Shapeshifter (9 page)

Sive helped where she could, hoping this extravagance— for so it evidently was—would not compromise the family’s winter stores. But through it all she also kept watch. The Dark Man, if he was coming, must be near.

Sive Remembers

They hung blankets on the woven wattle walls of the cookhouse to keep out the wind, and set the food out right there. Their very best, it was, yet poor compared to what I ate every day at home. But it meant so much more, for I had seen how they toiled to provide it.

A few of the young men stayed in the cookhouse, eating by the fire, but most of us went to one house or another to find better comfort. Sarai led me to a house crowded with women, all of them gossiping and laughing and arguing. They went quiet for a bit when I entered, but it did not take them long to start up again.

I could see well enough that there were jealousies and resentments among them. But I saw too the strength of the bonds they shared—it shimmered among them like an invisible rope, twining one to another. They knew each other’s troubles and joys, shared jokes and stories reaching back to their childhood. In that warm, noisy gabble of women, my own solitude seemed unbearable.

BROGAN PADDLED STEADILY, drawing the tippy coracle ever closer to the far bank. The strange woman of the Sidhe was leaving them, and an uncomfortable mix of relief, regret and worry—for how could anyone, from any land, travel through winter slush and mud with nothing but those dainty scraps of cloth on their feet?—warred within him. Still he kept his mind to his task, for the Shannon had strong currents beneath its smooth surface and a dunking mid-river could be the death of them both.

Sive huddled in the front facing Brogan, wrapped in the old blanket Maine had pressed on her.

“Almost there, m’lady.” He gestured with his chin to the little strand where the coracles could be pulled right up on shore. A jetty had never seemed necessary, not with that shelf of gravelly sand, but Brogan wished for one now. He did not, as a rule, cross the river in winter, so he had never minded wading through a few inches of water to haul up the boat. Today it would be an icy soaking.

Sive twisted around in her seat to see for herself. She scanned the shore and then leapt to her feet with a cry. The coracle rocked wildly, but Brogan’s sharp instructions died in his throat when he saw her face. The color blanched from her cheeks, eyes wild. Her mouth worked, but no words escaped.

Brogan checked the shore himself in alarm. A single figure came into view, walking along the track that led from the strand to the Western Road. He raised a hand casually, it seemed in greeting.

Brogan’s eyesight blurred, fragmenting the woman before him into a jumble of fleeting images. He squinted but could not bring her into focus. Then a violent heave threw the coracle out of control. Brogan flung himself low across the gunnels as the little boat spun and bucked, on the very brink of capsize.

It took only moments for the danger to pass, but when Brogan looked up the woman was gone. Fallen in! Frantic, he searched the surface of the water for her.

A deer swam strongly north against the current, already too far to catch up. Brogan gaped, his body slack with shock, unable to accept what his eyes told him.

An angry shout brought him out of his daze. The fellow on the far shore had reached the riverbank now, was in fact running north along the strand, shaking his walking staff and yelling at the deer.

“Swim fast, Sive,” Brogan whispered. Somehow the stranger’s threats made the words believable. Whoever that man was, he would be hard-pressed to follow her, for where the little strand ended, a head-high thicket of gorse grew right to the water’s edge, and a little after that, where the river rounded a bend, a tumble of great rocks blocked the way.

Brogan turned the coracle around and began paddling back to his jetty. He did not intend to give the stranger any chance to commandeer his boat.

THE WINTER PASSED and another, and the third whispered its approach in the frosty autumn night, and still Sive wandered. She stood on the windy cliffs at the edge of the western sea, browsed the lower slopes of the wild north country mountains, slipped like mist through the orchards and pastures of great chieftains. She even watched the sun rise over a strand, which, if she had only known, could have led her to her grandfather’s undersea island.

She did go back to her homeland once. She found the portal by accident: a crack gouged into the side of a great mountain that looked as though its top had been lopped off with a giant sword. A breath, a feeling, a smell? Something caught her attention as she passed by, and she remembered the same sensation from her first escape from Tir na nOg. It seemed a gift of fate, and she took it.

But it was worse, being home. Though the weather was kinder and food plentiful, the pain and loneliness were more cruel. The pull of her sidhe, and her family, were so terribly strong. Helpless to stop, she began traveling east, picturing in her mind the string of hills, the rich rolling fields at their skirts and the flat peat bog stretched out behind. If she could just have a glimpse of her house, or spot a familiar face on the road…such foolishness.

It was herself that was seen, long before she was anywhere near Sidhe Ochta Cleitigh, and it was almost a relief to have to pull her thoughts away from her homesickness and concentrate on eluding the hunters. When the small hunting parties swelled suddenly to swarms of men and dogs, she knew the Dark Man had received word of the spotted deer he sought. She barely reached the portal in time.

She stayed in Eire after that. At least if she fell to the hunt, it would be to feed a family’s hunger, not a sorcerer’s ambition.

She never again risked staying in a dwelling overnight, but she did, a few times a year, allow herself a brief time in human form. To share the company of another person, a bowl of ale or the comfort of a fire—these were sharp, bittersweet pleasures.

Yet it was not loneliness but fear that made her risk attracting the Dark Man’s notice and take her own form, for each day spent as a deer took her further from herself. It became difficult to remember her life as a woman. How could she picture her mother’s face, when her deer eyes distinguished faces so poorly? Or recall the intricate stitches her clever fingers had embroidered, when she had no hands? She was afraid she would forget how to sing, how to speak. How to change.

ELEVEN

D
aireann preened and fluttered as she waited for Far at their rendezvous. She could still hardly believe her luck, that the tall druid had turned his flattering attentions to her. He was so handsome, so courtly. The power that lay behind his gentle manners was heady and exciting, like a smooth, sweet mead that went straight to your head.

She hoped she didn’t smell of horse. Far said some might find their courtship unseemly, with Sive still lost in the mortal lands, so they met at some distance from her sidhe. Daireann was happy to stay out of her father’s eye for now. Still the horseback ride made it difficult to present herself at her best.

He didn’t seem to notice, hurrying to help her from the horse with a murmured apology for the wait she had endured, bending low over her hand and then drinking her in with his emerald eyes before drawing her close. The little gazebo he led her to was hung with silks, lined with cushions and provisioned with an enticing array of refreshments. A brazier chased away any chill breezes that might find their way inside.

“I wish I had met you first,” he said as they lay twined together in the soft nest of pillows. “I would not have wasted these past years running after the lesser beauty.”

Daireann nodded archly. “I confess I never understood what you saw in her. She’s a timid thing, I would think illsuited to a great man like you.”

“I know it.” His grin was ruefully self-mocking. “I think she must have enchanted me.” The green eyes glinted at her, glowing with intensity. “And now you have done the same.”

They didn’t speak of Sive again, not until more sweet encounters had been stolen and Far Doirche had delighted Daireann by begging her to become his wife.

“I hope her father will release the poor thing, once our marriage is announced,” he said. “You know him—do you think he will?”

Daireann considered her reply carefully. Powerful men do not like to be crossed or gainsaid. This she had learned. But Far would not want a fool for a wife either. It was a gamble, either way.

“I doubt very much that Derg cursed her at all,” she said bluntly. “He hasn’t the skill. Sive, on the other hand, babbled incessantly as a child about wanting to shapeshift. Don’t ask me why.”

She met the green eyes head-on, allowing a spark of malicious humor into her own. “It’s my belief the little fool refused you, and when you pressed your suit, turned herself into a deer to escape you. And it’s no blame to you if you were angered at the slight—as if she would ever get a better offer!”

The little salute of admiration Far gave her made Daireann flush with pleasure. They would be a mighty couple.

“So,” he pressed, “I still feel badly that she has endured such hardship. Do you hear from her at all? If there were some way to get the news to her, she would be free to come home.”

“YES, ORAN, I MEAN you to spy on her! How clear do I have to be? Lurk by her chamber door, follow after her serving women, find some task to do where she’s dining. Listen without getting caught.” Far aimed a cuff at the boy’s head to reinforce his words. “Now do you understand?”

Oran tried to put space between himself and the sorcerer without visibly moving his body. He failed, and the blow landed squarely on his temple. “Yes, master. I understand.”

Far smiled warmly. “Good. You hear any news of Sive’s whereabouts, you bring it to me.”

“I will, master.” Oran bowed deeply and rushed from the room.

Oran Remembers

If Daireann had revealed where Sive was, I would have told the Dark Man. I would have hated myself for it, but I could not have helped myself. I am bound to follow his commands.

But she did not. Instead she said the strangest thing to her woman.

“Imagine Sive, trotting around the mortal lands all this time. The weather there is dreadful, you know. And what could she be eating? Surely not acorns and shrubbery!”

She laughed then, tinkly and careless. “If she only knew, she has only to hop over to Finn mac Cumhail’s dun. Not even Far could touch her there. I learned that from Finn himself, the day I cursed him. He said that his uncle Lugh had stretched his bright hand in protection over his dun, and no dark magic could penetrate there. He said once he made it back home, my curse would break.”

She laughed again, the sound venomous this time. “Much good it did him, and he on the other side of Eire! And, now that I think of it, much good would it do Sive. I almost forgot—the great Finn mac Cumhail holds no truck with women of the Sidhe. He would not open his door to her.”

I was not compelled to tell my master what I had learned, and I did not. I buried Daireann’s words deep within myself, where I hoped he would not find them. And I waited for a chance to use them.

THE HOUSE SEEMED empty without the women. Derg wondered if he should close it up and take a chamber in the king’s palace. He could not foresee how it would ever be safe for either of them to return, though he feared Grian might decide otherwise. She grew steadily more restive on her father’s secluded island. He visited as often as he could, but even if Manannan allowed him to move in, he doubted she would be content there.

Would the Dark Man really take Grian, if he could not have Sive? Perhaps the risk was too great, even for him. Surely Manannan would stand against him, if it were his own daughter under threat.

Derg’s brain would run in these circles all day if he allowed it. He was grateful for the busy day that awaited, a thousand details to arrange for the Winter Solstice games that began on the morrow.

His man poked his head into the sunroom.

“Pardon the interruption. Far Doirche asks to see you.”

Derg grimaced. “Again? He has become quite the familiar face, hasn’t he?”

“Indeed, sir.”

Far Doirche’s periodic visits no longer made Derg’s heart pound in alarm. Several times a year, presumably when his travels brought him near, he stopped by to assure himself that Sive remained hidden to Derg as well as to the world.

“His hazel rod?”

“Checked at the outer gate with the guard, as required. Just that scrawny servant with him.”

Derg sighed. “Let him in. Nothing to be gained by putting him off.”

Far swept into the room and greeted Derg warmly, as a friend. Derg replied with polite caution, keeping a good distance between them, staff or no staff.

The Dark Man piled his cloak into Oran’s arms and settled himself comfortably, before getting to the point.

“You know I worry about Sive, alone in the wild.”

“As do I,” replied Derg tartly.

The sorcerer inclined his head sympathetically. “Of course. Still no word, I suppose?”

Derg shook his head. “I do not even know if she lives, let alone where she is.”

“She lives,” said Far, his hand brushing over his chest where the talisman lay hidden under the fine tunic. “I think you can count on that.”

He trained his intense eyes on Derg. “I have news.”

“Oh?” Derg tried to keep his breath even, his voice calm. Hard to imagine good news would ever come from this man.

“It was never my intention to cause such distress to your daughter. I thought, in time, she would reconsider my suit, but I see now I will never win her over. And I have met another woman, one who has kindled, and returns, my ardor.” He smiled, his look of shy happiness almost convincing. “We are to marry in the spring.”

“I see.” What to make of such a statement? “May I know the name of your intended?” Derg asked carefully.

“Not just yet, I’m afraid.” Far’s smile became apologetic. “We have not yet made the announcement public, and of course we must speak to her family first.”

“Of course.” Had he found another with Sive’s gift, Derg wondered. Or was this one of the Dark Man’s ploys?