Flame of Sevenwaters (18 page)

That left me to entertain Luachan. He might have been quite willing to fish and paint and play with the others, as an escape from the rigors of life as a druid, not to speak of his duties as a bodyguard. But I did not want that. Finbar’s time with Rhian was a precious return to the childhood he should be having, and it would work far better for him if his tutor was not there.

So, when Luachan asked me if I wanted to walk, I said yes. I made a point of choosing conversational topics likely to engage the attention of a man who had started life as a son of privilege: lore, history, politics, strategy, poetry. This was not so much of a challenge as it might have been for some young women, for the household where I had lived for the last ten years was a place of free and lively debate. On spiritual matters I was perhaps a little shaky, but Luachan was ready enough to provide guidance. He was, after all, both druid and tutor.

Sometimes Luachan annoyed me. He seemed altogether too perfect, with his good manners, his handsome face, his strong shoulders and ready smile. For every dilemma I posed, he had an answer. I found I was longing for him to make an error, to be forced to admit he was wrong, or even to trip up and get his robe muddy. I wondered, once or twice, if I had imagined that game of stone-skipping and his readiness to wade into the shallows to prove himself.

But more often I enjoyed his company. I liked walking; a brisk outing along the forest paths was a pleasure, not a burden. I enjoyed robust conversation, for I was missing Uncle Bran and Aunt
Liadan more than I could have imagined. I began to look forward to his visits.

There was only one topic of conversation Luachen shied away from, and that was his family. It had seemed natural enough to ask him which part of Erin he came from, and whether he had brothers and sisters, and whether he ever saw them now he had joined the brotherhood. After all, he knew a great deal about my family, including some information that was not common knowledge beyond our household. For instance, the fact that my brother-in-law Cathal was the son of Mac Dara. The fact that the well-loved and respected Ciarán was the son of a fey sorceress. I did not imagine Luachan’s family housed any secrets of that kind. I learned, because he was too polite to refuse an answer to a direct question, that he had a brother and two sisters, and that his family lived somewhere in the south. Anytime I tried to go deeper, he changed the subject. So I stopped asking. Maybe his father had not wanted Luachan to follow a spiritual path. Maybe his mother would have preferred him to stay at home. Perhaps he was a disappointment to them. I decided it was none of my business anyway.

Rhian and I saw one or other of the druids every day. They greeted us with courtesy and brought us offerings from their gardens. Among them were women, all of them quite old, and I was glad for Sibeal that her life had taken a surprising turn, setting her on a spiritual path that allowed her to wed and become a mother as well as spend her life serving the gods. Deirdre had said everyone in the family had liked Sibeal’s husband, a Breton scholar whom she had met on an implausible-sounding adventure in the far north, culminating in an encounter with sea monsters. I had always thought Sibeal would lead a solitary, contemplative life. It made me wonder what lay ahead for Finbar.

And the dogs. Ah, the dogs. They did not show themselves by day; they never appeared when Luachan was at the cottage, or Finbar. But they weren’t far away. Rhian stopped talking about chicken-eaters and began regularly cooking more than the two of us could consume. She put bones aside. At the end of the day, there would always be something ready for me to set out for our wary visitors.

I was working on trust: every day the dish closer to the cottage; every day the food out a little earlier. If I had doubted my sanity, if I had thought they might be a strange dream conjured by my own mind or by some malignant power, I ceased to do so on the day the bigger dog ventured beyond the shelter of the woods in daylight. I had been waiting since I took the platter up. I was sitting on the ground with my back against the stone wall that surrounded our garden space. My cloak was the same gray as the stones; I was good at keeping still. So I saw him pad out, cautious and watchful, to snatch one of the two meaty bones, then turn and bolt back under the trees. I stayed where I was, wondering if the smaller dog would follow the other’s lead. But no: when a dark form came out from concealment, it was the same dog again, the fitter, bolder one. He took the second bone in his jaws, then lifted his head, suddenly still as he looked down the rise straight at me.

I, too, was still. I made sure I did not meet his eye direct. For the space of three long breaths he examined me; then he fled, carrying the food with him.

Later that evening Rhian remarked on how quiet I was. Inside me the two voices were having a small war again.
Don’t name them,
said Sensible Maeve.
They are someone else’s animals, and feral. You never intended to stay here. Not at the nemetons, and not at the keep. When Swift is gone, you’ll go home to Harrowfield.
But Wild Maeve said:
A name is such a small gift.
And indeed, I knew their names already. The big, strong dog: Bear. The damaged, weaker one: Badger.

The day Ciarán came to visit me, I had been helping Emrys with Swift and was sitting on the back steps of the cottage with my gown tucked up, my hair half-down, my shoes off and a cup of Rhian’s herbal tea beside me. Halfway between cottage and wood was Bear, hunkered down in the long grass watching me. Our silent friendship was moving on step by step, but progress was slow, and that troubled me. If Badger was sick or hurt, I needed to have a good look at her as soon as possible. Thus far she had
shown herself as no more than a dog-shaped darkness under the oaks, a pair of frightened eyes caught by the candle flame, her loyal guardian’s shadow.

And now here was Ciarán, coming to lower his tall form down beside me with no trace of embarrassment at my bare feet and disheveled appearance. Bear was up and gone in a flash.

“What was that?”

“A dog, Uncle. There are two of them; I have been gradually winning their friendship, or trying to. I think one of them is injured.”

“You love creatures.”

Suddenly I felt like weeping. “They see what a haven this place is, I suppose. I owe you a debt, Uncle, for allowing us to stay here. Without this, I would have…” Hard to finish this. I would have coped. I always did. But I would have been unhappy, and I would have made my parents unhappy. “I know we can’t stay here forever,” I made myself say.

“Stay as long as you need, Maeve.” Ciarán looked up toward the forest, to the place where the dog had gone into cover. “Swift seems to be doing well. I spoke to Emrys, and he believes the yearling will be ready to go back to the stables sooner than anyone imagined. Perhaps these dogs are your new challenge.”

“I doubt if Mother would think them sufficient reason for me to stay here, especially when the autumn chill starts to bite. I’m content in this place, Uncle Ciarán. But perhaps I am hiding.” It did not seem to matter that I had not spoken to him much; that we had not had time to develop the familiarity I’d had with Uncle Conor, back in the early days. Something in Ciarán’s presence inspired trust. With him, it felt safe to talk. “I’ve discovered I’m not as brave as I believed.”

He considered this awhile. “You think?” he said eventually. “I would point out that in the past you have shown great courage, a kind of courage most of us are not called upon to display in our whole lives. You might consider yourself something akin to Swift, and the purpose of your stay here similar to his. It is time to rest, time to recover, time to know yourself better. Its true meaning may not become clear to you until long after you have moved on.
This is a place of healing, Maeve. Tend to your dogs, help them, and perhaps you will find healing yourself.”

“I’m fine,” I said more sharply than I intended. “I’m as well healed as I can be, and I’ve learned to live with what cannot be mended.”

“Ah,” said Ciarán, and took my damaged hand in his. “It is not these wounds I speak of, but the ones that cannot be seen. The hurt inside. That, I think, is not truly mended, though you do a fine job of convincing yourself, and the world, that it is.”

“You and Finbar,” I said, finding a smile from somewhere, “share a particular gift for speaking the most painful truths. I do wonder if there are some things that we can never make our peace with. Wounds we carry for our whole lives.” I thought of Mother, and the look in her eyes as she spoke of Finbar’s abduction. I thought of the bone-deep weariness that had shadowed Ciarán’s face as he finished his story that night in the hall. “Maybe a druid can learn to accept even those,” I said.

A slow smile curved his lips. “I suspect it runs in the family.”

“What?”

“Speaking painful truths. A druid learns self-control. He learns to open his mind to the wisdom of the gods. Even so…even so.” The smile had faded. The mulberry eyes gazed into the distance, as bleak as a bare field in winter.

“You do such good,” I ventured. “Everyone speaks well of you.”

“It is one part of me.”

“They are saying you will be the next chief druid.”

“It has been suggested, yes.” A long pause. “If I am offered that honor, I will decline.”

For some reason, I did not feel surprised.

“That’s between you and me, Maeve. If no formal request comes, I may not need to take that step.”

“Of course.” After a moment, I asked, “Will you tell me why?”

Ciarán looked down at his hands, loosely clasped in his lap. “I’m not sure I know the answer. Call it a hunch, a feeling. I believe another path lies before me. What it is, I cannot say. A time of
change is coming. Change for all of us. Perhaps your arrival was the key that opened that door. Perhaps not. Only time will tell.”

I struggled to understand. “Uncle—are you speaking of Mac Dara? Of the danger that seems to lie over Sevenwaters now?”

“You know, in the ancient tales the Fair Folk appear as noble, wise, almost godlike. Even in the time of your grandmother and her brothers, the time of Conor’s youth, those who made their homes within the Sevenwaters forest were of that kind. They were generally well-disposed toward the human folk who dwelled here, perhaps realizing that as the new faith spread fast across Erin and people forgot the wisdom of the old ways, the Sevenwaters family provided one of their last refuges. They expected much from those to whom they chose to reveal themselves, but they also gave good gifts to those who deserved them. Thus it was with your grandmother, who was both challenged and aided by the Lady of the Forest in her time of great need. It was that same Lady, I believe, who visited your sister Sibeal when she was still a child and struggling with her newfound ability as a seer.”

“You speak of the Fair Folk as if they are no longer here. But Clodagh saw them when she crossed into the Otherworld to fetch Finbar back. Isn’t Mac Dara one of them?”

A bitter smile. “He is of that kind, Maeve, as was my mother, the sorceress. A darker breed, from a flawed line, but nonetheless powerful. And dangerous, since they are completely without scruples. Even the most noble and good of the Fair Folk do not view the world as you might. Their lives are far longer than those of humankind. They find it hard to comprehend that a person might make choices based on love or loyalty or compassion. The Lady of the Forest knew what was best for the future of Sevenwaters. She counseled Sibeal because she saw your sister as a guardian of old truths, wisdom that might be lost if not held in the minds of human scholars. She knew, then, that she would soon sail away from the shores of Erin, and that is what she did, with many others of her kind. Where they are gone, nobody knows. West across the sea, that is as much as I can tell you. Perhaps to Tir Na n’Og. Perhaps still farther, beyond the ninth wave.”

“But not all of them went away.”

“Indeed no, or the Otherworld part of Sevenwaters would be inhabited solely by smaller folk, clurichauns and tree people and the intriguing race known as the Old Ones, small in stature, great in influence. When the Lady and her companions quit the shore of Erin, they left a gap behind. To Fainne they entrusted a watch over their ancient secrets. Others, such as the druid brethren, hold a part of the wisdom that helps keep Erin safe through troubled times. But in the Otherworld there was no leader, no powerful presence to unite the remnant of the noble folk who had once ruled there and held the inhabitants of that realm in some kind of order. You know, I imagine, what happens when a space is left where, before, there stood a leader, a person of power.”

“Someone steps in to fill the space,” I said. “If there is no recognized way to appoint a new leader, a person can gain power of his own accord. His reasons for doing so may be flawed, but he rules because there is nobody to oppose him.”

“Exactly. That is what happened with Mac Dara. Where he came from, nobody seems quite sure. Whether he was appointed in what you refer to as a recognized way, or whether he simply stepped up and took control, I cannot say, but he assumed power here. Those of the Fair Folk who chose not to go with their old leaders, or who were perhaps not wanted on that last long voyage, became his sycophants, his hangers-on, and in some cases his henchmen. He is clever. He can be charming when he chooses. He had no difficulty in winning them over.”

“Uncle Ciarán?”

“You sound hesitant, Maeve. Please ask me whatever you wish. While you consider your question, I will tell you that out of the corner of my eye I see a black dog no more than ten paces away, with his gaze fixed on you as if you were some kind of god whom he both adored and feared. The other is up by the privy, crouched beside the step.”

So close. I prayed that Rhian would stay where she was, chatting to Emrys on the other side of the cottage, and not send them fleeing again.

“You were asking about Mac Dara,” Ciarán prompted gently. “Or perhaps it was a question about me.”

“It was, and please don’t answer if you would rather not. I know your parentage is mixed, Uncle Ciarán. Half human and half Fair Folk. And Clodagh’s husband, Cathal, is the same—in his case a human mother and Mac Dara himself as a father. I know it means you will live far longer than, say, my father. But…” After all, I could not ask it.