Son of the Shadows (75 page)

"You told me Niamh survived and was taken to a place of safety. She's my daughter, Liadan. I spoke of righting wrongs. There is a wrong there that must be attended to, I believe. I would welcome Niamh back home. If you are able to tell me where she is, you should do so. Your mother wished, very much, that we might make amends."

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I have an idea where she might be, but I can't tell you. Only that I know she is safe and well looked after. She doesn't want to see us, Father. She doesn't want to come back."

"I lose you all then," he said flatly. "Niamh, and Sorcha, and you. And the little one as well."

"There will be a tribe of children at Sevenwaters in a few years. And you will see me from time to time, and Johnny; I'll make sure of that. You'll be busy, Father, too busy for sorrow and regrets. Now you must go home to Sean and Aisling and give them your support. The three of you must work hard to keep

Sevenwaters strong. You will hear from us in due course. And wish Sean well from me."

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"I will, sweetheart."

"Father."

"What is it?"

"I couldn't have done this without you. However far I travel, I'll never forget that I am your daughter. I

will always be proud of that."

Then they called him, and he hugged me, quickly and hard, and was gone, a tall, flame-haired figure striding away to the camp, where men waited with horses. I stood by the pool, gazing across its silvery surface, and as I looked, an image appeared, a reflection in the still waters: a stately white swan, floating there with folded wings. A reflection with no reality, for on the surface there was nothing, not a single bird swam on that mirror-calm water. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. The image remained, feathers like a midwinter snowdrift, graceful arching neck, eyes colorless as clear water, deep, so deep.

You've done very well, Liadan

. It was my Uncle Finbar's voice.

You are a master at this, and. I

salute you

.

It is you who are the master. You showed me this skill.

I could not have done what you did; challenged the dark one and pulled a man back from the brink of death. Your strength amazes me. Your courage astonishes me. I will watch your path, and his, with interest. Don't forget me, Liadan. You'll need me later. The child will need me.

A sudden chill passed over me.

What do you mean? What do you see

?

But out in the water, the beautiful inverted form of the swan fragmented and spread across the surface and was gone.

Three days later we were ready to move on. I had had to be very strict and make sure Bran ate and drank and rested; for if I had left him to go his own way, he would have tried to force his damaged body to be its old self again immediately, with disastrous results. However, he wasted not an instant. When obliged to rest, he would still be planning, and giving orders, and chafing to be up and active again. As for

the nights, although my inclination was quite otherwise, I slept apart from him, sharing the bed of bracken with my son, and Bran made no comment. I had been bold that night, bold enough to strip naked and warm his flesh with my own. Now I felt a little awkward, for what was between us was new and fragile, and there were many men about. Besides, it seemed to me some things must wait until he had regained his strength.

Plans were made. The band was to split into three groups. There was work to be done. Otter's group was to go south on a mission unspecified. Snake's group was headed northwest, toward Tirconnell. Our own group was to ride north to the place under consideration and have a look at it before the final decision would be made. Wolf would assess the difficulty of access for men with building materials. Gull would see what skills were available locally and judge what reception might be given to such a venture.

At an appointed time, the others would meet up with us, and the future of the band would be determined.

He'd make no decisions in a hurry, Bran told the men. Too much was riding on it.

I'd had to work hard to stop him rushing off south the moment he thought himself fit to get up on a horse, seeking vengeance in blood. I'd had to explain the bargain I had made to get him and Gull out of Sidhe

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Dubh. How I'd promised silence for their release.

"A promise made to such a man is nothing," he said, tight-lipped. "After what he did to you, death is too good for him. If I do not despatch him, your father or brother surely will when they learn the truth."

"They won't," I said. "Not from me, and not from you or Gull or any of these men. This tale cannot be told. I gave Eamonn my word that we would keep silent and with good reason. He may be a turncoat, a man who can be blinded to what is right by his own desires and his own lust for power. But nobody can deny that he is a strong leader. He's wealthy, influential, and clever.

And he has no heirs, not yet. If he were gone, it would lay his estates open to a struggle for control that would plunge the alliance into disarray and confusion. Seamus Redbeard is old, and his child is an infant. There would be claimants from everywhere. It would be a bloodbath.

Better if Eamonn remains. We need only continue to watch him." My deeper misgivings I would not tell him. For I recalled the warnings of the Fair Folk, and Ciaran's own words. Somewhere out there was someone who would stop at nothing to prevent my child from growing to a man. Someone who, for her own reasons, did not want the prophecy to be fulfilled. I

had seen the look on Bran's face as he watched his small son sleeping, or borne high on Rat's shoulders, looking about him with bright-eyed intelligence. I had seen Bran's hard features alight with a wonder new discovered, and I knew I could not tell him.

"You cannot have any faith in Eamonn Dubh," he said, frowning. "Might not he turn against your brother at any time?"

I smiled. "I don't think so. My brother weds Eamonn's sister in spring. I've ensured that will happen. And

Eamonn knows I am watching him. I drove a hard enough bargain for my silence and yours."

"I see," said Bran slowly. "You are a dangerous woman, Liadan, a strategist of some subtlety.

But you frustrate me. There will always be an itch in my hands for this man's neck. If ever I meet him face-to-face, I cannot answer for what I might do."

"Where we're going, you'll be too busy to give it a moment's thought," I told him.

"You assume we're going ahead with this venture, then."

"I know you could not bring yourself to deny the men their dream." He looked at me, and that little attempt at a smile played about his severe mouth again. "I see I can have no secrets from you," he said. "I

had only to see the light in their eyes, and hear the hope in their voices, to know what choice must be made. But I could not tell them so, not then. Such a tactic would have appeared weak.

Besides, this

waiting is a good test for them. It forces them to assess every aspect of the project, to sound out the strengths and weaknesses, and to address the problems."

"I know," I said.

Planning was complete, and there was but a day to our departure. It was morning under the great beeches, now quite bare against a pale sky. The weather was fair, though cold. With luck, we would cover the distance quickly, even with a babe among us. This last day was for final consultations among the leaders of each group, and for packing up the camp and erasing all trace of our presence once again.

That process would alter once the venture went ahead. These men would have to become accustomed to waking in their own beds, to women's faces at their fireside, to settling. It would be an end to the pattern of flight and constant change. Hard for them, but not so hard, maybe, if they put their minds to it. I

thought about Evan's woman, Biddy, with her two boys. Maybe she was still waiting, somewhere in

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Britain, for her man to come back for her. She'd sounded a strong, capable woman. They'd need a few like her. I thought I might mention that later.

I sat by the pool with Johnny on my lap, dreaming a little as I threw tiny pebbles into the water.

Johnny liked the plop-plop they made and seemed content to sit quiet, watching. Behind me in the encampment, the work of the day unfolded with the customary order and discipline. It felt very strange to know that tomorrow I would ride away and never go back to the forest save as a visitor; that, in time, I would live on my father's estate and raise my son among Britons. I hoped my mother would not have thought this a betrayal. I hoped the Fair Folk had been wrong about what it would mean.

Best go now.

The old voice startled me; I had not thought to hear those ancient ones speak again now that Bran was saved and our path set.

We are going, I

said silently, in the morning. We will not return here

.

Go now. Go

. It was slow and deep, as always, but this time the words were a warning.

Now? You mean

—

now, straight away'? But why

?

I was foolish to ask maybe. In an instant, the Sight was on me, and there was a young warrior fighting, and I thought it was Bran until I saw the features plain of any pattern save the most subtle of markings on the brow and around one eye, the merest hint of a raven mask. He was injured; I saw the pallor and heard the rasping breath. He lunged forward, and in one swift movement his opponent dashed the sword from his hand, and I saw in the young warrior's eyes that he recognized his death right before him. His eyes were gray and steady; his expression without fear. I clasped my arms tight around the child on my lap, and he gave a squeal of protest. The vision changed, and there was a girl, a girl crying, her whole body racked with sobbing; her two hands up over her face in a futile effort to contain her grief. Her curling hair was a deep red, her skin pale as new milk. As she wailed her anguish, a fire arose around her, its crackling flames hungry, consuming; and I had a strange sense that it was her very cries that whipped this fire to ever-greater fury. Then, abruptly, the vision was gone.

Best leave now

, said the voice once more, and was silent. Such a warning cannot go unheeded. I sought out Bran and told him, not everything I had seen, but that the Sight had shown me our departure must be immediate. They were well practiced. Before the sun began to sink in the west, we were gone, riding off in our three separate directions with silent efficiency. My own band traveled north, going by secret ways.

We stopped when it grew dark, for Bran insisted the child and I should sleep. We camped under rocks, partway up a hill. I fed Johnny; Bran and Wolf stood guard; Rat made a small fire and prepared food.

Gull was settling the horses, for he insisted on doing his share of work, damaged hands or not.

After a while Bran came back up the hill to crouch down beside me. Johnny had finished drinking; I held him against my shoulder as he fell asleep.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, "to disrupt your plans. We could have stayed another day, probably.

The Sight does not always show true; and these voices can be misleading."

"Maybe not," said Bran, in a strange tone. "Come out here; I want to show you something."

I followed him out to a place on the rocks where there was a long view i back to the south. In
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daylight, I imagined, one might be able to see as far as the great forest of Sevenwaters itself. Now all was dark, all but a certain place, not so very far behind us, where a huge fire blazed.

"Strange, is it not?" Bran observed. "A lightning strike, maybe? But the sky is clear; no sign of storm. And there's been rain; trees and bushes and the very grasses do not burn thus, with a consuming heat, save in time of great drought. See how this fire moves and takes all in its path?

Yet the night is still. Passing strange."

"It's there, isn't it?" I whispered, shivering. "In that place where we were?"

Bran put his arm around me rather cautiously, as if he were still learning what he might allow himself to do.

"But for you, we'd all have been in its path tonight," he said. "Your gift is a powerful one. You saw my death once. Do you remember that?"

"Yes."

"It seems to me that you have prevented that; that you have held back death; that you have changed the course of events. Not much scares me, Liadan. I've trained myself to face whatever comes. But this scares me."

"It frightens me, too. It leaves me open to—to many influences, to voices I would sooner not hear, to contrary visions. It can be very hard to know when I should heed them and when to go my own way.

And yet, I would not be without it. But for this gift, I could not have brought you back."

He did not reply, and the silence drew out so long I began to be worried.

"Bran?" I asked softly.

"I wonder," he said hesitantly, "I did wonder if perhaps you—if maybe you regretted that. Had second thoughts, I mean. Now that you have seen—now that you know these things about me, things I have never told anyone ... I am not the man you once thought me to be. I did think maybe . . ." He ran out of words.

"Why?" He had astonished me. "Why would you believe such a thing, that I would not want you, that I

might love you any less because of that? I have told you; you are the only man in the world I want by my side. Nothing will ever change that. I cannot make it any clearer."

"Then—" He stopped himself again.

"Then what, dear heart?"

"Why would you . . ." he spoke so quietly I strained to hear. "Why would you wish to sleep apart, why

shun my bed, after that night, that longest of nights when I woke and found you there beside me, a gift of such precious worth it wiped away a lifetime of shadows? I ache to feel that moment again and this time, to hold you close, and touch you, and—I have no words for this, Liadan."

Perhaps it was just as well it was dark. I was laughing and crying at the same time and could hardly think what to say to him.

"If I were not holding the child," I said shakily, "I would show you this instant how my body burns for yours. It seems to me you have a short memory. I recall an afternoon by the lake of Sevenwaters when it was only our son's intervention that brought the two of us to our senses. As for these last days, I thought only to spare your health. You have been through a severe trial.