaks, and the oaks are over there.” As I spoke I made my way to the spot where the flimsy bridge met the bank. It seemed to be only resting there, without any anchors. A gust of wind might snatch the entire structure up and rip it into fragments. If I didn’t do this quickly, I would be too scared to do it at all. Caisin Silverhair had made it clear: cross the bridge, find the oak, save Finbar. There was no choice about it.

I would have taken off my shoes if I’d been confident I could get them back on again. Bare feet would give me a firmer purchase on the treacherous woven surface. Never mind that. I managed to sling the blanket over my shoulder so I’d have both arms free for balancing. I stepped onto the bridge.

“Bear,” I said, turning my head to look back at him. “Stay.”

He gazed at me with his heart in his eyes.

“
Stay
,” I repeated, making it a command. I stretched out my arms and took a step along the bridge, away from him. Bear could not swim this river; if he tried it he would be swept downstream in a moment and drowned. Best that he wait for me where it was safe, and when I brought Finbar back, Bear could find the way home for us.

I fixed my gaze on the far bank. I would be brave. I would ignore the rushing water, the chill spray, the slippery surface underfoot. I would set aside the strangeness of this place and the fact that I had told nobody where I was going. I would forget it all…But I could not shut my ears to Bear’s voice. His anguished howl rang out behind me, tightening my throat and filling my eyes with tears. I did not look back.