Son of the Shadows (70 page)

I clenched my teeth and kept my silence.

"Heed us, girl." As the lord spoke, small sparks arose from his hair and from his robe, so that he was haloed with golden light. It touched Bran's wan features with a ghastly semblance of health.

"Dark forces stretch out toward your child. There are those who would do anything to prevent his survival. We can keep him safe. We can ensure he grows strong in body and spirit, fit for the task that lies ahead. You must bring him back. Or . . ."

I saw the seed of an idea forming in those changeable eyes, and quick as a flash I sprang up and snatched the sleeping Johnny from his nest of bracken to hold him tight in my arms.

"You're not taking him!" I spat, as alarm and fury surged through me. "Fair Folk or no Fair Folk, you won't steal my son and leave me with some changeling! And you won't dismiss his
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father either. They are mine, the two of them, and I'm keeping them both. I'm not a fool. I know the danger. I know about Lady

Oonagh and—and—"

I went back to the pallet, where I could stretch my arms around my small family, where I could make a strong wall of love to hold the three of us together. "We'll be safe. We'll keep each other safe," I said defiantly. "I know it. We have many protectors here. As for the prophecy, if it's to come about, it will come about whatever I may do. It will unfold as it must."

As I spoke, there was a thickening of the air, a darkening of a night already profound in its blackness. A

chill ran through me that was beyond cold, a freezing clutch deep in the bone. There was another presence here; one that now stood by the pallet, watching. In the darkness I thought I could detect a flowing robe and a deep hood, and within that hood, where a face might be, nothing more than ancient bone with blank holes for eyes.

"You may choose to defy us," said the lady gravely. "But you cannot deny her

. If she comes for him, he must go. It is his time. She will take him from you, however strong your hold. Let go, Liadan. Release this broken spirit from the fetters of life. It is not love, but selfish cruelty, to hold him thus. The dark one

waits. She will give him the rest he craves."

I gritted my teeth, and blinked back my tears. My voice, when I found it, was a tiny whisper.

"Not true.

He can't go. We need him here. I can hold on. I can."

The dark figure shifted, and I glimpsed a hand outstretched, a hand that was no more than bone and sinew.

"Go away," I breathed, "all of you. Leave this place now. I care nothing for who you are or what you are.

I defy your powers and your demands. I am a healer; my mother taught me her craft with love and discipline. This man will not die, not while I hold him in my arms. While I warm his heart with my own, he will not leave me. You cannot take him. He's mine."

And when the hooded one would not go, but lingered there, beckoning with her skeletal fingers, I began to sing. I sang very softly, as if I were lulling a child to sleep. Over and over I hummed my small tune, and my fingers stroked the new growth of hair on the patterned skull of my fallen warrior, and I gazed into the dark and spoke defiance with my weary eyes.

He's mine. You can't have him

.

"Fool of a girl," muttered the bright-haired lord. "Wretch of a mortal. That so much should rest on them.'"

But the lady stood and watched me, considering. I wondered why they did not simply use their magical powers to make me give up my son, or to rob Bran of his last breath, or indeed to drive every Briton from the Islands if that was what they wanted. Johnny gave a little sleepy cough and a sigh.

"As you say, child," said the lady. "It will unfold. Your choice may determine whether it unfolds at great cost, with blood and darkness. Your vision is so short you cannot see who may be trusted, and so your decisions are flawed. But it is your own choice, not ours. Our time is nearly at an end; it is your kind that will guide the course of events and influence the turn of the tide.

Whatever happens, we will fade and conceal ourselves, as the Old Ones did. We will be little more than a memory for the sons and daughters of your children's children. The pathway you set here will be a long one, Liadan. We cannot choose for you."

Awake

. The voice of the earth called, sang, groaned deep with the weight of ages.

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Awake now, warrior

.

Tears filled my eyes, and I whispered my response. "I will wake him. Trust me." I turned back to the tall beings who stood before me in the darkness. "For me there is but one choice," I said steadfastly.

"Your son's blood will be on your hands." The fiery lord's voice shook with a fury beyond mortal rage, a noise like thunder; yet the sleeping babe did not stir. "You want too much. You want more than you can have." He faded, until all that I could see of him was a faint outline in little sparks.

"It's a long tale," said the Lady of the Forest. "We thought it would be simpler. But the pattern is branching. We did not think the children would leave the forest. Your sister was corrupted. You are simply stubborn. There's too much of your father in you. So we must wait longer than we anticipated. But you will see its unfolding, Liadan. You will see what you have wrought tonight."

I wept as she too faded away, wept because I knew what I must do and because her words gave voice to a terrible fear and a gnawing guilt that I had tried to ignore since I rode out to Sidhe Dubh, since I first sensed Bran was in trouble and needed me. What if I was wrong? What if my pigheadedness brought death for my son and unleashed evil on the folk of Sevenwaters once more? Who was I to defy the warnings of the Fair Folk themselves?

I felt something. The smallest twitch against my hand where it clutched Bran's, as if his fingers tried, weakly, to curl around mine. Had I imagined it? Now his hand was limp and still again.

Perhaps it was

Johnny who had moved, tucked snug now next to his father on the pallet. But I was sure, I was almost sure of what I had felt. I could not give up. I would not. I must start again, right now, for time was passing swiftly, and I thought Bran's breathing slower and shallower than before, the breath of a man who walks steadily down his final pathway. The hooded one had retreated, but I sensed she still waited, out there in the darkness. Perhaps she could be patient, for in the end would she not take all?

"Help me," I whispered, and the voices came back, deep and sure.

Come out from the shadows, warrior. A mission awaits you. Walk forth from the darkness

. I closed my eyes once more.

Tell. . . tell the tale . . . there's a boy, bigger now. He's got a lot of bruises from the beatings. It's because he's no good, gutter scum, that he must be punished. Uncle says so. When Uncle gets really angry, he shuts the boy in the box. In the box it's dark. And small, smaller all the time as he grows. He learns to be quiet. He counts in his head. He learns not to cry, not to sniff, not to move, until the lid opens and light streams in, blinding and fierce. They drag him out, cramped and stinking, for more punishment.

There's a woman. The man beats her, too, and they do the thing, the grunting, pushing, sweaty thing. Uncle makes him watch. Uncle makes him watch a, lot of things. The boy tells himself he will never do that. It's a dark thing, mindless, animal, dark as the terror of the box. Do that and he will be Uncle himself. There's a dog, for a bit. The dog wanders in one cold night and decides to stay. It's mangy, stark ribbed, wild-eyed. The boy sleeps warm that winter, curled by the dog in the straw of the outhouse. By day the dog follows him, padding quiet in his shadow.

One fine spring morning Uncle beats the dog for killing chickens, and the boy holds it as it dies.

As the boy buries the dog, he makes a vow. When I am a man, he swears, next winter or the one after, I will do what must be done here and move on. I will move on and. never look behind me.

I felt tears rolling down my cheeks to dampen the linen beneath Bran's head and mine.

Hold on, dear one

. Could he hear the voice of my mind through the shadows that beset him?

I'm here beside you, with my arm around you. We need you ken, Bran. Come back to us. This
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dark dream is over

.

And faintly, so faintly, I thought I sensed a response, like a sigh, a breath, a fragment of thought.

. . .

Liadan . . . don't go . .

.

Then there was sudden light, out by the smothered fire, and the sound of footsteps, and Bran was gone, his inner voice abruptly silenced, the tenuous link instantly broken. I sprang up, furious, and staggered out of the shelter, for I had not realized how my efforts had exhausted me, nor how long I had sat there unmoving. It must be well into the night. How dared they disturb us? I had given strict instructions. How dared they do this?

"I told you!" I snapped as Gull came up toward me. "I told you not to come here tonight. What are these men doing?"

"Sorry," Gull said ruefully. There was something in his voice that made me wait for more.

"Thought you'd want to be interrupted for this."

Down by the remnants of the small fire four men were standing. One of the men was Snake, and one of them was Spider, I could see from the long, thin legs and the awkward way he gestured with his hands, and there was broad-shouldered, barrel-chested Otter, and a tall man with hair as red as an autumn sunset. As I walked forward this man turned toward me, and it was my father.

I ran to him and he hugged me close, and I soaked his shirt front with my tears, and the other men watched us in silence, until Gull said diffidently, "We'll go, if you want."

"It might be best," I sniffed. "I—I have to thank you for carrying out my mission so quickly and so successfully. I did not hope—"

"Not so difficult," said Otter gruffly. "Iubdan here was on his way back already. Waylaid him, that's all.

Heavy hand with a staff, your father's got, excuse me for mentioning it." He was rubbing the back of his head cautiously.

"I must speak with you alone, Liadan," said my father. "You know, I suppose, that Liam is gone.

We must return home to Sevenwaters in the morning."

"What do you mean, we

?" demanded Snake incautiously.

"Liadan can't go." Gull's tone was level, final. "We need her here."

"With respect," said my father very quietly, in the tone men had learned to fear, "that will be up to my daughter and to me. I hope you will extend us the courtesy of a little time together in private."

"The chief's dying," said Snake, his eyes like slits as he looked my father up and down, perhaps weighing his age against his size. "He needs her, she can't go."

I stepped between them and took each by a sleeve. "Enough," I said, with what firmness I could muster.

"I need my father to help me now. As for the other matter, I will give you my answer at dawn.

Now go."

"You sure?" queried Snake under his breath.

"You heard Liadan," said Gull. "Now move. Do as she says."

Within moments my father and I were alone.

"Well," Iubdan said, lowering his tall form to sit on the rocks and stretching out his booted legs before him. "I didn't expect to find you here. What am I to do with you, Liadan? You seem to have developed a taste for breaking rules and flouting conventions. Don't you understand the danger you are in here?"

"Forget that for now," I replied tersely. "There's a far more pressing matter to be attended to."

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"What can be more pressing than the need for us to get back to Seven-waters, with Liam slain and Sean alone, with our neighbors gathering and jostling for advantage? We should be there, not here with this rabble."

"I know you must go home," I said quietly, "Sean needs you more than he realizes. He faces a great challenge and must be supported. And—and he needs level heads about him, men of experience who can judge which allies may be trusted and which must be watched. You must go soon. But I have a terrible task here, Father, and I, too, need your help. Snake spoke the truth: Bran is dying. He has come close to abandoning hope altogether, for he believes himself not worth saving. He clings by the merest thread. I need your help to keep that thread intact, until I can grasp his hand and bring him back. Mother sent you across the water to find truth for us. I need to know what truth you discovered. I need you to tell me now, quickly."

"I understand your urgency, Liadan; I recognize the bond you share with this man, and the trust you place in him. And I know your judgment is sound. Still, you expect quite a leap of faith from me, Daughter. Are not these the very same outlaws who snatched your sister away and came so close to losing her? True,

they have treated me with unexpected courtesy. To hear them speak of you, one would imagine you a creature part queen, part goddess. But why won't they tell me anything about how you came to be here, so far from home, and so soon after the loss of your uncle? How can I not fear for your safety?"

"These men would lay down their lives for me and for my son, every one of them. We are safe here, Father."

"Your son? Johnny, too, is here? But—"

"Please, Father. Please tell me what you have discovered. I need to know what happened to Bran; what happened to his mother. Did you learn Margery's story?"

"I did, Daughter, and a sad and twisted tale that turned out to be. I pursued it through the settlements of

Harrowfield, back through eighteen years I followed it. I cannot tell you the full tale, but in the village of

Elvington, which lies over the hills from Harrowfield, I uncovered a part of it long kept secret."

"Tell me. No, better still, come with me to sit by his side and tell the two of us. He—he believes his mother left him, that she abandoned him. That is a deep wound his spirit has carried all these years. But my mother told me Margery loved her son, and I cannot believe she left him willingly."

"Tell you both?" Father looked perplexed, as we went to stand by the still, gray-faced figure in the shelter. "How can he hear us? Surely this man has lost any awareness of the world around him. Surely he is beyond saving. Your love, perhaps, makes you expect miracles. But miracles are rare, sweetheart. I