Child of the Prophecy (41 page)

"Stop it! This is evil!"

"Huh. Evil, is it? You've much to learn. Good and bad, shade and sunlight, there's but a hair's breath between them. It's all one in the end. Now tell me. Tell me everything you've done since you came here. Every detail."

"Haven't you been watching me each step of the way? Don't you know already?"

She cackled. "Hardly. I see fragments. A bit here, a bit more there. Pieces of a puzzle. A puzzle that concerns me. That's why I'm here. Now tell me. Then we'll work out what comes next. You've been wasting time. There'll be no more of that, do you hear?"

"Yes, Grandmother."

I told her. Heart clenched tight with misery, head full of unshed tears, I told her everything. I had to tell her because it was my fault. I had allowed these folk to creep under my skin. I had allowed them to charm me, and I had started to become one of them. And now, I could not stand by and see Sibeal or Clodagh or the others hurt. I could not stand by as Aunt Aisling lost yet another child. In particular, I could not let my grandmother develop any further interest in Dan Walker's family, wherever the road might have taken them. She had set a very neat trap, and I had walked right into it.

At last it was all out. The tale of the fire, though I left out how I felt about my walk in the forest with Conor, and what I had experienced at the celebration of Samhain. The story of what I had said to Eamonn, and my journey here to Glencarnagh, and how things had unfolded between us. I said nothing of the Old Ones, and as little about the children as I could. In particular I made no mention of Sibeal and her strange, clear eyes, a seer's eyes.

"Mm," said Grandmother when I had quite finished. "You must use this man Eamonn, that much is plain. Must and will. I knew his father. This is another the same. A very powerful man, Fainne. And a dangerous one. A man without honor. A man who will not hesitate to stab his brother in the back, if it should suit his purpose. A man who never forgets a slight."

"You are wrong, surely." Odd as Eamonn's manner sometimes seemed, it was hard to believe this of a man so bound by convention. Had he not said to me that he had never broken the rules?

"Don't believe it. He is the answer to our problem. Use his hatred. Use his desire. Make him want you so much he will promise you anything you ask him."

"That's ridiculous. Eamonn could have any woman he pleased. His interest in me is momentary. He does not mean to offer me marriage. I'm certain of it."

"Then you must change his mind for him. Take control. Use the craft. Make him burn for you."

"I—I cannot. This shames me, and demeans him. It is—it is not fair."

"Fair? Fair, she says?" Grandmother gave another cackling laugh. I wondered how long it would be before someone heard her and came tapping on the door to ask if I were quite well. "Forget fairness. Forget honor. Meaningless concepts, the two of them. There's only one thing that matters here, Fainne. Power. Your power over this man. His power to break the alliance. Our power to defeat the Fair Folk. Power and vengeance. The rest is nothing."

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Now tell me again. Tell me what he said about your aunt Liadan. And tell me what he said about her husband."

"I need not repeat it. I know what must be done."

"Huh! You? That's a little hard to believe, from your performance so far."

"I know what must be done," I repeated grimly. "You'd best leave me alone to get on with it."

"What? Get on with what?"

So I set it out for her, step by inevitable step: a plot that fed on jealousy and obsession, that used subterfuge and treachery to achieve its end. I could scarcely believe that I must go through with it. But there seemed to be no other way. When I was finished, my grandmother smiled at me, little pointed teeth in a mouth wizened by age.

"Good," she cooed. "Very good, Fainne. Perhaps you may become something after all, for all your unprepossessing looks."

"Grandmother, you must trust me to go through with this. There will be no need for you to come again. Do that, and it could be difficult for me to keep their trust."

She quivered with mirth. "Giving me orders now, are you? I'll come if I want, girl."

"You're not listening. I give you my word. I will do as you ask, as long as—as long as you do not—"

"Hurt those you love? Oh dear, love is such a confusing thing for a young girl, isn't it? We'd all be better off without it. The sooner you realize that, the easier life will be for you. Never choose your man for love. There's no future in that."

"Do you agree? Will you trust me to carry this out for you?"

"Trust? Huh! I'll need a safeguard. And mark my words, if you can't make this plan work, you'll need to take more drastic action. I'll give you a little time, just long enough. But I want to see progress, Fainne. I want results. You're right, I don't gladly come to these parts. Wear the amulet. Then I'll know you are safe. Don't take it off. Never, you understand?"

She was staring at me intently again, as if to see deep within. Thank the great goddess she had never mastered the art of reading another's mind, of speaking without words. And she could only see me when I wore it. Sweet Brighid, it was true. I had been stupid. I had been blind indeed.

"Yes, Grandmother. In the morning I will find a strong cord, and put your token back around my neck. I promise."

"I hope you're not lying to me. I'll know if you do not keep this promise. And it will be others who suffer."

I bit my lip and refrained from reply.

"Well, now," she said expansively. "What a pleasant little visit. Take care to get this right, Fainne. Don't scare me like that again. Let me down, and I will show you how creative I can be, I promise you. Do the right thing, and it may be a long time before you hear from me again."

"Yes, Grandmother."

"Farewell, then."

I watched as she faded, slowly, in the dim light from glowing fire and solitary candle. I stood staring until all trace of the hideous, disheveled old crone was quite gone. Even then, I passed my hand through the air once, twice, three times before I was satisfied there was nothing there. It was dark outside now. Supper would be over, the little girls getting ready for bed. Eamonn would be seated alone before the hall fire, with the wine jug for company. Maybe I should start tonight. My heart quailed. Why had I believed I had the strength to defy her? Why had I let myself think I might choose my path, might strive toward light instead of darkness? There was no choice for me, and there never had been.

And the amulet. How foolish had I been, not to recognize that for the witch's charm it undoubtedly was? Wear this always. It will protect you. A mind-twister, most potent of controls; through it she could keep watch on me and bend me to her own will. I had read of such a charm long ago, in the dusty pages of an old grimoire. While I wore it, she could find me. The moment I had taken it off she had known; known and come hastening after me, enraged and—and something else as well. Almost frightened. As if a Fainne outside her control were infinitely more dangerous to her than all the Fair Folk in the world. But that could not be right. As a sorceress I was half-trained, scarce tried in the more challenging branches of the art, hindered by my youth and inexperience. By contrast, my grandmother was a master, more powerful even than my father, for had she not captured him in her own spell of deathly sickness? I must have been mistaken. I glanced toward the wooden chest. The amulet was secure. In the morning I must put it on again. I must keep my word. It was the only way. I would protect them, my father, the girls, the family and—and everyone who was close to me. I could not watch her destroy them one by one.

I heard folk moving about in the hallway. It was not so verylate. Grandmother had come and gone between the sitting down to supper and the last quenching of candles. I should go and speak to Eamonn now, while I had the courage. Quickly I stripped off my nightrobe and, shivering, dressed in a fresh gown. I pulled my hair into a ribbon at the nape of my neck. I put on my indoor slippers, and told myself I would never, ever complain about my twisted foot again. I splashed my face with water from the jug, all the while feeling the thud of my heart and the cold clutch of fear inside me. That sensation would never be gone now, not until the task she had set me was complete. And after that, nothing would matter anymore.

I opened the door cautiously, hoping I might slip along the hallway unnoticed. I took one step out and halted. Sibeal sat on the floor of the passage with her cloak around her to keep out the cold. She was so still I could only just see her there in the shadows. She did not speak, but looked up at me, and my candle flame flickered small but sure in the water-clear surface of her strange eyes. She rose to her feet in total silence. As I opened the door wider, she moved across like a small ghost, and came past me into my chamber. I closed the door behind us.

For a moment she said nothing.

"What is it, Sibeal? Why were you waiting there?"

'The others said not to tell you. Not now. They said it was too late."

"What? Not to tell me what?" Could there be anything worse than what had already befallen me this day? My mind raced through the possibilities. News from Sevenwaters. Maeve. News from farther afield. My father. "What is it? Tell me!"

The child regarded me gravely. "We did try to tell you. But you wouldn't answer. And then Uncle Eamonn got cross, and made us go away."

I grabbed her by both arms and gave her a little shake. "Tell me!" I said through gritted teeth.

"You don't need to hurt me. You don't need to be angry."

I reminded myself that she was only eight years old, and that she had waited, silent in the dark, until I was ready to come out. "I'm sorry. I'm—I'm worried, that's all. Is it bad news?"

"No. It's just that that pony was here. The one in your stories. We thought you'd like to know. We thought you'd like to see. But it's too late now."

If I had felt fear before, it was nothing to the anguish that gripped my heart now.

"What pony?" I whispered, as if I did not know the answer.

"The white pony. You know, the one in all your stories. He let us pat her, and Eilis gave her a carrot."

"He?" I breathed.

"The man. The man in the stories, the one with the little gold ring in his ear. He was asking about you."

"Darragh? Darragh was here today?" My voice shook. He was here, and Grandmother was here, and she had said—she had said, You could send a tinker's lad with a message. She had said, He's as like to be murdered on his way. "Maybe it wasn't him," I said, clinging to foolish hope. "Why would he come here? He's got work in the west, long miles from Glencarnagh. Maybe it was somebody else. Where is he now, Sibeal? Quick, tell me!"

Sibeal's tone was solemn. "Gone. Him and the pony both. Uncle Eamonn sent him away. Uncle Eamonn was cross."

"How long ago? Where was he going?"

"Away. I don't know where."

"Which way? East, to Sevenwaters? West? Which way? How long, Sibeal?"

"What's the matter, Fainne?" Her eyes were wide and questioning, almost fearful.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's all right. You did well to wait for me, so you could tell me. I'm just—I'm just—"

"Upset that you missed him? We thought you would be. That's why we tried to tell you before. But you wouldn't answer the door."

"I'm sorry," I said again. Sorrier than she would ever know. That he had been here was strange enough. Who knew why he had come? That I had not seen him was cruel indeed. But it was better this way. He was gone, and I would not see him again, and that meant he was safe from Grandmother. Perhaps he had been in these parts to visit the old woman, Janis. Perhaps that was it. In any event, this was better. Much better. Why, then, did it hurt so much that I felt as if my heart were being ripped in two?