Son of the Shadows (37 page)

"As they lost their grip, their enemies scented blood. In particular, the Briton, Northwoods of Cumbria, had a wish to extend his control beyond the sea; and at a black time for Sevenwaters, he came with a fleet of ships, manned by seasoned warriors, and took control of the Islands. The watch had been relaxed; the garrison allowed to run down. It was all too easy for Northwoods.

Then there were British craft moored at Greater Island, and British boots trampled the soil of the sacred places, and British voices echoed in the caves of truth. They butchered the ancient rowans to fuel their fires. And it was as

Eithne had said. From that moment on, things started to go wrong for Sevenwaters. Sons fell in battle with the Britons. Daughters died in childbirth. Trees were felled in error, and there were fires and floods.

Allies turned their backs. Crops failed and the sheep got the murrain. So it went on, and the family struggled to keep control. They mounted attack after attack, but Northwoods held on and his descendants after him.

"It was later, much later, in the time of my father's grandfather, whose name was Cormack. That name was also my brother's, another who gave his life for the cause, and in the telling of this tale I honor him."

Conor's tone remained calm, but there was a shadow over his features as he said this. Cormack had been his twin. I could imagine how such a loss must feel. "The Cormack of this tale was a good, strong man, another such as his ancestor Fergus. He struggled and worked, and saw himself going backward, and one day he ventured deep into the forest and sought help from the oldest of the druids, a man so ancient his face was all wrinkles and his eyes filmy and blind.

Cormack asked him, 'How can I save my people? How can the forest be preserved and the dwellers of the forest? I will not give up my task; I am the custodian of these lands and all that live here. I am the lord of Sevenwaters. There must be a way.'

"The old druid looked into the fire and was silent so long Cormack began to wonder if he was deaf as well. The smoke rose and curled and the fire glowed with strange colors, green and gold and purple.

'There is a way,' said the old man, and his voice was deep and strong. 'Not for you, but for your children's children, or for their children's children. The balance must be restored, or all will be lost.'

"'How?' asked Cormack eagerly.

"'Many will fall,' the druid went on. 'Many will die for the cause. That is nothing new. The evil ones will gain in strength. Sevenwaters will come within a hair's breadth of losing everything, family and forest, heart and spirit. But it can be put right.'

"'When?'

"'Not in your time. There will come one who is neither of Britain nor of Erin, and at the same time is both.

This child will bear the mark of the raven, and it is through that intervention that the Islands will be saved and the balance restored.'

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"'What can I do?'

"'Hold on. Hold on, until it is time. That is all you can do.'"

Conor fell silent. It was a strange way to end a tale, but it was unmistakably the end. There was not a sound in the hall. My mother took up a flask of parsnip wine and poured some into a goblet.

"Liadan? Pass this to your Uncle Conor. He has worked hard for us tonight."

I let go Niamh's hand, which was limp and cold in mine, and carried the wine to my uncle.

"Thank you," he said with a nod. "Now tell me, Liadan, what does this tale mean to you? If you were to take one truth from it, what would that be?"

I looked him in the eye. "That even one of the fianna, a mercenary with no allegiance, can be a good and trustworthy man, given a chance," I said. "We should not be too quick to judge on appearances, for we are all descended from just such a man."

Conor chuckled. "Indeed. What about you, Sean? What truth did my tale speak to you?"

Sean was scowling. "No doubt it's meant to tell me I cannot ignore the prophecy," he said.

"Ah." Conor sat down, his cup between his long hands. "A tale is not meant to tell anything. It tells what the listener chooses to hear."

"It speaks to me," said my mother. "It tells me now is the time. Now or very soon. I feel it."

"You are right." Liam had one pup sleeping on his knee, the other sprawled across his feet. It was a measure of his stature that he still managed to look dignified. "Conor chose his tale well for this night.

When we are in Tara we must not lose sight of our own goal. We will be prevailed upon, I expect, to lend our support to other ventures. We must not forget what our first true quest must be."

"And indeed, if Sorcha is right, we should consider all options to achieve it quickly." I had thought

Seamus Redbeard asleep, but he'd been listening, slumped comfortably back in his chair.

"I find it hard," said Fionn with a half smile, "to accept the way you view fantasy as truth. It's a somewhat different way of looking at the world. Be that as it may, there are practical reasons for your venture. The

Islands have long provided Northwoods with safe harbor. Take that from him and you weaken his influence greatly. As for your own lands, you have them secure again now; and Liam is held in high regard throughout Ulster and beyond. A man would be foolish to want Sevenwaters as anything other than an ally."

"Still," said my father quietly, "as the tale tells, generations of good men have died for the cause, and not just the people of Erin. There have been widows and fatherless children on both sides of the water. It may be worth looking at the words of the prophecy more closely if we would not lose more than we must. It says nothing of a battle."

Fionn raised his brows. "You yourself are close kin to Northwoods, are you not? That creates an interesting complication. It is inevitable that you would view the situation somewhat differently."

"The man who bears that name is kin to me, yes," my father said. "A distant cousin. He made a successful claim for the estate when my Uncle Richard died. I make no secret of my link with that family. And since you married my daughter, you, too, can now claim a tie of kinship."

Conor got to his feet, yawning. "It grows late," he said.

"Indeed," said Liam, rising and dislodging the pups unceremoniously to the floor. "Time for bed. We have an early start tomorrow, and not all of us are young."

"Come, Niamh." Fionn held out a hand toward my sister, but his eyes were on me, challenging.

She went to him without a word, and he put his arm around her waist, and they were away up the
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stairs. I turned to fetch my candle, but Eamonn was there before me, lighting it from the torch nearby, putting it in my hand.

"I won't see you for a while," he said. The flickering candlelight made strange patterns on his face. He was very pale.

"I wish you well on your journey to Tara," I managed, wondering why he should take the trouble to talk to me at all now that I had told him. "And—I'm sorry."

"You sh-should not concern yourself with me. Be safe until I return, Liadan." His fingers brushed mine where they held the candle, and then he was gone.

Eamonn's home had a real name, the one they put on the maps. It meant the dark fortress. But everybody called it Sidhe Dubh, as if it were a fairy fort and not the home of a chieftain of Ulster, at least not the human kind. The story went that once, long ago, the mysterious hill that rose, mist enshrouded, from the encircling marshlands had indeed been an Otherworld residence, peopled by the Fair Folk or, more likely, the older folk who came before them.

Bogles, perhaps, or clurichauns. They were all gone now, fled with the coming of Eamonn's ancestors to set their stamp on this unlikely domain. But the strangeness lingered.

There were small peat bogs on our own estate and on Seamus Red-beard's holdings, providing good turf for hearth fires. On Eamonn's land it was different. Here the marshes were immense, daunting, wreathed in eerie mists, dotted here and there with clumps of oddly misshapen trees, whose roots clung close to the tiny islands amid an ocean of black, sucking ooze. In some places there were stretches of open water, but it was water such as you would see nowhere else, dark even when the sun shone and coated with an oily sheen. In such an inhospitable landscape there were few places where dwellings might be safely built. Isolated stretches of higher ground held small settlements, with barn or storehouse in the middle, and the folk living around them on crannogs built out over the bog. These little islands, constructed from stones and brushwood with rough, wooden palisades to keep out intruders, were linked to dry land by precarious walkways. In warm weather, clouds of insects gathered and the air was filled with a sweet, decaying smell. Still, folk stayed on there as their fathers and their fathers' fathers had done before them. Eamonn was a strong leader, and his people were loyal. Besides, they knew no other life.

To the north, Eamonn had grazing lands and grain fields and other projects of different kinds.

Still, he chose to make his home, as his forebears had done, right in the very center of the marshlands. There was a single approach, across a causeway wide enough to take three riders abreast or a heavy cart drawn by oxen. In its way, Sidhe Dubh was even safer than Sevenwaters, for this entry could be easily guarded, and no human invader would be foolish enough to attempt an onslaught through the marshes. For this was no mere peat bog; it was a landscape of tricks and treachery. A man might step out to cut turves, and load his barrow and be away home before sunset. Or he might step but one pace to the right, or to the left, and be sucked under before he had time to call on the Dagda to deliver him. As Eamonn himself had said, it was quite safe if you knew the way.

Since the Painted Man had surprised Eamonn's warriors, the defenses had clearly been strengthened.

This was not my first visit here, but I did not remember the seven sentry posts between the borders of

Eamonn's land and the start of the causeway. I did not recall the chained and bolted gates that closed the entry and required three keys to be opened. It was just as well we were traveling with Aisling, who was the lady of this grim house, or even Sean and Niamh and I might have been turned away.

Sidhe Dubh was a ring fort little changed since it was built. It first appeared as a low, rocky hill,
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shield shaped, rising from the gloom of the mist-cloaked landscape. Riding across the causeway, trying not to take too much notice of the strange creakings, ploppings, and gurglings arising from the inky water on either side, a traveler would realize that the hill was crowned with a strong, impenetrable fortress wall of dark stone, concealing all within. Then it became evident that the rocks on the hill were carefully placed, a wall of sharp points laid with great skill and cunning almost all the way around. A horse could never ride up this hill. A man who tried to climb it would be picked off by many arrows before he advanced an arm's length across the jagged circle of stones. The only entrance through this toothed barrier was a heavy iron-barred door that seemed to open into the hill itself, and was guarded by two very large men with axes and two huge black dogs on short, tight chains. As we rode closer, the dogs began slavering and growling and showing their teeth. Aisling slipped down from her horse and walked casually over, reaching out a slender white hand to pat one on its round, brutish head. The great creature panted with delight, and the other one whined.

"You've done well," she said to the guards. "Now open up and let us in. My brother's orders are to make our guests welcome until he returns. And maintain your vigilance. He wants them safe.

He asks, have there been any further sightings of the fianna? The Painted Man and his band?"

"No, my lady. Not a skerrick. They say the fellow's gone over the water, doing a job for some king in foreign parts. That's what they're saying."

"Nonetheless, maintain the guard. My brother would not forgive me if any ill came to our guests."

I thought about Aisling as we were admitted to the long, dim, covered way that dipped down and then rose, spiraling up around the contour of the hill. She was so sweet and compliant at Sevenwaters, yet here she was quite different. In her brother's absence, she assumed instant control, and they all obeyed her, little slip of a thing that she was. By the light of the torches flaring in brackets on the stone walls, I

saw Sean grinning as she gave orders. As for Niamh, she hadn't said a word since we left Sevenwaters.

She had bid our parents a stiff good-bye, and I had seen how my mother held back her tears and how my father was hard put to remain calm before the assembled household. I had seen again how secrets were splitting our family apart, how we began to hurt one another, and I was thinking hard about Conor's tale and what it meant. I was trying not to think about what Finbar had told me.

Perhaps you cannot have both

.

The underground way led ever upward with dark passageways leading off to right and left, full of shadowy corners and unexpected tricks of the torchlight. I was pleased to emerge into the upper courtyard, where we dismounted at the entry to the main building. The high, circular stone wall that blocked our view of the surrounding countryside was topped with a concealed walkway punctuated by guard posts, and many men in green were deployed there, watching, ready. Within the fortress wall was a whole settlement: forge, stables, storehouses, mill, and brewery. It was an entire community, going about its business in orderly fashion as if living thus enclosed were not at all out of the ordinary. I allowed my mind to dwell briefly on the thought that, if certain events had not prevented me from accepting Eamonn's offer of marriage, I might myself have been mistress here hi a year or so. I would have needed a powerful incentive to be prepared to live thus, unable to look out over trees and water, prevented from wandering the for est paths in search of berries or climbing the hill under the young oaks. I would have had to want him very much to agree to that. But then, Niamh had not wanted Fionn. She had not wanted