Flame of Sevenwaters (6 page)

The druid who was conducting the ritual stretched out his arms and intoned a prayer. Fragments were carried to us on the evening breeze: “Fly with the west wind…Swim with the mysterious beasts of the ocean…Rise with the flame of renewal…”
Ciarán
, I thought, my skin prickling with the power of the words. Even if I had not recognized my other uncle, Conor’s half brother, by his dark red hair and his imposing height, I would have remembered that voice, full of dignity, deep and sure.

“They say Ciarán will be chief druid now Conor’s gone,” Doran murmured. “He’s very much respected, both within the brotherhood and elsewhere.”

“Maeve,” whispered Rhian, who was staring in fascination at the folk down the hill and had evidently forgotten we were not alone, “is that lady one of your sisters?”

The lady in question was of short and slight build. Her hair was concealed under an elegant veil and she held her head regally high. Her arm was linked with that of a rather grand-looking man in a blue cloak. She was a younger version of my mother. “It must be Deirdre,” I said. “I don’t think any of the others would be here.” And as Doran confirmed that it was indeed Deirdre and that the man beside her was her husband, my father stepped out into the middle of the circle and passed something to Ciarán, perhaps marking the end of the ritual.

Ten years. Deirdre had changed in that time and so had I. I had grown into a woman. I had learned hard lessons about myself and the world I must live in. I had become brave because the alternative was unthinkable. Now, as I gazed on the familiar, well-loved figure of my father, the wounded child within me stirred uneasily. I had been too sick to take in much during the time after the fire, when my eldest sister, Muirrin, was tending to me in the keep, before Aunt Liadan came to fetch me away. Day and night had been a blur of pain and terror: Muirrin’s white face and red eyes as she did what had to be done, changing the dressings, making me move my fingers; Mother’s voice, murmuring,
It’s all right, Maeve. You’ll be all right
, as if by repeating the words she could make them true; my sisters’ shocked, disbelieving faces when they were finally allowed in to see me. My cousin Fainne’s tight, closed features. And my father, overcome with grief and guilt, for he had rushed to the rescue, had saved my life, but he had come too late to prevent me from being burned. I knew how that felt; I had failed Bounder altogether. I had been too slow, and I had lost my best friend.

The ceremony was over. Now the crowd was coming up the hill, following the path marked out by a double row of flaming torches. Folk carried oil lamps and candles in holders. Druids came quietly in their long robes, one or two in white, most in gray or blue, denoting the lower ranks of the order. With them walked serving men and women, farmers and grooms, richly dressed people who were perhaps visitors from the holdings to north and south of Sevenwaters, though the story I had heard about the Disappearance made me wonder how many friends my father still had among the chieftains of the region. There was a woman druid in a girdled robe. There was a group of children running back up the hill, and a little spotted dog doing its best to keep up. And now, moving at a more stately pace, here was my family.

It was always going to be awkward. The circumstances made it more so: my parents surrounded by their distinguished visitors, the fading light, our arrival a day earlier than expected and at the time of the ritual for Uncle Conor. This must inevitably bring back a host of tangled memories. Best get it over with quickly.

“Father,” I said, stepping forward as their party came up onto level ground, my father walking with Deirdre’s husband and two druids, my mother and sister in the group just behind them. “You may have seen us ride in. I—”

There was no need for introductions. There was no need for anything. My father turned chalk white; then a blazing smile lit up his face. Tears glittered in his eyes. He took two strides forward and gathered me into an embrace. I had promised myself I would not weep. In the warmth of his arms, it was a hard promise to keep.

“Maeve,” Father murmured. “My girl. You’ve come home.”

By the time he released me, holding me at arm’s length as if to make sure I was real, others had gathered around us and a babble of excited conversation had broken out. Folk had seen us ride in but had assumed we were guests arrived late for the ritual. Here was my mother, hugging me in her turn; here was Deirdre, every inch a fine lady, kissing me on either cheek and introducing me to her husband, Illann, and her two children, each clutching the hand of an attentive nursemaid. Other folk were introduced, guests, attendants, druids. How would I remember all their names? My head was awash with them. A treacherous memory of my chamber at Harrowfield visited me, a chamber situated on the quietest side of that house, with a glazed window looking out over the garden. There had been children in that household, too, and servants, and visitors. But it had been possible to retreat. Everyone had understood my need to be alone.

“You must be weary, Maeve. Is this your maidservant? Come, we’ll get you indoors at once. The house is quite full with our guests here for Conor’s farewell, but I’ve made sure your old chamber is ready for you.”

That was my mother, leading me by the arm toward the keep, talking as she went, gesturing to various serving people at the same time. I noted their instant obedience.

“Thank you, Mother. I am quite tired.”

Father had been drawn aside by one of the druids, but his eyes were on me. Perhaps he feared I might vanish if he turned away. I managed a smile. Gods, he was exactly the same: his steady gaze, his strong features, his air of quiet control. There were more white threads in his hair now, and he looked tired. That was no surprise, what with the Disappearance and its aftermath. I wondered if he would be prepared to talk to me about such things, as Bran and Liadan had, or whether he might think it inappropriate to discuss matters of blood, death and peril with a daughter.

“Maeve, you look so well!” Deirdre came up on my other side, a big smile on her face under the pristine veil. A curl of red hair had escaped the linen and lay against her pale skin. “It’s wonderful
to see you! There’s so much news—ten years of news—I hardly know where to start. Did you hear Eilis has gone to Galicia? Another of Father’s uncles lives there, and his daughter came over to see us, and…”

“Deirdre, we must get Maeve indoors,” my mother said firmly. “Time enough for talk when she’s had a chance to rest. And you’ll be hungry, Maeve.”

“Mother, I imagine you have a grand supper to preside over, with all these guests. I’d be happier if Rhian could bring me some food on a tray, to eat in my chamber. I am too weary to sit at the family table tonight.” After a moment I added, “I mean no disrespect to Uncle Conor; I remember him with affection. But I’m so tired I would probably disgrace you by falling asleep in the middle of the meal.”

We were in the courtyard now and heading for the main steps. “Eithne!” Mother rapped out, summoning her own personal serving woman. “This is my daughter Maeve, and this is her maidservant—”

“Rhian, my lady.” As she spoke, Rhian bobbed a little curtsy. This brought a smile to Mother’s lips.

“Please show Rhian how the house is laid out, then ask Nuala to give her some supper on a tray for herself and my daughter. Maeve will be in her old sleeping quarters. And Rhian—”

“Rhian will share with me,” I said. “She helps me with everything—eating, washing, dressing. I need her close by.”

“Of course,” Mother said, and for a moment her gaze went to my clawed, useless hands. “Oh, Maeve.”

I felt my jaw tighten. “We manage well,” I said, lifting my chin and looking her straight in the eye.

“After ten years of your Aunt Liadan’s example,” Mother said quietly, “no doubt you manage very well indeed. Shall we go in?”

Did I detect a coolness in her voice? Disappointment that I had chosen to stay away so long, through all the years of my growing up? Or was she merely tired and disturbed by everything that had happened here lately? I felt a gap between us, a space that had not been there with Father, who had needed no words to convey how much he’d missed me.

Once inside the keep, I was whisked away upstairs before I could think about the last time I had been in this house. It came to me that my weariness and my mother’s efficiency might result in one very important thing being forgotten.

“I haven’t met Finbar yet,” I said, hesitating outside the door to my old chamber, the one I had shared with Sibeal and Eilis.

“I’ll send him up with your maid,” Mother said. “He’s a quiet child. Much like Sibeal was at that age. You look almost asleep, Maeve. I’m sad that you can’t join us for supper, but I don’t expect that of you. Most of our visitors are leaving in the morning. We’ll have a good talk then.”

“Mother,” I said very quietly.

“What is it, my dear?”

“Never mind,” I said, finding the mountain I had to climb too steep for now. Explaining what I could do, what I couldn’t do, why I was uncomfortable in company, why I might be an embarrassment to them at a time when things were already difficult, my intention of heading back to Harrowfield as soon as I possibly could…“We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Comforts were provided with remarkable speed: our bags brought in, a tub of warm water for bathing—that was utter bliss after the long ride—and then a very good meal on a tray, fetched by Rhian only after she, too, had made use of the bathwater, at my invitation. The opportunity seemed too good to waste. When we were halfway through eating there was a tentative tap on the door.

Rhian opened it to reveal two figures outside: my brother, all big eyes and dark unruly hair, and the druid who had been at his side during the ritual.

“I hope we’re not disturbing you,” this man said. He had a voice like honey and shadow, a voice surely made for the telling of stories. “Lady Aisling said you wanted to see Finbar. I am his tutor, Luachan.”

There was a brief silence. Rhian appeared dumbstruck, and I understood why. Not only did Luachan have the softest, most
melodious voice I’d ever heard, he also strongly resembled the handsome hero from some old wonder tale. His features were harmonious in every particular, his eyes a liquid blue, his hair falling in wavy locks the hue of oak bark, with a narrow plait here and there in the manner of the brotherhood. As Rhian and I stared, his grave demeanor was broken by a decidedly undruidic smile. “We thought we should wait until they took away the bathwater,” he said.

An answering smile curved my lips despite my better judgment. If that was not an attempt to flirt, I did not know what it was. I had little experience with druids, but I was quite certain women did not entertain them in their private quarters. Especially this manner of druid. “Thank you,” I said. “It must be close to Finbar’s bedtime. Perhaps you could come back for him in a little while.”

Luachan inclined his head courteously, then retreated. Finbar hesitated in the doorway as if not quite sure whether to come in. He did not look the kind of child one could sweep up into a hug. Besides, he did not know me, and my hands belonged in the kind of story misguided folk sometimes told to warn children of dangers.
Don’t go into the woodland after dark, or the girl with claws for hands will get you.

“Come on in, then,” Rhian said, taking the initiative. “Have you had supper? We’re still eating ours.”

My brother advanced to the middle of the chamber. He stood there watching, his expression thoughtful, as we finished our food. He seemed especially fascinated by the way Rhian passed me the meat and bread piece by piece so I could feed myself, and the way I waited until the soup had cooled, then lifted the bowl between my wrists and drank directly from it. I wondered what question he would ask, but when he finally spoke he surprised me.

“May I look at your hands, Maeve?”

That was a little like a fist in the gut. Still, it was better than the face turned away, the avoidance of what was glaringly obvious. I held out my deformed hands for his inspection. To my surprise he took them in his small ones, turning them over, examining them carefully.

“Father told me what happened to you,” he said. His voice was a child’s in timbre, but its tone was as solemn as any druid’s. “Can’t you bend your fingers at all?”

“Muirrin made me do a lot of exercises after it happened,” I told him, thinking a serious question deserved a proper answer. “I believe she and Aunt Liadan were hoping I would be able to use my fingers a bit, but they stiffened up. They’ll always be like this now. I have my own ways of doing things.”

“What sort of ways?”

“Well, if Rhian wasn’t here to help me eat, I would use my toes to pick up the pieces of bread. But that is not something I can do in the dining hall.” I gave him a smile.

“Can you really eat with your toes? Show me.” Now he sounded more like a seven-year-old boy and less like a wise old sage.

I slipped off my shoes, dropped a crust of bread on the floor and demonstrated, hoping very much that nobody came in the door. “It’s not very dignified,” I said as I brought my foot up to my mouth. “And the food has to be in small pieces. Now you try.”

The ensuing lesson had Finbar, Rhian and me in fits of laughter. I liked to hear my brother laugh. Seven seemed rather young to have a tutor.

“How long has Luachan been here, Finbar?” I asked.

“He came when Eilis went away. Eilis used to teach me. Reading and writing, and other things, too.” His eyes were bright now. They were of an unusually light blue-gray, like shadows on ice or water under an early-morning sky. “She taught me to go over jumps on my pony. I like riding. Luachan takes me every day.”

“Did you see the horse we brought from Britain? He’s a beautiful yearling called Swift. We could go and visit him in the stables tomorrow.” A pause. “If Luachan approves, of course.”

Finbar nodded. He was looking at my face now, where the burn scar marked my temple. “You were trying to save your dog when the flames came. I saw you in the fire.”

The hairs on my neck stood up. “It happened long ago, Finbar. Before you were born.”