Flame of Sevenwaters (24 page)

It was not possible to sweep out of the room in regal style, since I could not open the door on my own. But Luachan was lightning quick; he reached it before I had to call out to Rhian, and opened it for me to go through. If there was the trace of a smile on his well-shaped lips, I chose to ignore it.

Rhian was still seated on the bench outside the door, and beside her was Finbar. They were making something elaborate with knotted string. Badger sprang up when we came out.

“Finbar,” I said, my hurt pride forgotten in my surprise. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“Finbar wanted to tell you something, Lady Maeve,” Rhian said, trying to convey a message with her eyes as she slipped the string into her pocket. “But not here—my back’s sore from sitting on this bench, and I’m thirsty. Why don’t you go on up to our chamber, and I’ll fetch the three of us a little something from the kitchen?”

So, Finbar had something to say that must be conveyed in private, or at least, not so close to the council. Who was it he did not want listening? Mother? Father? Luachan?

“That’s a good idea,” I said briskly. “How about warm milk with honey?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Up in the chamber, my brother seemed more inclined to sit on the floor stroking Bear’s belly—Bear was all too ready to roll over and submit to his attentions—than to spill out whatever important news he had to share. I settled cross-legged beside them and told Badger what a good boy he had been, and other things of the same kind, and he allowed me to fondle his ears and rub under his chin, though there was still a tension in him. I wondered whether the dogs really had come from Cruinn’s household. Perhaps they had belonged to his sons; maybe they had seen what had happened to
them. Had they stood their ground and challenged the attackers? Or had Mac Dara’s forces whisked the men away in an instant, using some fell charm, and left Bear and Badger suddenly alone? No smells to guide them; no tracks to follow; no whistle or kind word from a beloved master. Nothing. Nothing but each other.

“Maeve?”

I started at Finbar’s voice; I had been far away. “Yes, Finbar?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you this.”

What was coming? I felt my way cautiously. “If it’s someone else’s secret, something you’ve promised not to talk about…” No, that wouldn’t do. He’d asked to speak to me. “I promise not to pass it on to anyone,” I said. “You can trust me, Finbar. I’m your sister.”

A grim little smile. It disturbed me to see such a look on his face, but I held my silence.

“Luachan says it’s better not to tell. What I see in the water, or in the fire, or in dreams, I mean. Because it might look like one thing but mean a different thing. Telling can upset people. It can make them angry or afraid. Then they might make wrong choices.”

“It’s safe to tell me, Finbar.”

“Luachan says when I’m older I’ll learn to put the things I see in a story, so people can understand it better. That’s what druids do.”

I thought again about the tale Ciarán had told, of the warring families and their destruction of the beautiful valley that provided their livelihood. The brave young lovers; the wise crone in the wood. “That sounds like good advice,” I said. “But sometimes you do need to tell someone, especially if what you’ve seen is…worrying, frightening in some way.”

“Maeve.” My little brother turned his strange eyes on me. His hand stilled against the dog’s dark hair. “What are you most afraid of? What scares you more than anything in the world?”

A chill ran down my spine. This required an honest answer; Finbar was not a child one could placate with comforting half-truths. On the other hand, he was only seven. “I can’t pick out just one thing,” I said, stalling for time.

Finbar waited, pale as a little ghost.

“Being helpless,” I said. “I mean, unable to help when someone I care about is in trouble.”

“What if you had to choose?” my brother asked, and it seemed to me his words had a prophetic tone to them. “What if Swift and Bear were both in deadly danger, and you knew you could only help one of them?”

Now he was really scaring me. “Is that what you saw?” I demanded. “Tell me! Tell me what was in this vision you had!”

“Luachan wouldn’t want me to tell all of it. It would only scare you.”

“Believe me, it’s far worse to get hints and not the full story,” I said grimly.

“I shouldn’t have said.” His head drooped, showing the white skin at the back of his neck. Now he would not meet my eyes.

I made myself draw a long, calm breath. “It’s all right, Finbar,” I said. “You must tell as little or as much as you think is right. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’ve had a horrible day, and I’m tired and out of sorts. But if you think Swift or the dogs may be in danger, I would like a warning about it so I can do something to protect them.”

He looked up then, sad-eyed. “I thought you would say fire,” he said. “After what happened to you, aren’t you afraid of fire?”

“Very much afraid. I of all people know how destructive and dangerous it can be. But we need fire for light and warmth; without it we would die. Right from the start, Aunt Liadan taught me how to live with my fear and not let it rule me. I’ve had ten years to practice. Fire is not my first terror anymore, only my second.”

The silence drew out. It seemed to me there was something more he had planned to speak of and now held close. I did not want to ask a small boy what he was most afraid of, especially just before bedtime. I sensed, though, that this might be what Finbar expected.

“Luachan’s wise,” I said quietly. “It’s easy to frighten yourself with stories, and I imagine it is the same with visions. I have often woken with my heart hammering after a dream I can’t even remember. I should think the hardest thing about learning to be a seer might be keeping track of it all. Working out what is fact and what is…ideas, symbols and so on. I’m sure it is very confusing.”
That sounded patronizing, which was not my intention. “It’s good that you have Luachan to help you understand it.”

“Mm.” Finbar was closing up on himself again. He had laid his head down, using Bear as a pillow, but there was nothing sleepy about his eyes. “Maeve,” he murmured against the comforting warmth of the dog, “what if Mac Dara put a geis on me? He could have done it when I was a baby, too young to know about it. He could have done it easily. What if the geis said I was going to die if I went past a certain place in the forest, or if I stroked a gray cat by moonlight, or if I climbed an oak tree with a knife in my pocket? Or it might be that I had to do those things or something bad would happen to you or Deirdre, or to Mother or Father.”

Morrigan save us, the boy had too much imagination by far. Could he have overheard what we were discussing at the council? I must ask Rhian. “That could have happened, I suppose,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “If there really is such a thing as a geis. They are mostly in the old stories, and there are other things in those stories—three-headed monsters, talking animals, men with sheepskin growing on their backs—that make me wonder how much is true and how much is just…story. That tale Ciarán told, about the flood—perhaps someone invented it to remind us that we should listen carefully to our elders’ wisdom and respect the earth with all her bounties. And that we must be brave and resourceful and love one another. A story need not be true to teach us those things. The best tales have a deep kind of truth. It makes no difference whether they actually happened or not.”

“You sound like Uncle Ciarán.” Finbar’s voice was very small.

“Have you spoken to him about this?”

Finbar sat up abruptly. “You said you wouldn’t tell.” His eyes were on me, clear pools in shadow.

“I won’t, Finbar. I keep my promises. But Uncle Ciarán is very wise, and he’s kind, too. You seem worried by this and I don’t think you need be. He would explain it far better than I ever could. Or you could talk to Mother.”

“No.” There was an iron strength in the childish tone. “Mother
would be frightened. She’s already frightened; that’s why they got Luachan.”

“Finbar,” I said as gently as I could, “I understand why you feel afraid. I’m sure there is nothing to worry about. I mean, there’s no evidence that Mac Dara pronounced a curse over you, is there?”

He simply looked at me, and my stomach tied itself into a slow knot as I gazed back. He’d been only an infant, no more than a few days old. If he’d seen it happen, he wouldn’t have remembered. But we weren’t talking about memory. He had said,
in the water, in the fire, or in dreams.
We were talking about a seer’s knowledge. I opened my mouth and shut it again. Suddenly, any words at all felt perilous.

“Here we are.” Rhian’s cheery voice came from the doorway, and the chamber seemed instantly lighter. “Warm milk and oatcakes with soft cheese. Finbar, get up off the floor. Dogs in the bedchamber are one thing; eating supper amongst them is quite another.”

I rose to my feet, reminded of how awkward things must be for Rhian sometimes. Finbar was not the kind of child who distinguished between servant and sister. Another chieftain’s son might have taken offense if a maidservant gave him orders, however kindly. He might have had her punished for insolence.

“Thank you, Rhian,” I said, “for reminding us about our manners, and for bringing us such a sumptuous feast. Finbar, when we’ve eaten this you’d better get off to bed or Mother will be cross with both of us.” I wondered if the council was still meeting behind closed doors. I should not have walked out. If people were starting to say strange things about Bear and Badger, or about me, losing my temper wasn’t going to help.

“I’m not hungry,” Finbar said, predictably enough.

“No? Look—apart from the milk, this meal can be eaten entirely with the feet. Shall we try?”

He was, after all, a seven-year-old boy. By the time Luachan came to fetch him, the council being over, Finbar had eaten well, if untidily, and was in much better spirits. I bade him good night and hoped his sleep would be visited only by good dreams, dreams of throwing a ball for a dog, for instance, or picking berries, or making boats from leaves and bark and floating them down the stream. When he’d left,
I asked Rhian if our voices had been audible through the door of the council chamber, and she said she hadn’t heard a thing.

As she helped me to wash and get into my night robe, as she brushed my hair, as I lay in my bed staring up at the rafters, I conjured images of myself at Finbar’s age. Those had been happy, busy times. I saw myself with Clodagh and Deirdre, climbing trees while Bounder explored below. I remembered running along the lakeshore with Sibeal and Eilis, with Bounder racing ahead. And a fine autumn day when all six of us, even Muirrin, who was almost grown-up, had picked apples, and even Eilis had come home with a full basket. That was the day the kittens were born. I remembered crouching quietly beside the stall where the mother cat lay, and watching with breathless delight as the little ones kneaded her belly and snuffled for milk. My sisters had been around me, equally entranced.

“It was a long time ago, Bear,” I whispered, not wanting to wake Rhian, who had been tired under her brisk cheeriness. “But I still remember how perfect that day was. It’s in me forever, helping keep me strong.” I lay awake a long time, staring into the dark. I thought about Finbar. What had he seen in his visions? What had made him believe he was cursed? Weren’t the images seers glimpsed in flame or water hard to interpret even for someone like Ciarán, who had had years and years of practice?

All the while, deep inside me where I had hidden it away, I heard him asking,
What if you had to choose?

“I couldn’t choose,” I murmured, feeling the warmth of Bear’s slumbering form against my back and listening to the sound of Badger’s steady breathing from the floor beside the bed. The door was open a crack, and the lamp in the hallway outside sent a narrow shaft of light across Rhian’s sleeping form, peaceful under her blankets. “How could anyone choose?”

DRUID’S JOURNEY: NORTH

H e comes down the hill between the beeches in afternoon sunlight. The old woman is by her campfire, her mottled hands stretched out toward the flames. A pack lies to one side, a blanket to the other, with a raggedy old cat curled up on it, washing its ears.

“My respects to you, wise woman.”

She turns milky eyes on him. “And to you, druid. Will you share the warmth of my fire awhile?”

“I will, for I have come to speak with you.” He settles opposite her, opens his bag, takes out the offering. “Will you share some mead and soft cheese?”

“Ah. You come with gifts. You want something.”

“The gifts are freely given, wise woman. I come with a question, yes. Perhaps more than one. Answer if it pleases you to do so, or hold your silence. The fire will remain warm, the food and drink tasty.”

“We will eat and drink first, then, and enjoy the silence.”

Some while later, the modest repast is finished and the cat, sated with cheese, has fallen asleep on the blanket. The druid adds
wood to the fire, then takes time to gather more fallen branches and stack them for the old woman. “For tonight,” he says.