Son of the Shadows (56 page)

made the choice not to reveal his origins to him. No lad should have his growing years blighted by a dark truth like that. Instead, he was simply one of us. In every way, he belonged to the wise ones."

"And yet he did not," I said. I could read Conor's distress in his eyes, although his voice was, as always, deep and sure. "For surely the son of a sorceress can never become a druid."

Conor was very pale. "I had made a terrible mistake. The boy bears his mother's blood, and in time that made itself known. I had thought I could counter it. I brought him to Sevenwaters. He
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longed for a glimpse of life outside the nemetons, and he had proved himself indeed worthy to assist with the ceremony of Imbolc. So safe did I believe it, I never thought he might be tempted.

... I never thought. . .

but I brought the evil down on us again. He had only to set his eyes on Niamh, and the Lady Oonagh's hand began to shape our lives once more. Through her son, she began once more to work her destructive will on the family and those we guard and protect. There was no choice, Liadan. That night we spoke of it; Liam and I and your father. I made a decision. I made them agree to silence. We saw how Sorcha was stricken to the heart by this, how she feared for her children, that they in their turn might face the malign influence of the Sorceress. We kept it from you. We thought it best if Niamh did not know the full truth about the sin she had committed.

Without that burden of guilt, we reasoned, she might better put this behind her and start anew.

She made a good marriage; she was far away and safe from harm. As for Sean, nobody wished to see him rushing out, sword in hand, seeking some sort of reparation from Ciaran. Sean was to be a leader, balanced and wise like his uncle and like his father. It was best if he did not know.

And if he was not to know, we could hardly tell you."

"What about Ciaran?" I asked grimly. "For it seems to me, he was worst treated of all; his whole life has been a lie."

"We told him the truth that night." Conor sounded like an old man, weary and sad. "I could offer him no less. What he and Niamh had done was an abomination, against natural law."

"They acted in innocence." My voice was shaking.

"That I acknowledge," he said gravely. "It was nonetheless forbidden and could in no way be sanctioned.

It was best for Niamh to marry and start anew. As for Ciaran, he chose his own path. In that I saw his mother's influence stretching out over us once more."

I glanced up at Fiacha, who sat atop a hawthorn hedge, preening his feathers. Finally, my uncle had given me the truth. But it was blindingly clear that I would not be able to return the favor.

Not now and perhaps not ever.

"Do you know where Ciaran went when he fled from Sevenwaters?" I asked cautiously. "Do you believe that the Lady Oonagh still lives, and that he sought her?"

"Some things seem too terrible to be spoken aloud. It is possible, yes. As to how he would hope to reach her, there are ways. Ciaran is adept; he might attempt such a journey without supervision, although that is unwise. I have heard nothing since he left here, Liadan."

"You sent him away, knowing he might try this?"

"I did not send him away. He could have remained with us. He was—he was an outstanding student, capable of great things; extremely skilled in all the arts of the mind and in the craft of magic. There was no need for him to leave us. Indeed, the threat posed by his ancestry could far better have been controlled within the confines of the sacred circle and of our community. He chose to go. He chose to put that behind him. I failed, Liadan. I failed him, and in the end I failed my family as well."

"You once told me," I said, "not to feel guilt since things would unfold as they must. That was a long time ago, right at the very start of this. Now I hear you saying that this is somehow your fault. Perhaps you're wrong about that. Maybe the whole thing is part of some pattern, a pattern so big that we cannot see more of it than the tiny part where we belong. That was what the Fair Folk told me, that we couldn't understand and so our choices were flawed. It seems sometimes as if we are no more than puppets that they manipulate to suit themselves. But I think we have a greater power than they are prepared to acknowledge, or why would it matter to them so much that I might take one path or another? Why would they set such store on keeping Johnny safe?

Perhaps it is indeed only through small folk such as ourselves that the prophecy may be fulfilled, despite what they tell us."

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"And after all," said Conor quietly, "it was through human strength and endurance that Lady Oonagh's enchantment was undone before, not by a powerful intervention of the Tuatha De.

You are saying, then, that I may be wrong about Ciaran?"

"From what you tell me, he is neither weak nor ignorant. Despite his anger, he is surely a young man who will weigh his choices carefully and with some skill. I cannot believe that because he is her son, he must inevitably work evil in his life. To say that is to say we have no choice at all in what we do, in how we live. I don't believe that, Uncle. Perhaps we do have a short span in this world, as the Fair Folk tell us;

perhaps our scope is somewhat limited. But within those limits we do have the power to change things, the power to make choices and to go where we must. If I have learned anything about myself, it is that I

will not be a tool of some lord or lady and dance to their tune, not if my heart calls me onto another path.

You brought Ciaran up to be balanced and wise. He bears that within him as well as the blood of the sorceress. What you imparted to him so lovingly through the long years of training has made him strong.

Perhaps he is stronger than you think."

We did not speak of these things again; and at length, when summer had advanced into autumn, and

Johnny could sit up by himself and move along by an odd, half-crawling, half-creeping motion, Conor departed with his silent, white-robed brethren after him. All that he said to me was,

"Keep him safe,

Liadan. For all our sakes, keep him safe."

There had been no word from Eamonn, other than an escort sent to see his sister home. For that I was profoundly grateful, for the last conversation between us was graven deep in my mind, along with the memory of his kiss. By autumn I was able to tell myself, with reasonable conviction, that he must at last have accepted no for an answer and decided to get on with his life. I was sorry if my decision had made things difficult for Sean, or for Liam, whose links with Eamonn were vital not only to their joint defenses but also to the success of any venture against Northwoods. Both had commented on Eamonn's silence.

Still, it was early days yet. In time, the alliance would be as strong as ever, for was not Aisling to wed my brother next spring? That would heal many wounds.

One warm afternoon close to Mean Fomhair, when the harvest was nearly over and apples hung ripely glowing in the orchard, I took my son down to a secluded part of the lake shore. Here, the fringe of willows came almost to the water's edge, and the curve of the shoreline ensured both shelter and privacy.

It was a golden day; the lake surface glittering with light, the forest starting to put on its autumn raiment, a drift of orange, scarlet, and yellow around the somber green of pines that crowned the ridge tops. As children, we had spent happy days here swimming and diving, climbing the trees, and inventing countless new games of adventure. Now, I let my son go naked on the sand, where he created strange patterns with his newly learned, half-crawling gait. And later I myself stripped to my shift and took him in the water with me, trusting that the work of the harvest would ensure we were undisturbed. Johnny grinned with delight, revealing his two new teeth, as he felt the cool water on his skin. I lifted him gently in and out with little splashes.

"This time next year, I'll teach you to swim properly," I told him. "Like a fine salmon, you'll be, or a seal maybe. Then they'll all start telling me your father was a merman or a selkie."

We played and played until he grew tired, and I put him on his little motley blanket to rest in the shade of the willows. He was not quite asleep, but seemed content to lie there awhile, gazing up
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at the intricate pattern of light and shadow made by the long leaves and talking quietly to himself in some infant tongue I

could not quite understand. Fiacha perched in the branches nearby, watching. He had been anxious while we were in the water, flapping overhead with squawks of concern or pacing on the water's edge, where his small, neat footmarks still imprinted the sand. Now he was quiet. I went back into the water and swam, looking up to check Johnny from time to time before I ducked down under to let the coolness wash over my face, then bobbing up to flick my hair back in a spray of droplets. It was a good feeling, as if, in the strong enveloping hold of the water, I could, for a brief while, forget the complications of my life, the decisions that faced me, forget secrets and duplicity and risks, and enjoy again the innocent freedom of childhood.

At length I grew cold and began to wade back to the shore. On the little blanket, Johnny lay sleeping. He would be hungry later. I stood knee deep, wringing the water out of my hair. There was no sound, no movement, but something made me look up. The small hairs on my neck prickled, and I knew I was being watched.

Under the willows, as still as if he were himself part of the forest, a man stood. If you did not know him, you would have thought the complex pattern that marked his features was simply a trick of the light, a play of sun through willow twigs. He was dressed very plainly, in subdued gray and brown, suitable garb for a man who wishes to pass through wooded country unseen. If he bore a weapon, I could not see it. It seemed the Painted Man had found the mystic forest of Sevenwaters no more of a challenge than the marshes of Sidhe Dubh. Or perhaps he had been allowed to enter.

He made no move. Clearly, I was going to have to emerge from the water clad only In my dripping shift and somehow think of the right thing to say. I waded to shore with as much dignity as I could summon, but it is hard to feel in control of a situation when you must bend to squeeze water from your skirt, when your arms and shoulders are exposed and half your chest is bare, and your feet are covered with sand, and there is not a comb or mirror in sight. I reached the spot where my gown and shawl lay on the sward above the little beach, but he was there before me. Behind us, on the other side under the willows, the babe had not stirred.

Bran had my shawl in his hands, and he reached to put it around my shoulders. So much for choosing the right words. I could scarcely breathe, let alone say anything that made any sense.

The shawl fell to the ground, and his arms went around me, and mine around him, and I felt his lips on mine, touching gently In a kiss of such sweetness that it left me close to tears. He put his hands one on each side of my face, his thumbs moving slowly against the skin of temple and cheek, as if he could not quite believe I was there in his arms. The hunger in his eyes belied the restraint of his touch.

"Oh, Liadan," he said under his breath. "Oh, Liadan."

"You're safe," I managed, as my fingers moved softly against the back of his neck, and my heart thumped rather fast. "I had not hoped—but you should not be here, Bran. Liam's men keep a watchful guard. And he still believes—I have not told him the truth about my sister and how you helped her. I owe you a great debt for what you did."

"Not so," he said quietly. "You paid, remember? Now come, let us observe the code for a little before all control is quite lost. Sit here by me."

Then he bent to pick up the shawl and put it around my shoulders.

"Now," he said, taking a deep breath, "we must sit down, three paces apart, and I will give you some news."

"I know my sister is safe," I said, sitting as he instructed. He settled on the grass nearby. "A—a messenger came on the day my mother died."

"I see. Your mother—this will have caused you sorrow."

I nodded, still finding it hard to speak, hard to breathe, hard to collect my wits at all.

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"There's other news that will interest you," Bran went on. "News I came by on the way here, which may not yet have reached the ears of your uncle or your brother. Ui Neill is dead.

Strangled in his sleep, as he made camp by the pass to the north. This occurred some time ago, before midsummer, I'm told. They've been keeping it quiet; there are strategic reasons for doing so. The attacker was not identified. Fled in the night, and the body not found until daybreak.

Must have been a man with strong hands, who knew how to move soft in the woods."

My mind raced ahead into possibilities that terrified me. "I see," I said in a whisper.

"Could it be that there is one among your kinsmen who knew the truth? One who was not afraid to administer due punishment for what was done to your sister?"

"I think maybe Sean guessed at the truth," I said slowly. "But he has remained here at Sevenwaters since my mother died."

"Did you tell no one?"

"You sound surprised. But that was your own suggestion. Are you taken aback, that a woman could show such strength of will?"

"Indeed no. I am coming to realize I cannot classify you simply as a woman

. In all things, you are yourself."

"Nonetheless, I did tell them the truth, eventually. My father, and Sorcha. I could not let mother die believing Niamh had perished. I told them what you had done for me."

We sat silent, and I pondered the astounding possibility that the Big Man, nurturer of growing things, arbiter of every dispute, might have put his large hands around Fionn Ui Neill's neck and squeezed the life out of him.

"I wouldn't let it bother you," said Bran, without emphasis. "Like many another secret killing, this will probably be attributed to the band of the Painted Man. With so many ill deeds to our credit, what's one more? Your father has at least taken one step, now, to compensate for his past weakness."