Son of the Shadows (52 page)

"I—I can't—"

Eamonn looked down at his linked hands. "I have heard that you were—restless—at Sidhe Dubh, that you found its confines difficult after the freedom you have enjoyed at Sevenwaters.

Too much freedom, perhaps. But I would not keep you caged, like a singing bird held against its will. I have extensive landholdings in the north. If you did not wish to settle at Sidhe Dubh, I would build a new home for you that would be more to your taste. Trees, a garden, anything you wish—with appropriate security, of course."

"Are you sure," I said carefully, "that this is not a grand gesture, an attempt to appease my family for what you see as your failure to keep my sister safe? I still cannot believe a man in your position would wish to take such a step."

These words were a mistake. His brows drew together in a ferocious scowl.

"Must I show you?"

And before I could move, his hand was on the back of my head, his fingers curling into my hair, and his mouth was on mine, and it was not the polite kiss of a man who likes to do things by the rules. By the time he was finished, my lip was bleeding.

"I'm sorry," he said curtly. "I have waited a long time for you. You promised me an answer at Beltaine. I

want your answer, Liadan."

Brighid help me. Why wouldn't Sean come back? I took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes.

He knew, I think, an instant before I said it.

"I can't do it, Eamonn. It is the most generous of offers. But I'll be honest with you. I just don't feel that way about you."

"What do you mean? What way, exactly?"

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This was more difficult than I could possibly have imagined. "We've known each other a long time. I

respect you; I wish you well, as a friend. I want you to be content with your life. But I cannot think of you as a—" I could not manage the word, lover "—as a husband."

"Is my touch so distasteful to you? So repugnant?"

"No, Eamonn. You are a fine man, and some other woman will be glad to be your wife some day. I have no doubt of that. But this would be wrong.

Wrong for you; wrong for me. Terribly wrong for my son, and for his father."

"How can you say that?" He had risen to his feet, and he began to pace again, as if he must divert his feelings into some action lest they tear him apart. "How can you remain loyal to this—this savage, when all he has done is fill your belly with his child and slink off to prey on some other innocent girl? He will never come back to you; such a man has no concept of duty or responsibility, You are well rid of him."

"Stop it, Eamonn. Don't make this any worse."

"You must listen to me, Liadan. This is a foolish decision, and indeed I wonder if you are in a fit state of mind to make it. For you are right; this is likely to be the only offer you will get, unwed and with a fatherless child. Perhaps I will be scorned for my choice, for not taking the daughter of a southern chieftain, with an impeccable pedigree and a guarantee of virginity. I care nothing for that. Where you are concerned, I have no pride left. For me, you are the only choice. Liadan, think of your family. Liam would want to see you married well and so would your father. And what of your mother? Would it not please her to hear this news before—"

"Stop it! That is enough!"

"Take a little more time if you wish. You are weary, and you grieve for the loss to come. I will stay a few days, long enough for you to discuss this with your family. You may see things more clearly, when—"

"I see them clearly now," I said very quietly, and I gathered my son into my arms and got up from the cushions. "It grieves me to wound such a good friend, but I see there is no other way out. I must refuse your offer. I and my son, we—we belong to another man, Eamonn. Your opinion of him does not change that. Not now. Not ever. To act in denial of that bond would be both foolish and dangerous. Such a choice would lead to anger and heartbreak and long bitterness. I would rather be alone for the rest of my life than go that way. I am sorry. Your offer shows the greatest generosity, and I honor you for it."

"You cannot refuse," he said, his struggle for self-control harshly evident in his voice. "It was always intended that you and I—it is right that we should wed, Liadan. I know Liam will support this—"

"This is finished, Eamonn." My voice shook. "It is nobody else's business save yours and mine. I have said no. You must move on without me. Now give me your word that you will not speak of this again."

He had retreated, away from the light of the fire, and he stood half in shadow. "I can give no such undertaking," he said in a tight voice.

"Then I will not be able to see you again save in the company of others," I said, finding the strength within me to keep my tears from falling.

He took a step toward me, and his face was chalk pale "Don't do this, Liadan." It was as much a warning as a plea.

"Good night, Eamonn." I turned and made for the stairs, and Johnny awoke and began to wail; and without looking behind me I fled to my bedchamber. There I lit my candle and changed my son's damp wrappings. As I lay on my bed with the child at my breast, I let fall the tears I had held back; and as the candle with its whorls and spirals burned lower against the night sky, I saw again that image of the two of them locked together in some final struggle: Eamonn's hands
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around Bran's neck, gripping, squeezing out the last breath; Bran's knife between Eamonn's ribs, twisting ever deeper as the lifeblood flowed scarlet over the green tunic. How could I ever have thought that some day, despite all, Bran and I might be together: That he could ever be more than just a—a tool, the Fair Folk had called it, a passing mercenary who happened to father a child and then was discarded from the tale, his part in it over, his relevance ceased? He could not come back. To come close to me was death for him. Better that he had never met me for I brought him only danger and sorrow. And now the shadow stretched out, not just over him, but over my son as well. I had seen it in Eamonn's eyes. I must do as the Fair Folk bid me, and stay in the forest. I must put Bran out of my mind. For all our sakes, I must do that.

I wept and wept until my head ached and my nose ran and my pillow was soaked. But Johnny sucked on, his tiny hand stroking my flesh, his body warm and relaxed against mine, the image of trust. And as I

watched him, I knew that in every dark night there was, somewhere, a small light burning that could never be quenched.

By morning my mother was slipping in and out of consciousness. The family gathered by her bedside; the folk of household and settlement clustered in the hall and the kitchens, talking together in low voices. No work was done, save in preparation for her farewell, and that went on quietly out of doors. From time to time Liam or Conor or Padriac would disappear for a while and return later as unobtrusively as they had left. Within her chamber the atmosphere was calm.

A cool, westerly breeze came in the window, bringing the scent of lilac. I had placed a bowl on the small table, with fresh sprigs of basil and marjoram, for both of these herbs have the property of giving heart in times of sorrow.

"It's as well she's drifting into her last sleep," said Janis quietly as we passed in the doorway. "The pain will be clutching hard; too hard to bear in silence. And him," she nodded toward the still figure of my father, where he sat by the bedside, "he feels it with her, every spasm. It's going to be hard for him."

"She asked him to return to Harrowfield. To see his family. She made him promise."

"'Aye. She was always a wise girl, my Sorcha. She knows he'll need a Purpose when she's gone.

She's been his purpose since first he set foot in this house long years ago. Her shoes'll never be filled by another." She looked at me closely, her gaze sharpening. "Hurt your lip, lass? Best put a touch of salve on that; thyme's good to bring down the swelling. But I don't need to tell you."

"It's nothing," I said, and went past her into the room.

I will not dwell on that last time. My mother was unaware of much that passed, for already she had one foot on her new pathway. So she did not see the frozen look on my father's face, as if, even now, he could not believe he was going to lose her. She did not hear how Conor chanted quietly at the foot of her bed, or see how Finbar stared out the window in silence, his face as pale as the wing he bore in place of his left arm. She did not see the lines of grief on Liam's strong features or the tears in Padriac's eyes. Janis came in and out, and so did the lithe, dark-skinned woman, Samara. She was as silent and graceful as a deer, and her hands were gentle as she helped with pillows, basins, and cloths, as she lit candles and

sprinkled herbs.

Sean sat opposite my father, with Mother's hand in his. And Aisling was there, her wild curls held back in a neat ribbon, her small, freckled features very solemn. From time to time she would put a reassuring hand on Sean's shoulder, and he would glance up at her with a little smile.

But Eamonn was not there. Eamonn was no longer at Sevenwaters. So much for paying his respects and making some gesture of apology to my parents for what had happened to Niamh.

He had remained only long enough to rest briefly and to obtain a fresh mount, they said, and then he had ridden out again, straight back to Sidhe Dubh, leaving his men behind.

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Uncharacteristic, folk said. Discourteous, almost.

Must have had bad news. I refrained from comment. My lip ached, and die swelling was plain to see, and my main feeling was intense relief that I need not see him again.

When the sun was high in the sky, my mother came back to herself. There was a brief, cruel time of coughing and choking and fighting for breath, and she battled to hold back her gasps of pain.

It was

Finbar who soothed her then, not touching, but letting his thoughts flow into hers, blanketing her suffering with memories of good things, the innocent, shining things of childhood and with fair visions of what was to come. It was no accident that he left his mind open to me, enough for me to witness again how he used this skill to salve and heal. He could not ease the pain of her body, but he could give her the means to withstand it. It was the same skill I had employed to help Niamh, but Finbar was a master, and I sat in awe as he wove a bright tapestry of images for her, as he made a pattern of his love to celebrate his sister's life and herald her passing.

At length she was quiet, lying back on the pillows, her breathing easier.

"Is everything ready?" she whispered. "Have you done it all as we planned?"

"All is prepared," said Conor gravely.

"Good. It's important. People need to say farewell. That's one thing the Britons don't always understand."

She looked up at my father. "Red?"

He cleared his throat, unable to find his voice.

"Tell me a story," she said, soft as a little spring breeze.

My father gave one agonized look around the room, at the silent uncles, at the hovering Janis, and

Samara quietly tending the fire, at me and Sean and Aisling. "I—I don't think—"

"Come," said Sorcha, and there might have been only the two of them in the quiet, herb-scented room, "sit here on the bed. Put your arms around me. That's good, dear heart. Remember that day we shared, alone on a wild shore, alone save for the gulls and the seals, the waves and the west wind? You told me a beautiful story that day. That is the tale I love best of all."

I realized then, as never before, how strong a man my father was. He knew, as he sat there with Sorcha in his arms and told his tale with tears streaming down his face, that with each word he spoke she slipped a little farther away; that by the time his story was finished, she would be gone.

He knew that he must share this most private of farewells with all of us. But his quiet voice, telling the tale, was as strong and firm as the great oaks of the forest; and his hand, stroking my mother's hair back from her temple, moved as steadily as the sun moves across the arch of the sky.

It was indeed a beautiful tale. It was the story of a lonely man who takes a mermaid for his wife; how he charms her with the music of his whistle so that she forsakes the ocean to follow him.

For three years he

keeps her, and she bears him two little daughters. But her longing for the world beneath the waves is too strong, and in the end he gives her up because he loves her.

There came a point in the tale when my father's voice faltered. Sorcha had given a little sigh, and her eyes had closed, and her fingers, which had clutched a fold of my father's tunic as he held her against his breast, let go their grip as her hand fell to rest against his knee. There was complete silence. It was as if the whole room, and the household, and the wild things of lake and forest all held their breath for that instant in time. Then my father took up the tale again.

"Toby's little daughters grew into fine women, and in time they took husbands for themselves; and today there are many folk in those parts with dark, tangled hair like seaweed and far-seeing eyes and a talent for swimming. But that is another story."

He hesitated again, his eyes staring straight ahead, unfocused; and I saw his hand tighten on my
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mother's shoulder.

"As for Toby himself," I said, knowing others must finish this tale for him, "he had thought his life would be over when he lost her. He had thought that an ending. And so it was, in its way.

But as the wheel turns and returns, every ending is at the same time a beginning. So it was with him."

"Every day he would go down to sit on the rocks and gaze out westward over the water," Conor took up the narrative in his soft, expressive voice, "and sometimes, just sometimes, he would get out his little whistle and play a few notes, a fragment of a reel or the refrain from some old ballad he remembered."

Padriac was standing beside his brother; he had his arm around Samara. "He watched and watched for her," said Padriac, "but the sea folk seldom show themselves to humankind. And yet, sometimes at dusk, out in the water, he thought he could see graceful forms swimming in the half light; white arms, long, drifting hair, and splashing tails bright with jewel-like scales. He fancied he saw them gazing at him with plaintive, liquid eyes like those of his daughters, eyes with a look of the wild ocean in them."