Flame of Sevenwaters (41 page)

The wise woman does not invite them into the hut, but seats herself beside them on a tree stump, wrapping her cloak more closely around her against the evening chill. The girl goes inside.
A lamp is lit, and sounds of clanking dishes suggest she is preparing a meal.

“My student and helper,” the wise woman says. “I’m not getting any younger.”

“If there’s anything we can do for you…”

She smiles, awakening a map of lines on her weathered skin. “Me, ask such as you to fetch wood and water, or mend my roof, or feed my feathered friends? Holly will attend to that, and what she can’t manage I’ll do for myself. There’s only one thing I want from the two of you.”

“Tell us what it is, then.” The warrior’s tone has an edge now; the need to be gone pulls at him.

“Not so fast, young brother. Everything in its own time.”

With a visible effort he remains silent.

“I will not invite you to supper. I will not offer you the shelter of my roof. What I want from you is the answer to one question. My gift to you is powerful. Tell me how you will use it.”

The men exchange a glance; mulberry eyes and black.

“For change,” says the druid. “For good.”

“For the future,” the warrior says.

“There will be pain in this,” says the wise woman. “A measure of sorrow, a measure of loss. There will be sacrifice and a long farewell.”

They sit in silence awhile, as the light fades and the air grows chill. The warm glow of the lamp beckons from within the hut; it is too cold out here for an old woman.

“Very well, then,” the crone says. “The words you want are these:
Held by hands that cannot hold stands the steed so proud and bold.
A season ago, it would not have been clear to anyone how these conditions might come to pass or, indeed, what they might mean. And now, I hear, Sevenwaters has both an exceptional horse and a young woman with disfigured hands.”

“Maeve,” the druid breathes. “I was right, then: this does require her presence.”

“There’s more.”

“Out with it,” the warrior snaps, then adds, “I’m sorry. Please tell us, and let us move on with haste.”

“If you didn’t care for the first part, you’ll like the second still less.
Chieftain’s son with seer’s eyes observes the Lord of Oak’s demise.
That’s all I know, and now you have the whole, if you’ve seen three of my sisters in turn. I believe my lines come first.”

“Finbar,” whispers the druid. The blood has drained from his face. “I thought his part in this was done. The risk is high indeed.”

“
Observes
,” says the warrior. “To observe is not in itself perilous.”

“It means, at the very least, that he must be there at the end. That, I like little. I like even less a reference to Maeve and to fire in the same verse. There is a cost in this beyond that which we already know and accept.”

“You would not act on it then?”

“If you do not act, and act soon,” says the old woman, “another will. And you will like that even less.”

The two men become a pair of statues, gazes fixed on her.

“You thought this would be easy? You thought that once you had learned the terms of the geis, you might set them in place and watch your enemy fall victim to the ending this verse laid out for him? These things are never so simple. What man would put a child at risk of his life, or a crippled kinswoman, even with so much at stake? For you, the gain must always be balanced against the risk. Another, without your scruples, might think differently. A human life or two might weigh little in that person’s balance.”

“Another,” echoes the warrior. “What other?”

“A rival,” says the druid, comprehension coming fast now. “He has a rival for his place as ruler. Hence the urgency, hence the spate of attacks, the increase in activity. He’s panicking, desperate to get what he wants before this person mounts a challenge.”

“And it is possible,” says the old woman, “that with all his attention on that challenge, he has failed to notice the return of a woman with crippled hands to Sevenwaters.”

“How can there be a rival?” the warrior asks. “There’s nobody
there with the authority, the wits, the power to challenge him. I’m quite certain of it.”

“Ah,” says the old woman, “but it is some years since you walked among them, and time passes differently in that realm. I should not have to tell you that, young man. I have heard that one is come who will indeed challenge him, and soon. If you would avert this, you must go quickly; the dark is at the doorstep.”

“Who?” demands the warrior. “Who is it?”

“My informants told me only that there is a rival, and that this rival is devious, clever and without any sense of right and wrong.”

“I thought only you and your sisters knew the geis,” says the druid.

“By means of torture,” she says, “it seems another party has obtained the verse. Not from one of my sisters, but from a smaller being who had the misfortune to be present when the geis was first spoken. The small one paid a heavy price before she gave up her knowledge.”

“So we may already be too late,” the druid says.

“Too late? No. But you must act swiftly. My spies believe all will soon be in place.”

A silence, then the two men speak as one. “How soon?”

A beam of warm light comes from the door of the hut, where the girl has appeared, wanting to call her teacher in to supper, but reluctant to interrupt.

“All right, Holly, I’m coming. It’s too cold for my old bones out here.” The wise woman rises slowly to her feet. “Tomorrow,” she says. “Walk as a man walks and you will come too late. Run as a deer runs and you will come too late. Fly as a bird flies and perhaps you will be in time. Farewell, and may the breath of Danu lift your wings.”

CHAPTER 12

W e had not been waiting long when Caisin Silverhair entered the chamber, accompanied by Fiamain and two men of the fey, one young and well made, with russet curls and a merry face, the other much older in appearance and wearing the dark robe of a councilor or sage. That struck me as odd; I had thought the Fair Folk might possess the secret of eternal youth, or at least the magical arts to make folk
seem
young. I’d heard something of that kind about Mac Dara—that it was difficult for folk to tell him and his son, Cathal, apart, so alike they were in looks. Yet Cathal was only part fey. Although Mac Dara was his father, Cathal’s mother carried a blend of human blood and that of the Sea People. And Mac Dara was years and years Cathal’s senior. He had fathered scores of daughters over the years, but only the one son. The tale was one thread in the complicated family tapestry of Sevenwaters. Mac Dara’s quest to retrieve his son, or his grandson, to rule his Otherworld princedom after him, was the stuff of legend.

“My sister, Fiamain Flamehair,” said Caisin, seating herself at the head of the table. “My brother, Dioman Owlfriend. My councilor,
Breasal Wiseheart. We welcome you. It is late and you are weary. Please, partake of these humble provisions; all are safe for you to eat.”

Owlfriend. I liked that name. Stealing another look at the young fey man with his cheery smile and bright eyes, I saw that on his shoulder, half-hidden in his exuberant hair, a small owl was perched, its gaze fixed unnervingly on me. It was so still it might have been a thing created cleverly from feathers and linen and wadding, but I knew it was alive. It put me in mind of the little dog I had seen among those nighttime riders, seated on its mistress’s knee and scarcely aware of the world around it. It reminded me of the girl who had helped me bathe. I could not repress a shiver.

“Thank you, my lady.” Luachan stepped in when I failed to respond. “We acknowledge your generosity. But we will eat from our own provisions.” He had his bag with him, and now he took out the cloth-wrapped bundle that held his store of food.

“So careful.” Caisin’s eyes were not on Luachan. She was studying me with altogether too much perception. “You still don’t trust me, Maeve? Twice now I have given you my aid and asked for nothing in return.”

In my mind I heard the voice of Uncle Bran, a man who had gotten himself out of more tight corners than most folk see in a lifetime.
Don’t let small things—a flicker of the eyes, a movement of the hand—reveal what’s in your mind.
“It is not you, my lady,” I said. “In all the old tales I have heard, human folk cannot partake of Otherworld food or drink without some ill effect.” I realized as I said this that Ciarán’s story of Finn and Baine was an exception, for they had drunk from the forbidden stream, and all that had resulted was exceptional physical beauty. There was a joke in that somewhere, a joke I might make at my own expense. “Since Luachan has brought food from home, it makes sense to exercise caution and to eat that.” When she simply regarded me, brows up, I added, “In fact, the first time you offered me food I accepted. My dog and I both ate what you provided and it was welcome.”

“This food, too, is from your world,” put in Fiamain. “My sister anticipated your caution. You may eat it safely.”

“For the love of Danu, leave the girl be,” said the young man, Dioman. “If she prefers sodden bread and moldy cheese, let her have it. Or are we to be all night debating the niceties of supper? I’ll eat this if nobody else will. What’s in the flask, mead?”

He sounded so ordinary, so down to earth, that I was almost convinced the food was safe. But Luachan was passing me a share of his own supply and providing Finbar with the same, and although the bread had indeed suffered a little from rain seeping into its package, it would suffice for now. It was a big step up from raw bones.

The Fair Folk ate what was on the table with apparent enjoyment. Finbar helped me with my food; my hunger was stronger than my need for privacy. Nobody said much until the meal was almost finished. Finbar was struggling to stay awake. His eyes were shadowed in a face wan with weariness. I was about to ask if he could go to bed when Caisin spoke.

“We must speak privately, Maeve. But first, I have something to show you.”

“Of course,” I said. “But Finbar should go to bed; he’s worn-out.”

“Oh, I think Finbar will want to see this,” Caisin said. “The young man may come, too, if you wish.”

She led us through such a maze of passageways that I no longer knew in which direction we were headed. Everywhere those lanterns floated above us, setting a warm light on the birch trunk walls and the leafy roof, above which no sign of the sky was visible. Were we outside? Inside? Somewhere between? This grove, if grove it was, seemed untouched by Mac Dara’s eldritch darkness and quite sealed off from the wintry weather that had attended our journey. It was a dream world, the kind of place one might invent for a tale of magic and wonders; a realm to which a lonely, unhappy child might long to escape for a while. All was warmth, light, peace, beauty. There was nothing like the bustle of orderly activity I was accustomed to see in the Sevenwaters keep or in Aunt Liadan’s house at Harrowfield, only people strolling in little groups, or drifting along by themselves as if their thoughts were elsewhere.

Caisin’s high status in the household was obvious. Folk greeted her with reverence and she was gracious in her responses. Our supper companions had all come with us. I could not imagine what she wanted us to see. The opportunity to talk with her alone might be useful. Perhaps I could summon the courage to ask her about Mac Dara and the Disappearance. At Father’s council, everyone had seemed to agree that information was what we needed to defeat him, and where better to get information than in the Otherworld itself? Whether she would tell me was another matter, of course. But I should try.

“This way,” Caisin said, and led us through another doorway. I smelled horses before I saw what was before us.

“Come up beside me, Maeve,” Caisin said. “There. Now you can see.”

There was a barrier of woven withies very much like the one around the training yard at Sevenwaters, and within it an open, grassed area. Even here I could not tell if we were indoors or out of doors; it was noticeably cooler, but there was no wind, no rain, and the place was lit by more glowing lanterns hanging overhead. At one side was an open shelter with a feeding trough and a water barrel. And there, at the far side of the area, stood a magnificent silver-gray yearling. He was somewhat the worse for wear. Patches of blood stained the lovely pelt; his long journey had marked him.

“You found him,” I breathed. “Swift is safe.” Remarkably, our lovely horse, apple of so many eyes, had survived his wild run through the forest. I must get in there and find out if he had any major injuries. I took a step toward the barrier and halted, seeing the look in his eyes. There was no trace of recognition there. His stance said clearly that the first sudden movement or unexpected sound would send him over the fence to wreak a trail of destruction through Caisin’s peaceful hall.

“Our people brought him in earlier today,” said Dioman. “Not without some difficulty, I may say. The creature seems more than half wild. He won’t eat. He won’t stand still long enough to have those cuts tended to. And he’s kicked one or two of our folk, done some damage.” He glanced at Caisin.