Child of the Prophecy (20 page)

"We'll find her," said my aunt in capable tones. "You'd best get back to the Council. They're waiting for you."

"The representative from Inis Eala should be here today," my uncle said. "Perhaps we can conclude this on time after all." He turned to me. "I'll leave you now, niece. That was a long ride for a novice. You'd best rest those aching limbs. Muirrin should have a potion or two that will help. Perhaps we'll meet again at supper."

They seemed to think Muirrin was the answer to everything. I formed an image of her in my mind that was completely at odds with the girl we tracked down some time later, at work in a very small, rather dark room at the back of the house.

The first thing I noticed was how tiny she was; little and slender, with big green eyes, and her father's dark curls tied roughly back from her face, to keep them from her work. She was chopping up what looked like toadstools, with a rather large, dangerous-looking knife. She was concentrating hard and humming under her breath. Around her were shelves crammed with jars and bottles; bunches of drying flowers and herbs hung overhead, and a plait of garlic festooned the window. Behind her a door stood open to a little garden.

"Muirrin," said her mother, with just a touch of sharpness. "Here is your cousin Fainne. Did you forget?"

The girl looked up, her large eyes unsurprised.

"No, Mother. I'm sorry I was not there. I had a message from the cottages—this is needed urgently. How are you, Fainne? I'm your cousin Muirrin. Eldest of six. You'll have met my sisters, I should think?" She gave a wry smile, and I found myself smiling back.

"I'm rather busy," Aunt Aisling said. "Perhaps — ?"

"Off you go, Mother. I'll look after Fainne. Are her things here, for unpacking?"

I explained somewhat reluctantly about Dan Walker and the carts and my little chest, and by the time I had finished, my aunt was gone.

"Sit down," said Muirrin. "I need to finish this, and give it to someone to deliver. Then I'll show you around. There, by the fire. Want some tea? The water's boiling. Use the second jar on the left— that's it—it's a mixture of peppermint and thyme, quite refreshing. Cups over there. Could you make me some too?" While she talked her hands kept up the steady, meticulous chopping of the bronze-colored fungi on the stone slab before her. I watched as she measured spices and strained oils and finally poured her dark, pungent-smelling mixture into a small earthenware jar, which she corked neatly.

"Here's your tea," I said.

"Oh, good. I'll just wash my hands and—excuse me a moment, will you?" She stuck her head out the door to the garden. "Paddy?" she called.

A roughly dressed lad appeared, and was given the jar, and a set of instructions which she had him repeat several times to ensure no errors.

"And tell them I'll be down myself later to check on the old man. Be sure you tell them."

"Yes, my lady."

I had been glad enough to sit and watch her. Now, as she seated herself and took her cup between small, capable hands, I found it hard to know what to say. She was so confident, and so self-contained.

"Well," she ventured. "A long journey. You'll be wanting to wash, and rest, and have some time to yourself. And you'll be stiff from riding, I expect. I have a salve for that. What if we talk a little, and then I'll show you your room, and get you some spare things, and leave you on your own until later? I need to go down to the cottages; tomorrow, perhaps, you might come with me. Today, the main thing will be protecting you from my sisters. They do make a lot of noise."

"I noticed."

"Not used to so many folk?"

I relaxed a little. "It was very quiet at home. There were fishermen, and in summer the traveling folk came. But we kept ourselves to ourselves."

Muirrin nodded, her green eyes serious.

"You'll find it quite the opposite here. Especially now. The house is full of people, for the Council. And they don't like each other. Suppertimes can be quite interesting. You'll need to find out who's who, learn a few names. I'll help you. But not yet. First things first."

"Thank you. Did you say six sisters?"

Muirrin grimaced. "It's indeed so; myself and five more, and never a lad among us. It's just as well my aunt had boys, or Sevenwaters would be scratching for an heir."

"Your aunt? That would be— ?"

"Our aunt Liadan. My father's twin. He had daughters. She had sons. The tuath will go from uncle to nephew, as it has done before. My father is not discontent with that."

"What are your sisters' names?"

"You really want to know? Deirdre, Clodagh, Maeve, Sibeal and Eilis. You'll learn those quick enough. They'll keep reminding you which is which, until you do."

I got a lightning tour of the house, which was more comfortable inside than its grim, fortified exterior suggested. Muirrin kept me

clear of the council room, whose doors were closed. The kitchen was bustling with activity: birds being plucked, pastry rolled, and a huge iron pot bubbling over the fire. The heat was fierce, the smell delicious. We were about to move on when a peremptory voice from the hearth stopped us in our tracks.

"Muirrin! Bring the girl here, lass!"

There was a very old woman seated on a bench by the fire. This was no disheveled crone, but a gaunt upright creature with dark hair pulled back into a big knot at the nape of her neck, and a fringed shawl around her bony shoulders. Her skin was wrinkled, but her eyes were very shrewd. It seemed to me nobody would dare set a foot wrong in the kitchen while she was there.

"Well, it can't be Niamh," she said as we approached. "So it must be Niamh's daughter, for it's her to the last hair of her head. Now that's something I never thought I'd see."

"This is Janis," said Muirrin, as if that should mean something. "She's been at Sevenwaters longer than anyone." She turned back to the old woman. "Fainne has come all the way from Kerry, Janis. I was just taking her to rest."

The dark eyes narrowed. "Kerry, eh? Then I know whose cart you came in on. So where's Dan? Why isn't he here to see me? Where's Darragh?"

This, then, was the auntie much mentioned.

"Dan's on his way," I said, "and Peg too. But Darragh's not coming."

"What? How can the lad be not coming? Stopped to look at a likely piece of horseflesh, has he? Playing for a wake?"

"No," I said. "He's not coming at all. He's left the traveling life and settled on a farm in the west. Training horses. A great opportunity. That's what they say."

"And what do you say?"

"Me? It's nothing to me."

She was unconvinced. "Training horses, eh? That wouldn't keep him off the road for long. Must be a lass in it somewhere. What else would it be?"

"There's no lass," I said severely. "Just a chance to better himself. He made a wise choice."

"You think so?" said the old woman, staring at me with her piercing dark eyes. "Then you don't know my Darragh very well. He's a traveling man, and a traveling man never settles. He might try; but sooner or later the road calls him, and he'll be off again. Different for a woman. She might yearn for it, but she can manage without it for the sake of a man, or a bairn. Well, go on then, off with you. Muirrin, make sure the lass gets her mother's old room. Put the little ones up the north end. And don't forget to give the bedding a good airing."

She spoke as if she were the mistress of the house and Muirrin a servant. But Muirrin smiled, and when we had made our way upstairs to a neat chamber whose narrow window looked out to the edge of the forest, the first thing she did was make up the fire and check the straw-filled mattress and woollen quilts. I decided my ideas of what life would be like in a great house such as Sevenwaters were badly in need of revision.

I had no wish to be grateful to Muirrin. I did not want to become her friend. I could not afford to be anyone's friend, if I were to carry out my grandmother's will. But I was forced to admit my cousin showed good judgment. What I longed for most was to be alone. The need to meet so many new people, and smile, and be polite, had taken its toll on me. Muirrin simply checked that I had all I wanted, and left me with a promise to return later. The chamber was to be mine alone, two beds or no. It would not hurt Deirdre and Clodagh one little bit to move, she had told me with a smile.

Later, there was a polite tap on the door, and a man brought in my little chest. It felt very strange to unpack in the room that had once been my mother's. Perhaps she had shared it with her sister, the Aunt Liadan they all spoke of. I had few belongings. I took out one of the good gowns and laid it flat, for later. I extracted a crumpled and cross-looking Riona and sat her in the window embrasure, looking out over the forest. Here, there seemed no special reason to hide her. It was a house of girls; probably there were dolls here aplenty. In fact, she seemed more at home here than I did. I could not rest, despite my aches and pains. My mind was too busy trying to make some sense of it all. The magnitude of the task before me meant I had no time to waste. I must find out as much as I could, and then I must formulate some sort of plan. I could not be idle. Grandmother would look, and she would find me. I had been a fool to doubt that. It was a branch of the craft I had little aptitude for, one which had frustrated and eluded me. But she, with her dark mirror, her bowl of still water, she had the skill to search and the eye to see. When she sought me there would be no place to hide.

It took time. It took courage as well. There were so many people, and so much noise, and apart from Muirrin nobody seemed to understand how much I hated that. It made my stomach clench tight and my head ache and my fingers long to make some mischief of their own. But I did not use the craft. Instead I watched and listened, and soon enough, with an application which was second nature to me after years of Father's tutelage, I learned the intricacies of the family and their allies.

There were the folk of this household, the keep of Sevenwaters, which was the center of my uncle Sean's vast tuath. Him I could tolerate. Sometimes he seemed a little distant, but when he spoke to me it was as to an equal, and he took the time to explain things. I never saw him being less than fair to any of his household. I was forced to remind myself that it had been he, among others, who had banished my mother from her home. It did not seem to me that Uncle Sean would be dangerous, except maybe on the field of battle, or in a debate of strategy. Then there was Aunt Aisling. Just watching her made me tired. She was perpetually busy, supervising every aspect of the household with a whirlwind energy that totally consumed her day. As a result, the place moved with a seamless efficiency. I wondered if she was ever happy. I wondered why you would have so many children when you scarcely had time to bid them good morning before you were off again to attend to some more pressing business.

This keep had once been the only major settlement in the forest of Sevenwaters. But now there were others, established by my uncle and tenanted by his free clients, whose own bands of armed men he could call upon in time of need. Thus the tuath had been made less vulnerable, with strong outposts serving as a reminder, should powerful neighbors think to stretch out a hand a little further than was appropriate. These free clients were part of the Council, as were the richly clad leaders of the Ui Neill in their tunics blazoned with the scarlet symbol of the coiled snake. In the household of Sevenwaters there was a brithem and a scribe and a poet. There was a master at arms and a fletcher and several blacksmiths. But it was others, unseen others, who intrigued me more.

Aunt Liadan was my mother's sister, and Sean's twin. My father had said she lived at Harrowfield. I had not realized how far away that was. Strangely, she dwelt in Britain among the enemies of Seven-waters, for her husband was now master of an estate in Northumbria which had once belonged to her father. When they were not living there they were at Inis Eala, some remote place far north, surely so distant it was hardly worth thinking of. But when my uncle Sean spoke of his sister it was as if she lived as close as a skip and a jump across the fields. Conor talked of her as of an old and respected friend. I tried to remember what my grandmother had told me. I thought she'd said something about wishing Ciaran had chosen the other sister, because their child would have been cleverer, or more skillful. It had not been the most tactful of remarks to make to me. But that was Grandmother for you.