Shapeshifter (2 page)

If a fawn so young became familiar with her shape and scent, he might lose the fear of men that was his only defense against the hunters and their dogs. She saw him, confused and frightened, surrounded by the snarling hounds, and her heart twisted. It was her baby, her own, crying out as the sharp teeth sank into his neck.

Before she could jump to her feet and scare him off, before her intention to do so had fully formed, the change took her. The world rippled and blurred in her vision. Her body was lost to her in such an utterly strange gust of streaming sensation, blood and bone and flesh all swept into hurtling flux, that she could not think of it as her own. She was formless, and then she was sucked into the alien shape like molten metal flowing into a mould.

The fawn hesitated, one tiny hoof raised, as the stranger seemed to waver and grow dim. Then the figure came clear, and he could both smell and see her properly: a nearly grown fawn, a doe. He bucked a bit, playfully, and frisked over to her side.

Sive Remembers

I didn’t dare move, my four legs as uncertain and untried as a newborn’s. I thought my eyes had been injured in the change, for I had never dreamed the world could look so different. The lush, deep greens were gone, replaced by a yellow-brown wash that tinted everything—grass, leaves, tree trunks, even the other deer—shades of the same dun hue. Only later did I notice how brilliantly blue the sky blazed overhead and how clearly I could see into the shadowed places even in the dimmest twilight.

The triumph of what I had done thrilled through my blood, and the terror of it too. It had happened without my effort or will. What if I could not change back? Panic rose up in my breast, and I might have tried to claw my way out of my new skin if not for the fawn. He nuzzled beside me, nosing my flank as though checking for milk and then backing up awkwardly to find and lick my muzzle. The wonder of it pushed away the fear, and once I stopped being afraid, I understood that returning to my own form would be as simple as willing it.

I looked again through my new eyes, recognizing anew each familiar feature of the clearing. I stayed there all morning—so much to learn, there was. The air a complex stew of smells I didn’t understand, far-off sounds so sharp and clear it seemed every moving thing in the forest was right beside me. The strangeness of losing my upright view, of a body stretched out parallel to the earth. So many legs! I thought they would tangle and trip me, but once I dared take a step with one hoof, the rest followed and I could soon walk easily around the pool.

When the sun was straight overhead—a time when all real deer rest hidden in their secret beds—I ventured away from the pool to explore the forest. I leapt over logs, I drifted silently through dark spruce groves, and when at last I came to a long bare slope, I ran. The swiftness, the power—it does not seem such a marvel to me now. But on that first day, flying could not have been more thrilling. It is a memory I cherish still, despite all that followed.

TWO

W
ondrous though it seemed, shapeshifting was a minor magic compared to the power Sive’s mother, Grian, had passed on to her. It was clear almost from the time Sive could lisp out a tune that she had the gift of song. The court women would call her over to their crying babies, and she would murmur a silly singsong child’s lullaby, and they would first fall silent and then fall asleep. By the time Sive had ten summers, Grian was teaching her a proper repertoire, and after a battle or raid they would go together to sing to the wounded warriors, replacing their pain and anguish with the sweet mercy of sleep while the healers worked their magic and made them whole again.

Grian was not always the most attentive of mothers, but she trained her daughter carefully in the ways of the gift— to modulate her voice to bring weeping or giddy laughter or bright shining love to a listener, and then to ease it back so an audience could be entertained or soothed or moved without being overcome. And always, she and Derg both drilled into the girl the responsibility that comes with such power.

“It is no light trick to overwhelm a person’s soul,” said Grian. “Be sure you do it for right reasons, for there is no taking back what is done.”

SIVE HAD OFTEN JOINED her mother for a song or two at a feast or gathering before being shooed away to bed. And she had given whole concerts for audiences of children and waiting women, even for small groups of nobles from her own sidhe. But now she was a woman, and she was about to give her first performance for the king himself and for his feast guests.

Of course she was nervous. The guests were looking for art, not magic, and though Sive knew she could not fail to stir their emotions, they would still see well enough if the music was faulty. Grian had rehearsed her endlessly, until their voices in duet seemed to pour from one mouth, and Sive’s solo pieces were burnished to a high sheen.

“One last review?” her mother pressed, on the afternoon of the feast. And Sive, who had been dutiful and uncomplaining through long days of practice, dug in her heels and shook her head.

“No more, Ma. If I do not know them now, I never will. I am going for a walk to settle myself.” Grian was high-strung and flighty of mind, all the more before a performance. At this moment, her very presence scraped on Sive’s nerves.

Grian pressed her lips together, unhappy to see her daughter leave the house. “Be back in good time,” she called. Sive couldn’t blame her for being worried. She had a longstanding habit of disappearing into the woods.

THE LIVELY CROWD, the illustrious guests, the poets and harpists—none of them could lure Sive’s mind from the singing to come. Not even the ambitious young warriors showing off their feats and tricks in the courtyard captured her interest for long. It was her first big test, and she was intent on proving herself worthy to sing alongside her mother. The crowd’s warm response was a good sign, but only when Grian had smiled her relieved approval and whispered “Well done!” in her daughter’s ear, could Sive relax and join in the gathering.

With the entertainment done, the food and drink came out in earnest. When the stars were bright in the night sky, the nobles would sit down to the king’s high feast. But until then, the great side tables that lined the hall were heaped with a changing array of meats and dainties, enough to appease the mightiest appetite.

Sive wandered about the room, sampling dishes and stealing sidelong glances at the guests. Several times she was stopped and complimented on her singing. It made her flush with pride and pleasure, and though she did her best to give a gracious reply, she knew her inexperience showed. She caught sight of her father at the king’s side, making introductions and helping the conversation flow easily, and had the childish wish he would do so for her instead. There were many strange faces in the hall and among them more than one man she would not mind meeting.

She was glad Daireann had not made the journey to attend. Her half-sister would be sure to find a way to mar Sive’s evening. “Watch you don’t strain your precious voice,” Daireann had cooed at her one day when Sive was careless enough to react angrily to one of her digs—and for the first time, Sive realized that Daireann was jealous. Daireann had the powerful father, the luxurious court, the prestige that comes with a great name—yet she did not have what Sive had. Though the great Bodb Dearg, Grian’s first husband and Daireann’s father, was the master of all music, their daughter had a pretty voice, no more.

WHEN SHE FIRST SAW Far Doirche, it was not the handsome green-eyed sorcerer who caught her attention, but the ragged boy who trailed at his heel.

Sive had never before seen a person starved for food. Among her people, whom mortals called the People of the Sidhe, there was plenty for the taking. To be sure there were those who were powerful and high, and others who served, but since there was no end of food and warmth and fine things, there was no need for any to be without. Or so she thought.

This boy, though: he was only a little younger than Sive herself, on the edge of his change to manhood, yet still smooth-cheeked and slight. Skinny, rather, with bony shoulders hunched under a tunic so worn and patched she could not fathom how his master would allow such a thing to appear at a grand gathering. He glanced at the nearest food table, the longing plain on his face. Such a gaunt, pale face it was, with dark hollows under his eyes, as if he had not slept for days. Then his master moved on, and the boy jerked his gaze away and scrambled after.

Sive looked then to the man he served. His dress was impeccable, all bright silks and fine linen. Glossy honey-brown hair hung smooth down his back. He made his way through the crowd, exchanging greetings and cordial talk, and the eyes of his acquaintances never strayed to the boy at his heel. It was as though he did not exist.

The sweetness of her victory vanished in a gust of hot anger. It was shameful, a guest to be treated so. No one would go hungry, not at her sidhe.

She grabbed a bowl and, passing over the delicate sweets and morsels, ladled in a generous serving of stew. She floated a couple of biscuits on top, took a goblet of mead in her other hand and went straight to the boy.

Startled dark eyes lifted to meet hers when she spoke.

“Sir, I see you have not yet eaten. Will you not enjoy the hospitality of the king of Sidhe Ochta Cleitigh? Or perhaps our food does not please you?” She held out the bowl. “I am Sive, daughter of Derg, who is counselor to King Fiachna.”

He eyed the stew, then glanced quickly up at his master. Far Doirche was deep in conversation with two other men. Thin fingers crept slowly toward the bowl.

“My thanks to you,” he whispered.

Sive could not help but stare as he spooned it in. She had never seen a person eat like that, furtive and hurried at the same time. Like a hound at a sheep carcass, she thought.

He had almost finished when Far Doirche spoke his name.

“Oran.”

His voice was low and musical, pleasant to hear. Yet Oran flinched as though he had been struck. He thrust the bowl into Sive’s hands and wheeled to bow his head to Far.

“Please forgive me, master.” The words were barely audible.

She could not leave it alone. There was something so wrong here. For the first time, she spoke directly to Far Doirche.

“Surely there is no need for a servant to apologize for eating from the common table? The food is here for all to enjoy. I offered it, so if there is any wrong done, it is mine.”

He did not look angry. His face, like his voice, was pleasant. A bystander would have said his stare was simply curious, or perhaps admiring. But those green eyes weighed on Sive, drilled into her, and she was suddenly, unreasonably, afraid.

“You are the singer,” he observed, his manner courtly and gentle. “A wonderful voice.”

“Thank you, sir,” she managed. A cold breath flowed over her ankles—surely just a draft of winter air dancing through the hall after the heavy doors had been opened, but it seemed to come from
him
. His eyes had not shifted from her face.

“Oran’s job is to attend me. He will have a time to eat.” He smiled gently. “Of course, to refuse a lovely girl’s generosity would be impolite.”

Far’s gaze finally shifted away to rest on the boy. “Have you finished with the stew?”

Oran’s nod was almost imperceptible. “Yes, master.”

“Good. Then why don’t you take the mead with you, and we’ll continue.”

They left her then and made their way down the crowded hall. But she noticed that Oran left his mead goblet on the first table they passed.

Oran Remembers

How is it that people did not shudder at first sight of him, go cold with gooseflesh or faint with premonition? But I have seen it so often—it is only to those who know what he is that the evil is so plainly in view.

And what of it, if she did not understand the risk she took with her kindness to me? It was long since anyone had paid me any mind at all. Sive placed herself between me and the Dark Man’s displeasure. I will never forget that.

But I will always regret it. For he marked her that day, marked her as surely as he turned the mead in my goblet to mud. Every person on his path he sorts into one of two categories: those who are of no use to him, and those he may turn to his own ends. Sive had unwittingly caught his eye. And now he bent his mind upon her, and I could only pray that he would find no hold there for his dark dreams.

THERE WAS LITTLE TIME to dwell on Oran, or on his strange master, for Sive was soon overtaken by her mother. Grian was in her element, bright-eyed and with a high color to her cheeks. Sometimes a flush like that spoke of temper, but not tonight. Grian was happiest in a crowd, whether singing for them or bantering and laughing in the midst of a circle of men. She thrived on attention, and Derg, it seemed, was wise enough not to take offence when she fluttered her lashes and arched her neck for an admiring man. Perhaps, mused Sive, his patience, along with his unending devotion, was how her father was able to keep Grian’s love when Bobd Dearg had not.

But Grian had not forgotten she had a young daughter just recently come to womanhood. “How are you managing? Enjoying yourself? Who have you spoken to?”

The questions came in a stream, with no space for a reply. Sive did not attempt one but only smiled and nodded. She did feel awkward in her new role, unpracticed at the gracious talk her parents excelled at, but she
was
enjoying herself. How not? She had sung well, the pale green silk of her gown flowed over her slender form in a lustrous wave, and she had seen more than one head turn to watch her pass. On this night Sive stood on the very brink of her adult life, full of promise.

Grian fussed at Sive’s hair, tucking stray tendrils around her ears and then gathering up the weight of it from her back and shaking it gently into place. Looping her arm through her daughter’s, she began strolling through the hall, her mouth close to Sive’s ear.

“Men have been asking after you,” she murmured. Sive’s heart sped up, with pleasure and with alarm too. Would her parents betroth her this very night? Surely not, and she so young? Grian nodded, a subtle, tiny dip, toward a man to their right. “Him, for instance.” Sive had a brief glimpse of a broad back, dark hair, a cloak of many rich colors. “That is Irial, of Sidhe Finnachaidh. A man of fine reputation.”