Читать книгу Child of the Prophecy - Juliet Marillier - Страница 9

The rain set in, and one of the children had a cough. I offered to stay behind and tend to her, and Peg accepted gratefully. But she left Roisin as well, for company, she said. Being nursemaid suited me. The little girl was no trouble. Besides, it was wet for walking, and I would not contemplate riding with Darragh again, let alone talking to him. The very thought of him made me wretched. I knew how badly I had hurt him. Funny, it seemed to be my own heart that was aching now.

While the child rested, I occupied myself with my other small charge. It had spent the night perched on a side support of the tent, tiny, still and silent. Maybe it didn’t want me to know that it could fly. It did not sleep all day, as an ordinary owl should. Instead, it kept its eyes half-open watching me, and seemed happy to accept the small morsels I produced: grubs, beetles and the like. In the quiet of the night, while the folk lay wrapped in sleep, I had seen it, twice, lift its small ragged wings and swoop, deadly and noiseless, to seize some small wriggling creature from the earth, then return to the perch to eat its meal tidily with miniature beak and talons.

‘You’re a fraud,’ I whispered as I sat by the child’s bedside with the owl perched on my finger, and dangled a freshly dug worm. The little bird stared intently, then opened its beak and gave a snap. The worm disappeared. ‘A complete fraud.’ The bird closed its eyes to slits, ruffled its feathers, and appeared to go to sleep. Then I heard hoofbeats outside, and returned it hastily to its dark corner.

Roisin’s voice could be heard, and a man’s. I glanced out of the tent, then retreated back inside. I imagined Roisin only saw her young man once a year. It was not the easiest way to conduct a courtship, if that was what it was. I sat quietly, hearing their voices, but not catching the words. My mind was far away. I was thinking of Father, and how he had lost both his sweetheart and his dreams. I was thinking it was just as well I was going to Sevenwaters now, and not later. Some things could hurt you. Some people could wound you. There was no room in my life for that. And there was no room in any other kind of life for me, or for my kind. I knew that already. I just had to keep telling myself, that was all, and the pain would go away in time.

The rain had almost stopped. From out by the fire, Roisin called me.

‘Fainne?’

I emerged from the tent. The young man was building up the fire, and Roisin was making tea.

‘Come and have a drink. It’s getting chilly. This is Aidan. Aidan, this is Fainne. Darragh’s friend.’

Not any more, I thought, forcing a smile.

‘Happy to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,’ said the young man, and I nodded.

‘Aidan’s got some news, Fainne.’ Roisin sounded unusually hesitant. I stared at her. I could think of no news that might possibly be any concern of mine. ‘Sounds as if Darragh’s finally made up his mind,’ she went on.

‘About what?’ I asked, accepting a cup of her steaming chamomile brew.

‘Diarmuid O’Flaherty, and his horses,’ said Aidan, who had settled on one of the benches with his arm around Roisin.

‘Didn’t he tell you?’ queried Roisin, as I made no response.

I shook my head.

‘Just that O’Flaherty’s been on at him, and on at Dad, these two years, to let Darragh stay up there at the farm and help train his horses. Ever since Darragh worked his magic on an animal none of O’Flaherty’s men could touch. That was a good while back. He’s got that way with them, Darragh, like nobody else. Some of the best stock comes out of O’Flaherty’s. It’d be a great chance for Darragh. But our kind doesn’t settle. He always said no. Rather be on the road or back in Kerry, horses or no horses.’

‘Looks like he’s settling now,’ observed Aidan. ‘Maybe there’s a lass in it. O’Flaherty’s daughters are a bonny enough pair.’

Roisin glared at him. As for me, I sat there with my cup in my hands and said not a word.

‘Bit of a surprise,’ said Roisin. ‘Dad’s pleased, and sad too. He knows it’s a great opportunity. But we’ll all miss Darragh.’

‘Not so hard maybe,’ said Aidan. ‘You’ll see him at fair time. That’s the pattern of it for us here in Ceann na Mara,’ he explained, looking at me. ‘Summers in the hill country, winters on the coast. O’Flaherty’s got big holdings. Wed into that family and you’d be falling on your feet, that’s certain.’

‘Who said anything about wedding?’ scoffed Roisin, digging him in the ribs.

‘Folk’ll be saying it.’

‘Folk can say what they want. That doesn’t make it true. I never thought Darragh would do it. Surprised us all.’ She glanced at me. ‘Thought you’d have been the first to know.’

After that things moved very quickly. O’Flaherty was to be off home the next day, and he was taking Darragh with him. Folk gathered in the evening around the fire, but the air was biting cold and nobody was in a festive mood. I said I was tired and stayed in the tent. People talked quietly and drank their ale. There were no tales, and not much laughter. Later someone asked Darragh to play his pipes; but it was Dan Walker who entertained them with a couple of tunes. I could not see, but I could tell from the sound of it. The playing was more expert than Darragh’s, but it had not the same heart.

Much later, when all were asleep and a gentle rain had begun to fall again, I heard him, a long way off, down on the shore in the dark. He was playing alone; playing some kind of farewell, to his folk and his family, to the sort of life that was in his blood and in his being. I’m a travelling man, remember? he’d said. Always on the move, that’s me. The lament rang forth over the empty strand and the dark surging waters, piercing the very depths of my spirit. This would have been easy once. I would simply have got up and walked down to the shore to sit by Darragh as he played. There would have been no need for words between us, for my presence would have been enough to tell him I was sorry I had hurt him. He would have understood that he was still my friend. Things were different now. I had changed them, and now my friend was leaving me for ever. It was better that way; better for me, far better for him. Why, then, did it hurt so much? I curled my hand around my grandmother’s amulet, feeling its warmth, feeling the reassurance it gave me that the path I had chosen was the right one, the only one. I rolled the blanket around myself, and curled up tight, and put my hands over my ears. But the voice of the pipes cried out in my heart, and would not be silenced.

A long time later I came to Sevenwaters. It was past Meán Fómhair and there was a misty stillness in the air. There had been many days on the road, too many to count. Our party had split in two, leaving one cart at a camp not far inland from the Cross with most of the folk. Without the old people and the children we moved more quickly, stopping only at night. Dan drove the cart, Peg sat by him, and Roisin kept me company. For all their kindness, my thoughts were on the task ahead of me; beyond that I could see nothing. I told myself sternly to forget Darragh. What was past was past. I tried very hard not to think about Father.

We camped a night or two at a place called Glencarnagh where there was a great house and many armed men in green tunics going about their business with grim purpose. Already, there, I saw more trees than ever before, all kinds, tall pines dark-caped in fine needles, and lesser forms, hazel and elder, already drifting into winter’s sleep. But that was nothing to the forest. As we moved along a track with great heaps of tumbled stones to left and right, you could see the edge of it in the distance where it crept across the landscape, shrouding the hills, smothering the valleys. Above it the mist clung, damp and thick.

‘That’s it, lass,’ announced Dan Walker. ‘The forest of Sevenwaters.’

‘Going right in, are we?’ enquired Peg. Her tone was less than enthusiastic.

‘The old auntie’d kill me,’ Dan said, ‘if I passed by these parts without a visit. Besides, I promised Ciarán I’d deliver the lass safe to her uncle’s door.’

‘If that’s the way of it, that’s the way of it,’ said Peg.

‘You’ll get a good meal there, if nothing else,’ Dan said, looking at her sideways. ‘Auntie’ll see to that.’

Going right in, as Peg had put it, proved more difficult than I could have imagined. We came across grazing fields and up a slope to a rocky outcrop. The forest was before us, encircled by hills, stretching out like a huge dark blanket. It was daunting; a place of mystery and shadows, another world, cloaked and secret. I could not comprehend how anyone could choose to live in such a place. Would it not suffocate the spirit, to be deprived of the wind and the waves and the open spaces? In my pocket the small owl stirred. And before us on the track, where there had been nobody at all, suddenly there was a troop of armed men dressed in the same dark colours as the stones and trees around us. Their leader stood out, for over his jerkin he wore a tunic of white, emblazoned with a blue symbol: two torcs interlinked.

‘Dan Walker, travelling man of Kerry,’ said Dan calmly, getting down off the cart without being asked. ‘You know me. My wife, my daughter. We’ve come from Glencarnagh. I’m hopeful of Lord Sean’s hospitality for a night or two.’

The men came around both sides of the cart, poking and prodding at the contents. They had swords and knives, and two of them were armed with bows. There was a grim efficiency about the whole exercise.

‘Tell your people to step down while we search,’ said the leader.

‘We’re travelling folk.’ Dan’s tone was mild. ‘There’s not a thing in here but pots and pans and a basket or two. And the girls are weary.’

‘Tell them to step down.’

We did as we were told. Standing by the track, we watched as a methodical search took place, through every single item on the cart. Even my little wooden chest was not spared. I did not like to see the men at arms taking out Riona and touching her silken skirts with their big hands. Eventually they were finished. The leader ran his eye over us. Roisin winked at him, but his face remained impassive. He looked at me and his expression sharpened.

‘Who’s this girl?’

He was scrutinising me closely, and I was scared. These were druid folk, weren’t they? Maybe he could look into my eyes and read my grandmother’s ill intent there. Maybe they would stop me before I had even started, and then my father would be punished. Quick as a flash I used the Glamour, subtly, to give my face a sweetness and my eyes a dewy innocence. I looked up at the man at arms through my long lashes.

‘She’s Lord Sean’s niece from Kerry,’ said Dan. ‘Fainne. Entrusted to me for safekeeping on the journey here. She’s to stay on awhile at Sevenwaters when we travel back.’

‘Niece?’ said the man, but his voice had softened a little. ‘I don’t know anything about any niece.’

‘Send a message to Lord Sean, if you will. Tell him his sister’s daughter is here. He’ll let us through.’

The armed men retreated to confer in private. There were glances in my direction, and more than one in Roisin’s as well. ‘Worse than last time,’ commented Peg. ‘Guard’s increased. Must be something afoot.’

‘They’ll let us through,’ said Dan.

There was quite a wait. The first night was spent camped by the guard post, while a man rode off down a near-invisible forest track bearing a message for my uncle. The next morning, very early, we were roused by the sound of muffled hoofbeats on the soft soil. While I was still putting aside my blankets and rubbing the sleep from my eyes, two men rode up and dismounted on the track and Dan Walker went forward to greet them. Two grey dogs, the size of small ponies, stood guard by the horses.

‘My lord.’

‘Dan Walker, isn’t it? No need for formality. I trust you’ve slept safe here.’

The man who spoke must be my uncle Sean. He had an authority about him which marked him instantly as a leader. He was of middle years, not so tall, but strongly built, with dark curling hair pulled tightly back from his face. His clothes were plain and serviceable, but of fine quality, and he, too, wore the symbol of the linked torcs. The other man, standing behind him, I could not see.

‘I hear,’ said my uncle, ‘that you’ve brought us an unexpected visitor.’

Dan Walker gave a little cough. ‘Promised her safekeeping to your door, my lord. She dwells close by the place we make our summer camp. The girl’s called Fainne.’

Because I could put it off no longer, I walked across to stand by Dan’s side. I looked up at my uncle Sean and gave a guarded smile.

‘Good morning, Uncle,’ I said very politely.

His expression changed as if he’d seen a ghost. ‘Brighid save us,’ he said softly. ‘You’re your mother’s daughter, sure enough.’

Then one of the very large dogs pushed past possessively to plant itself squarely in front of him, growling low in its throat as it fixed its fierce eyes on me.

‘Enough, Neassa,’ my uncle said, and the hound fell silent, but still she watched me. ‘You’re most welcome to our home, Fainne.’ He leaned forward to kiss me on one cheek and then the other. ‘This is quite a surprise.’

‘I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient.’

‘You’ll certainly find us in some upheaval at present, for we are in the midst of a major endeavour. But there’s a welcome for you at Sevenwaters, nonetheless. It will be best if you ride back with us. We’ve brought you a suitable mount. Dan and his folk can follow at more leisure, with an escort.’

‘No need for that,’ said Dan. ‘Besides, I did undertake to bring the lass all the way to Sevenwaters itself. My instructions were quite particular.’

Lord Sean’s eyes narrowed just a touch. ‘An escort is required for all coming in, and for all going out, friend or no. It’s as much for your own protection as anything. The days of slipping into Sevenwaters for a wedding or a wake are long gone. These are dangerous times. As for my niece, she is assured of safety with her family. You would not question that, surely?’

Dan gave a wry smile. ‘No, my lord,’ he replied.

‘You may wish to take a little time to ready yourself.’ My uncle looked at me more closely, perhaps observing the rumpled gown, the unplaited hair. ‘A bite to eat, maybe. But don’t be too long. It’s quite a ride.’

He drew Dan slightly away, as if to confer out of earshot, and now I could see the other man, his silent companion, waiting at a short distance, holding the bridles of three horses in his hand. This was a much older man, with soft, glossy hair that had once been chestnut brown but now was frosted with white; hair in which many small plaits had been woven and tied with coloured thread. He had a curiously unlined face and serene, ageless grey eyes; he wore a long white robe that shifted and changed about him, although there was no wind. He bore a staff of birch; and the pale morning sun shone on the golden torc around his neck.

‘You know me, I think.’ The voice was a druid’s voice, soft, like music, a trap to the ear and to the mind.

‘You are Conor, the arch druid?’

‘I am. Call me Uncle, if you don’t find that too confusing.’

‘I – yes, Uncle.’

‘Come closer, Fainne.’

I did so reluctantly. I needed time to prepare for this; time to collect myself, to summon what strength would be required. But there was no time. I looked straight into his eyes, knowing I had his memory of my mother to help me. This man had engineered her downfall. He had sent her away from all that she loved, and in time that had been her death sentence. He looked at me with his calm grey eyes, and I felt most uncomfortable, almost as if he were seeing right inside me. But I stared back, unblinking; I had been well trained.

‘Sean was wrong,’ said Conor. ‘I think you’re much more like your father.’

Even in autumn, with leaves spread thick and damp under our horses’ feet, the forest was dark. It seemed to stretch out its hand as we rode deeper and deeper in, enveloping us in shadows. Sometimes there were voices. They called through the air above us, high and strange, but when I looked up, all I could see was a whisper of movement on the very edge of my vision, amongst the bare twigs of the beeches. It was like cobwebs in the air; it was like a shroud of mist moving faster than the eye could follow. I could not hear the words. The two men rode on unperturbed; if they perceived these tricks of light and shade, it seemed they accepted them as a familiar part of this impenetrable, mysterious landscape. It was secret, enclosed. It felt like a trap.

The pace made no concessions to my weariness, and I clung on grimly, grateful my horse seemed to go the right way without any prompting. Nobody had asked me if I could ride; and I was not about to tell them I had never gone on horseback without Darragh behind me doing all the work. The dogs raced ahead, seeking out scents in the undergrowth. My uncle Sean kept up a friendly conversation as we went. At first it was just polite talk. I thought he was trying to put me at my ease. He let me know there was a council taking place, with many visitors at the house; that it was a time when they needed to be particularly careful, and that he knew I would understand that. He mentioned he had a daughter around my age, who would help me settle in. His wife, my aunt Aisling, would be delighted to see me, for she, too, had once known my mother.

‘You understand, we had no idea you were coming until the fellow rode in last night,’ he added gravely. ‘Your father has been sparing with his messages. We’d have welcomed the chance to see you earlier. But Ciarán was effective in limiting contact with our family. We never saw them again, after – after what happened.’

‘My father had his reasons,’ I said into the rather awkward silence.

Sean nodded. ‘They could not have returned to Sevenwaters together, that was certain. I remain unconvinced that what he did was right. Still, he has sent you home now. I welcome that. You will find folk rather curious when first you arrive. Muirrin, my eldest daughter, will look after you and help you deal with their questions.’

‘Curious?’

‘It’s a long time ago now. Your mother’s departure and matters leading up to it have become the stuff of tales here; a little like the story of your grandmother, and the time my uncles spent under a spell, as creatures of the wild. Already folk can scarcely discern the margin between history and legend. That’s the way of things. Your arrival will spark conjecture. Folk will talk for a while. They do not know the truth of what happened to your mother. The whole situation calls for careful handling.’

I did not reply. I was becoming ever more aware of the silent presence of the druid on my other side; of the way he seemed to be watching me, although his eyes were fixed on the track ahead. It felt as if he were assessing me without saying a single word. It made me very uneasy.

‘We might make a brief stop,’ said Sean, halting his horse in a small clearing. There was a stream, with ferns growing by a pool, and light filtered through from above, giving the moss-cloaked tree trunks an eerie green glow. The tall elms wore mantles of ivy. ‘I’ll help you down, Fainne.’

I could not suppress a groan of pain when my feet touched the ground, and cramps seized my body.

‘Not used to riding,’ Sean observed, gathering up pieces of wood to make a fire. ‘You should have told us.’

I rubbed my sore back, then lowered myself with some difficulty onto the saddle blanket provided. I was indeed weary; but I would not drop my guard, not with that man gazing at me with his bottomless grey eyes.

Sean had rapidly stacked a neat pile of fallen branches. Being lord of Sevenwaters did not seem to have stopped him from acquiring practical skills. The dogs flopped down, long tongues hanging pink from their great open mouths.

‘Wood’s a bit damp,’ Sean observed, glancing at Conor. ‘Want to light it for me?’

I looked at the druid, and he looked at me, his pale features impassive.

‘Why don’t you light it, Fainne?’ he said without emphasis.

I knew at that moment that, whatever I might have to do to outwit this man, I was never going to be able to lie to him. I could not plead girlish ignorance or attempt some kind of bluff. This was a test, and there was only one way to pass it. I raised my hand and pointed a finger at the pile of small logs and twiggy kindling. The fire flared, and caught, and began to burn, steady and hot.

‘Thank you,’ said Sean, lifting his brows. ‘Your father taught you a few things, then.’

‘One or two,’ I replied cautiously, warming my hands at the blaze. ‘Small tricks, no more.’

Conor sat down on a large flat rock, on the far side of the fire. The flames showed me his face strangely shadowed, his pallor accentuated. The eyes, now, were sharply focused on me.

‘You know that Ciarán followed the druid way for many years,’ he observed. ‘Followed it with rare promise and great aptitude.’

I nodded, clenching my teeth in anger. It was all very well for him to say that; he had encouraged my father and lied to him, letting him believe he could become one of the wise ones, when all along he must have known his student was the son of a sorceress. It had been a cruel thing to do.

‘You say your father has taught you a few tricks. What of Ciarán himself? How does he live his life? Does he still exercise those skills he possessed in such abundance?’

Why would you care? I thought savagely. But I formed my answer with caution. ‘We live a very simple life, a solitary life. He searches for knowledge. He practises his craft. He employs it only rarely. That is his choice.’

Conor was silent for a while. Then he asked, ‘Why has he sent you back?’

Sean glanced at him, frowning slightly.

‘A reasonable question.’ Conor’s tone was mild. ‘Why now? Why would he choose to bring up a daughter on his own, and send her away after – what is it – fifteen, sixteen years?’

‘Perhaps he thinks Fainne has a better chance of a good marriage, of some reasonable prospects, if she lives here with the family for a while,’ Sean said. ‘That’s only practical. She has a birthright, like all the other children of Sevenwaters, for all –’ he stopped himself abruptly.

‘Fainne?’ Conor was not going to let his question go unanswered.

‘We thought it was time.’ This seemed to me a good answer. It was true; and it gave nothing away.

‘So it appears,’ said Conor, and that was the end of it for now. He did not ask, time for what?

All too soon we were back on our horses and riding forward again.

‘It’s a little awkward, Fainne,’ Sean said after a while. ‘I must be blunt with you, and you may not like this. To reveal your father’s identity to our kinsmen and allies and to the community of Sevenwaters would create a difficulty. It would be extremely awkward for this stage of our negotiations. But I’ve no wish to lie about it.’

‘Lie?’ My astonishment was quite genuine. ‘Why would you need to lie?’

He gave a grim smile. ‘Because even now, all these years later, folk still do not know the truth. Not the whole truth. That Niamh became disturbed in her mind, that she fled to the south and was later widowed, that they do know. Within our own household, a little more, maybe. But it’s thought, generally, that she retired to a Christian convent and later died there. The sudden appearance of a daughter must somehow be explained, for anyone who knew my sister must recognise you instantly as her child.’

I felt Conor’s eyes on me, brooding and intent, though I was looking away.

‘Why not tell the truth? My parents loved each other. I know they were unwed; but that is not such great cause for shame. It’s not as if I were a boy, and out to claim lands or leadership.’

Sean looked at Conor. Conor said nothing.

‘Fainne,’ Sean seemed to be choosing his words with care, ‘did your father ever explain to you why he could not wed your mother?’

I held my anger in check. ‘He does not willingly speak of her. I know their union was forbidden by blood. I know that my father left the forest, and the wise ones, when he discovered the truth about his own parentage. Later, he found her again, and that was how I came to be. But it was too late for them.’

There was a little silence.

‘Yes,’ said Sean. ‘Dan Walker brought us news of my sister’s death, though as ever he told only what Ciarán had bid him tell, no more. It’s a long time ago. You must hardly remember her.’

I tightened my lips and did not reply.

‘I’m sorry, Fainne,’ Sean said, slowing his horse to a walk as we traversed a gushing stream on its way down the hillside. ‘Sorry you did not have the chance to know her. For all her faults, my sister was a lovely girl, full of life and beauty. She’d have been proud of you.’

You think so? Then why did she leave us on our own? Why did she choose that way? ‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘To the matter in question,’ Sean went on. ‘It’s a little awkward. Your mother was wed to a chieftain of the Uí Néill, a very powerful clan with two warring factions. In recent years we have been called upon to assist the leader of the northern branch in his venture against the Norsemen, and this has taken a toll on our resources and our energies for a long time. Eventually Aed Finnliath triumphed. The invaders have been swept clean from the shores of Ulster, and the peace sealed by a marriage between Aed Finnliath’s daughter and a noble of the Finn-ghaill. Our support of this venture was essential not only for our own security, but to rebuild our ties with the Uí Néill of Tirconnell, which were set back by the failure of your mother’s marriage. This has taken patience and diplomacy of the highest order, in addition to the diversion of our forces from the venture most dear to our hearts. The northern Uí Néill are seated this day at our council table at Sevenwaters while we formulate a strategy for our own enterprise. This will be the most important campaign of our lives. Your arrival presents a difficulty. The husband we so carefully chose for Niamh proved a cruel man, and it was to escape him she fled from a place of apparent safety, all those years ago. That fact is not known outside our family. We let folk know that she was alive; it was generally believed that she had developed a sickness of the mind, and had retreated to a house of prayer. Her husband died soon after; there was no need to speak of what he had done. Only a handful of people knew she went to join your father. Myself; my sister and her husband. My uncles. That is all. Even my wife does not know the full story. That Niamh left Fionn Uí Néill for another man, that she bore a child by a partner forbidden to her, these things are best kept secret, for your own sake as well as that of our alliance.’

‘I see,’ I said tightly.

‘I’m sorry if this is distressing for you.’ Sean’s tone was kind; that only seemed to make me feel worse. ‘It makes no difference to your welcome here, Fainne. You bear no responsibility for the actions of your parents. You are a daughter of this household and will be treated as such.’

‘You just prefer me to pretend I have no father, is that it?’ These words were out before I could stop them, before I could veil the anger in my voice. How dare they? How dare they ask me to deny my strong, clever, wise father, who had been everything to me?

‘This hurts you,’ said Conor. ‘He was a youth of outstanding qualities. No doubt he became a man to be proud of. We understand that. Niamh and Ciarán were young. They made a mistake, and they paid for it dearly. There is no need for you to pay as well.’

‘This can be handled with no need for lies.’ It appeared that Sean had already made the decision. ‘We can simply provide folk with as much of the truth as suits our purpose. There is no reason why Niamh should not have wed again after her husband’s death. We will let it be known that your father was a druid of good family. We will say that Niamh bore her daughter in the south, some time after Fionn’s untimely passing. You are now returned to your rightful home and the protection of your family. That must be explanation enough. Few people outside the nemetons knew of Ciarán’s existence, let alone his true identity. As for our guests of the alliance, we will not draw undue attention to your presence while they are in the house. Eamonn could be a problem.’

‘A pity Liadan is not here,’ observed Conor.

‘We’ll need to let her know,’ Sean said. ‘I’ll do that. You look weary, niece. Perhaps you should ride with me the last part of the way.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said, gritting my teeth. It was asking a lot: that I go into some dank, dreary place where endless trees blocked out the west wind, deny my father, let some girl tell me what to do and be my watchdog, and take care not to draw attention to myself, all because of their precious alliance. It was becoming rapidly apparent to me that I would have to listen hard and learn quickly if I were to have any chance of achieving the task my grandmother had set me. The men of Sevenwaters were clever and confident; these two would be formidable opponents, and there might well be more like them when we got there. Who was Eamonn? Why would he be a problem? My father had never mentioned such a person. I would find out. And for now I would play Uncle Sean’s game. But inside me, I would never forget whose daughter I was. Never.

We crossed a lot of streams gurgling downhill under the trees. Then we came out from under a stand of willows, and before us there opened a great, shimmering expanse of water, its surface clear and light in the sun and dotted with little islets and the forms of drifting birds: geese, ducks, perfect white swans. We halted.

‘The lake of Sevenwaters,’ said Sean softly. ‘Our keep is on the far side, to the east. The track is easy from here. You’re doing well, Fainne.’

I took a deep breath and tried to ease my aching back. I was glad to see the water; to be free of that endless prison of trees closing in around me. The lake was very beautiful, with its pearly sheen, its wide surface open to the sky, its little quiet coves and its unseen, secret life.

‘Seven streams flow into the lake,’ said Conor. ‘They are its lifeblood. There is only one way out; the river that flows north and then eastwards to the great water. The lake nourishes the forest. The forest guards the folk of Sevenwaters, and it is their sacred charge to defend and protect it and all the mysteries it holds. This you will come to know in time.’

‘Maybe,’ I said. And maybe, I thought, you will come to know that all is not as it seems; that for some, the path does not always lead to light and order. You may learn that life can be cruel and unjust.

‘You could let her go now,’ said Conor.

‘What?’

‘You could let her go now. The owl. See how she looks out and turns her head skywards. She’s ready to go back.’

I stared at him, mute, and the small owl climbed out of my pocket to perch, teetering a little, on the back of the horse’s neck. The bird was somewhat steadier now, for I had tended it carefully enough. But this was no Aoife. The horse shuddered and shied, and I gripped its mane and clung on to keep from being thrown. In an instant my uncle Sean had the creature’s bridle in his hand and was holding her still, with calming words.

‘What is that?’ he asked, in a tone reminiscent of Darragh’s.

As for Conor, he sat there silent. Having stirred up trouble, he now left me to deal with it.

‘It was captive. I – traded for it. That was all. It wouldn’t fly away.’

‘I have never seen an owl so small, yet fully grown. There’s some magic in this, surely.’ Sean’s tone was quite matter-of-fact. I should not, I suppose, have been surprised at that, for this was Sevenwaters, a place where old mysteries were kept safe.

‘She won’t go until it’s undone,’ Conor said, moving his horse closer. ‘Shall I?’ He reached out a hand and passed it gently over the tiny creature, and immediately the bird was itself again: still small, still somewhat bedraggled, but owl-size, and strong enough to make its own way in the woods. Sean was having difficulty controlling the wild-eyed horse.

‘Go safe now,’ said Conor, and obediently the creature spread its tattered wings and flew, with never a sound, with never a look back; up, up into the tree tops, and away into the shadowy embrace of the forest. I said not a word.

‘You did well, bringing her home.’ Conor’s tone was tranquil.

‘I didn’t bring her,’ I said rather crossly. ‘She gave me no choice.’

‘There’s always a choice,’ said the druid.

There were altogether too many of them. Girls everywhere: spilling down the steps of the stone keep where at last we ended our journey, bigger girls tugging at their father’s hands, chattering and laughing as their mother came out to greet me, tiny girls running about and teasing the huge dogs.

‘Enough, daughters,’ said Sean with a smile, and in an instant they disappeared, as obedient as they were exuberant. I had not been able to count, they were so quick. Five? Six?

‘I’m your Aunt Aisling,’ said the slight, rather severe-looking woman who stood on the steps. A neat veil kept her red hair in place, and her freckled face was intent and serious. ‘You’re very welcome here, as no doubt my husband has told you. It’s a busy time. We have many guests in the house. Muirrin will look after you.’

‘Where is Muirrin?’ enquired my uncle as we made our way inside. The horses had been quickly led away. As for Conor, he had quite simply vanished. Perhaps the bevy of little girls had been too much for him.

‘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-coloured 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 travelling 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. Supper times 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 amongst 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 túath 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 dishevelled 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 travelling 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 travelling man, and a travelling 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 judgement. 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 centre of my uncle Sean’s vast túath. 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, amongst 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 túath had been made less vulnerable, with strong outposts serving as a reminder, should powerful neighbours 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 Uí Néill 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 realised how far away that was. Strangely, she dwelt in Britain amongst the enemies of Sevenwaters, 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 Ciarán had chosen the other sister, because their child would have been cleverer, or more skilful. It had not been the most tactful of remarks to make to me. But that was Grandmother for you.

Liadan and her husband had sons. I started to learn about them not long after my arrival. For all my efforts to retreat to my room for some time alone, to shrug off the Glamour for a little, or to repeat in peace the secret incantations of the craft, I had not been able to avoid a regular influx of small, curious visitors. As Muirrin had predicted, I soon learned to distinguish them, for all their matching mops of red hair and lively freckled faces. Sibeal was the odd one out; dark, like her eldest sister, and quiet. And she had very strange eyes, clear, colourless eyes that seemed to look beyond the surface of things. Eilis was very small, and very mischievous. You had to watch her. Maeve was in the middle, and had a dog that followed her everywhere like a devoted slave. And Deirdre and Clodagh were twins. When they grew a little older, it would be just like having two more of my aunt Aisling running around making sure everything in the household was perfect. I began to understand soon enough why Muirrin spent a great deal of her time in the stillroom working, or down at the cottages tending to the sick.

On this particular day I had the twins in my room, seated one on each bed, and Maeve as well, with the dog. The dog, at least, was quiet, though its huge bulk blocked the little fire’s heat from reaching the rest of us.

‘Is this your doll? Can I hold her?’ Maeve had queried immediately on coming in, and had picked Riona up before I could answer. Nasty things could happen to little girls who annoyed me. They could prick their fingers on a concealed pin. They could find their dogs didn’t like them any more. Or they might discover that same dog suddenly gone, and nothing but an ant or a cockroach in its place. With some difficulty, I restrained myself.

‘Did your mother make it?’ asked Clodagh. Deirdre glared at her.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘What’s her name?’ queried Maeve, inspecting Riona’s rose-pink skirt, and screwing up her nose at the strangely woven necklace.

‘Riona.’

‘Muirrin made me a doll once. But it’s not as nice as this one. Can I play with her?’

‘She’s not for playing with,’ I said, and I went over and took Riona out of the child’s arms. I placed her carefully back where she belonged, gazing out of the window, down to the margin of the forest.

‘Baby,’ said Deirdre, making a face at Maeve.

‘I am not a baby! Eilis is a baby. Coll’s a baby. I’m ten years old. I’m grown up.’

Deirdre lifted her brows and grimaced.

Maeve burst into tears. ‘I am! I am! I am, aren’t I, Fainne?’

Bad things could happen to girls who made their little sisters cry for nothing. My fingers were itching to work a spell; it had been a while. I exercised control. The craft must be conserved for my true purpose here.

‘You can play with Riona, if you like,’ I said magnanimously.

‘Don’t want to now,’ pouted Maeve, but she took Riona down again, and sat there hiccuping with the doll in her arms.

‘Here,’ I said, handing her my hairbrush. ‘She could do with a tidy-up.’ I turned to the older girls. ‘Who’s Coll?’ I enquired.

‘Our cousin.’ Clodagh liked to explain things; enjoyed sharing her grasp of affairs. ‘That makes him your cousin too, I suppose.’

‘Aunt Liadan’s son?’

‘One of them. She’s got heaps.’

‘Four, actually,’ put in Deirdre. ‘Coll’s the smallest one.’

‘There’s Cormack, he’s fourteen and thinks he’s quite a warrior. There’s Fintan, but we don’t see him, he stays at Harrowfield. And there’s Johnny.’ This name was spoken in a very special tone, as if referring to a god.

‘I’m going to marry Johnny when I’m old enough,’ said Deirdre in tones of great assurance.

Her twin glanced at her with a wry expression. ‘No, you’re not,’ said Clodagh.

‘I am so!’ Deirdre looked as if she were about to explode.

‘No, you’re not,’ repeated her twin firmly. ‘You can’t marry your first cousin, or your nephew, or your uncle. Janis told me.’

‘Why not?’ demanded Deirdre.

‘Your children would be cursed, that’s why not. They’d be born with three eyes, or ears like a hare, or crooked feet or something. Everyone knows that.’

‘What’s wrong, Fainne?’ asked Maeve suddenly, looking up at me. ‘You’ve gone all white.’

‘Nothing,’ I said as cheerfully as I could, though Clodagh’s words had set a chill on my heart. ‘Tell me. These boys, these cousins. Don’t they live rather a long way away? But you seem to know them quite well.’

‘We see them sometimes. Not Fintan; he’s the heir to Harrowfield, and Aunt Liadan says he’s just like his grandfather, and would rather be on the estate ploughing fields or settling arguments than spending his time travelling all the way to Ulster. And Cormack stays at Inis Eala most of the time. But Aunt Liadan brings Coll when she visits. Terrible combination, Coll and Eilis. Nothing’s safe when those two get together.’

‘What about the other one? Johnny, is that his name?’

‘Johnny’s different.’ Clodagh’s voice had softened. ‘He’s here a lot, learning about Sevenwaters, all the people’s names, and how to run the farms, and all about the alliances and the defences and the campaigns.’

‘Johnny’s a good rider,’ put in Maeve.

‘What would you expect?’ Clodagh said with no little scorn. ‘Look at the way he was brought up, amongst the best fighters in all of Ulster. He’s a real warrior, and a great leader, even if he is only young.’

‘So, he is a fearsome, wild sort of man?’ I queried.

‘Oh, no.’ Maeve stared at me, brows raised. ‘He’s lovely.’

‘So lovely,’ added Clodagh, grinning, ‘it’s amazing he isn’t wed already. Some day soon he’ll turn up with a beautiful, high-born wife, I expect.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ grumbled Deirdre.

‘I do so,’ retorted Clodagh.

‘Do not!’

‘Is it true what they say,’ I ventured, ‘that this Johnny is the child of the old prophecy? Do you know about that?’

‘Everyone knows that story,’ sniffed Maeve, who was plaiting Riona’s yellow hair into an elaborate coronet.

‘Well, is it true?’

The twins turned their small faces towards me.

‘Oh, yes,’ they said in chorus, and Deirdre gave a sigh. I did not think I could ask more, without seeming unduly inquisitive. I kept silent, and after a while they grew bored with me, and went off to bother someone else.

So, there was Uncle Sean and his girls, and Aunt Liadan and her boys. A much-beloved grandfather had died recently and been laid to rest under the oaks. And there was Conor. The druids dwelt deep in a secret part of the forest, as is the habit of the wise ones. But Conor was part of the Council, and therefore remained at Sevenwaters while the discussions proceeded behind closed doors. Indeed, he was the most senior member of the family, and much deferred to. And there was another uncle, Aunt Aisling’s brother. Him I met on the very first day, by chance, as I walked down the stairs with Muirrin on my way to supper and passed him coming up. I’d have thought nothing of this well-built, richly dressed man of middle years, pleasant featured, brown haired, but for the way he suddenly froze when he set eyes on me, and turned white as chalk.

‘Uncle Eamonn,’ said Muirrin as if nothing at all were amiss, ‘this is my cousin Fainne. Niamh’s daughter. From Kerry.’ A well-rehearsed statement, which said just enough, and invited no awkward questions.

The man opened his mouth and shut it again. Expressions warred on his features: shock; anger; offence; and, with a visible effort, polite welcome.

‘How are you, Fainne? I’m sure Muirrin is helping you settle in here. This visit was – unexpected?’

‘Father went out to meet Fainne this morning,’ Muirrin said smoothly. ‘She’ll be staying here awhile.’

‘I see.’ Behind the now well-controlled features, I could tell his mind was working very quickly indeed, as if putting the pieces of a puzzle together with speed and purpose. I did not much like the look of this.

‘We’d best go down now. We’ll see you at supper, Uncle Eamonn.’

‘I expect you will, Muirrin.’

That was all; but there were more than a few times after that when I saw this man watching me, at the table when other folk were engaged in talk, or across the hall when people gathered in the evening, or in the gardens walking. He was influential, I could tell that from the way the men of the alliance seemed to defer to him. Muirrin told me he was master of a huge estate, two really, that curled right around the east and north of Sevenwaters. He had acquired Glencarnagh as well as Sídhe Dubh, and that meant he controlled more men and more land than Sean did. All the same, he was family and therefore no threat. But he watched me, until I grew annoyed and began watching him back. I had no doubt what my grandmother would think of this man. She would say, power is everything, Fainne.

Time passed, and Dan Walker and his folk moved on. I had scarcely seen them, for I was caught up, despite myself, in the daily routine of the family, and when I was not needed I fled to my chamber or out into the garden for precious time alone. It began to be clear to me why the druids chose to remain so isolated, emerging only at the times of the great festivals, or to perform a hand fasting or a harvest blessing. To keep the lore in your mind, to tap into your inner strengths and maintain your focus required silence and solitude, for them as for us. For a druid it required also the company of trees, for trees are powerful symbols in the learning of the wise ones. In a landscape almost devoid of trees, I had learned their names and forms before I was five years old. Sean had questioned my father’s wisdom in choosing to live in Kerry, so remote, so far from Sevenwaters. To me, it became ever plainer that my father had known exactly what he was doing. Perhaps, at first, he went away in order to protect my mother. But I recalled those long years of study, of silent meditation, of self-imposed privation, and I knew that if we had not dwelt there in the Honeycomb, near encircled by wild sea, canopied by rain-washed sky, watched over by the cryptic forms of the standing stones, I would never have become what I was. He had sought simply to pass on what he knew, to provide his only child with some sort of calling so she might make her way in the world. The irony of it was that he had forged a weapon like a true master; his mother’s weapon. Perhaps he had never really escaped the legacy she left him, for in this had he not done exactly as she wished?

Despite my longing for home, I grew slowly more accustomed to the pattern of life at Sevenwaters, and it became harder and harder to remember why I was here. The memory of Grandmother’s threats seemed almost like a fantasy of the mind. Distractions were many. At times I looked at the bustling domestic scene around me, and thought of the magnitude of the task I had been set, and said to myself, this cannot be true. These things cannot exist together in the same world. Maybe I am dreaming. Let me be dreaming.

Aunt Aisling, busy as she was, had no intention of letting me disappear to do as I wished. I would help Muirrin with her healing work; I would assist Deirdre and Clodagh with their reading and writing, as it appeared I was very capable at both, and the girls’ education had been somewhat neglected recently, since everyone was so occupied. I could supervise the little ones at sewing, since I was apt at that too. I should learn to ride, properly, for one never knew when one might have to depart in a hurry. And I needed new clothes. I wondered what Aunt Aisling thought I would get up to if she did not organise every single moment of my day.

Muirrin helped. Often, when I was despatched to assist her in the stillroom or walk with her on some errand of mercy, she would look at me with her wide green eyes, and tell me I might as well sit in the garden and have some peace and quiet, while she got on with things. Then she would work at her mixing and blending, her drying and preserving, sometimes alone and sometimes assisted by small Sibeal, an earnest, silent child. And I would sit on the stone bench in the herb garden, wrapped in my everyday shawl, for I had folded Darragh’s gift neatly and laid it away in the very bottom of the wooden chest, safe from prying eyes and eager little hands. I would sit there alone in the chill of late autumn, and run the litany through my mind. I could almost hear my father’s voice.

Whence came you?

From the Cauldron of Unknowing.

So it unfolded, longer than the day, longer than the season, greater than the cycle of the year, as old as the pattern of all existences. And sometimes, as I let the familiar recital of lore unfold, I would play with things just a little, scarcely conscious of what I did. There might be a subtle change in the manner in which the moss grew over the ancient stones. There might be more bees clustering on the last blooms of the lavender, and somewhat fewer small birds perched on the bare branches of the lilac. Pebbles on the ground might roll into the shape of an ancient symbol. Ash; birch; oak; spindle. Nothing grand. Just enough to keep my hand in, so to speak.