Flame of Sevenwaters (40 page)

I had wondered what manner of clothing the Fair Folk might provide for me. They were all so much taller and grander, and their raiment was heavy with decoration—feathers, leaves, jewels, oddities. But the garments the girl helped me into were similar to her own: plain and warm. A shift, good stockings, a gown of very fine wool, a shawl for over the top, with a silver clasp in the shape of a little dog—had Caisin chosen that especially for me, or was it mere coincidence? The slippers were the only item that seemed fey, for although they felt both soft and strong, they had the sheen and hue of butterfly wings.

Perhaps the young attendant was mute. I had said very little beyond thanking her for her help, but she had spoken not a word. She had used gestures to show me what I should do or what came next. Now she motioned me to the stool again, then began to plait my hair.

“May I ask you a question?”

She said nothing.

“Have you lived here all your life? In Caisin Silverhair’s hall?”

No reply. Her hands worked quickly, drawing the damp strands of hair into place. I could not see her face.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Perhaps you cannot speak, or are forbidden to speak. I have never been here before—in the Otherworld, I mean. And it seems to me you might be the same kind I am. I wonder…” No, best not ask how she came to be here, and the hundred other questions about the place I wanted answers to. “Never mind.” Her silence disturbed me. Perhaps I had heard too many old tales. Perhaps she was indeed deaf and mute, and Caisin had provided her with a safe haven and work for her hands. Maybe her own kind had not wanted her. There could be a hundred explanations for her unusual demeanor. I must not treat her the way others had so often treated me, as an oddity to be stared at and whispered about. “Thank you for your kindness,” I said.

My hair was neatly braided down my back. I rose to my feet. The girl set down the comb and pointed to the doorway. A moment later, a woman of the Fair Folk appeared there. She towered
over me. Her hair was a river of fire, her eyes gems of piercing blue. She wore a trailing gown of gossamer-fine fabric, dotted with tiny glowing stars.

“I am Fiamain Flamehair. You are ready?” she asked, reaching out a long-fingered hand as if to draw me along with her. “You enjoyed the bath?”

“Thank you, yes.” I found myself thinking Maeve Claw-Hands would be quite apt if all the folk here had such names.

“Come, then. A small feast has been prepared.”

I made no comment. I would deal with the question of food when Caisin was present. Neither Finbar nor I was going to touch a morsel of anything these people offered us, and nor would Luachan if he had any sense.

Fiamain led me to yet another chamber, in size somewhere between the grand hall and the room with the bath. The bathing assistant was left behind us, her presence not acknowledged by the lady with the least word or gesture. I murmured another thank-you over my shoulder as we left. The girl would have to deal with my discarded garments. I wondered if I would get them back, clean, dirty or otherwise. Maybe they would burn them. That was what my mother would have done, without a doubt.

In this new chamber there was a table with benches set on either side. A hearth held a small, smokeless fire, and like the rest of Caisin Silverhair’s dwelling, the place was warm. In my fresh clean clothes, with my body scrubbed and my hair smelling of the sweet herbs the girl had used for washing it, I was precariously close to forgetting that we were still not safely home, and that Mac Dara was out there somewhere plotting mischief. I thought I could recall Uncle Bran telling me that when one reaches a certain point of cold and exhaustion, one’s judgment tends to go awry.
Keep your mind sharp
, he’d said.
Think twice before accepting the first offer of warmth and shelter.
And he’d explained why, but it was hard to remember. I was almost asleep on my feet.

“Sit here, Maeve,” Fiamain said. “Your companions will be with us soon. Eat, drink, make yourself at home. You have come a long way.”

On the table there was a flask of fine ruby-red glass and a set of little goblets to go with it. There was a large platter containing, not the intricate fey sweetmeats I had imagined they might offer, but a loaf of crusty bread, a round of cheese and a heap of dried plums. My mouth watered.

“Thank you. I’ll wait for the others.”

She went out; I saw the little smile on her face. She knew exactly what was on my mind. Alone in the chamber, I resisted the urge to put my head down on my arms and sleep. I must stay alert. I must keep my wits about me. What should I ask Caisin when she came? What knowledge might she have that would be useful? I thought of Father out searching for us. I thought of Cruinn and his lost sons. I thought of Swift, all alone in the forest, perhaps already come to grief. I tried not to think of Bear and Badger.

I was falling asleep by the time Luachan and Finbar came in, the two of them pink-cheeked from the bath and dressed in clean, plain clothing. Finbar’s hair was the tidiest I’d ever seen it, his dark curls tamed into a ribbon at the back. Luachan looked different without his druidic robe. The blue tunic they’d given him set off his eyes. The lamplight played on his strong features, and it seemed to me that he was every bit as handsome as those men of the fey with their high-boned faces and glossy locks. I smiled; Luachan smiled in return, ushering Finbar to sit beside me at the table.

“Scrubbed, soaped, rinsed and brushed to within an inch of our lives,” Luachan commented, taking the seat on my other side.

“You look lovely, Maeve,” said Finbar, and yawned widely.

“Clean, at least,” I said, realizing I had not given any thought to the scar on my temple for some time. I had run from Sevenwaters without veil or scarf and had not considered that, with my hair plaited down my back, the livid mark of my burn was on full display.

“You are not accustomed to receiving compliments,” murmured Luachan. “Your brother speaks only the truth.”

I would have done much to prevent the blush from rising to my cheeks. “I can’t fault the two of you on your manners,” I said, hoping my tone warned them both that I wanted no more discussion of my appearance. In this household of uncannily beautiful folk, I was a
warty toad among sleek silvery fish. Or a cockroach surrounded by gauzy butterflies. Gods, that bread smelled good. “Luachan,” I said, “we mustn’t eat any of this food. Do you still have your supplies?”

“Fortunately, yes. My weapons were taken from me, as you saw. My meager and somewhat damp supply of foodstuffs appeared to cause no alarm. I have to say that food on the table is a great deal more appetizing than what lies in my traveling bags. This supper appears quite ordinary in every way. One might expect enchanted viands to be somewhat unusual in appearance.”

“We’re not eating a single crumb. Do you understand, Finbar? These folk have been kind to us. But they are what they are. The important thing is getting home safely. I don’t want any of us risking that simply because we’re hungry.”

Luachan turned his blue gaze on me, somewhat bemused. I wondered if he thought it not quite appropriate for me to make a decision for the three of us. Yet he’d seemed quite content for me to be the one who spoke to Caisin when she first came.

“This might be the only chance we get to speak alone,” I said. “This is important. Maybe you don’t care if you’re stuck in the Otherworld for a hundred years, but it’s not going to happen to me and Finbar. And yes, I did already eat some things that were growing in the forest, but that’s no reason to start accepting every bit of fey food that’s offered me.”

“Quite right,” said Luachan after a moment, and I heard in his voice that he was struggling not to laugh.

“Don’t worry, Maeve,” said Finbar. “We weren’t going to eat it anyway. We talked about it while we were bathing.”

“Oh.”

“Maeve,” said Luachan.

I looked at him.

“It’s going to be all right. You’ll be safe, both of you. I promise.”

He believed his own words, no doubt. On the other hand, he’d given up his weapons, we were surrounded by magical folk, and outside this haven the uncanny darkness lay over the forest. “It’s not Caisin’s people I’m worried about,” I said. “It’s Mac Dara.”

DRUID’S JOURNEY: WEST

W hen the druid comes to the old woman’s hut, he is no longer alone. A warrior walks by his side, tall and somber. Keeping pace along the forest track, they might almost be brothers, for each carries something in his bearing of the unknowable Other, a subtle difference that marks him out as not fully of humankind.

His journey has brought the druid back toward Sevenwaters. Forest, keep and family are three days’ walk from here, perhaps two for a fit man. The hut lies in a hollow of the woods, circled by leafless willows. No garden here; the place is low to the ground, its stones moss-coated, its timbers erratically patched and its roof thatch dark with the wet. Bushes and briars wrap it close. There’s no thread of smoke from the chimney. Nothing stirs but the wind in the trees.

“She’s not here.” The warrior’s tone is flat with weariness.

“So,” says the druid, “we rest, and we wait. You’ve come a long way. Some time for reflection can only benefit the two of us.”

They make a fire between stones, prepare food, sit awhile in a silence that is not quite companionable, for each has too much on
his mind for that. Eventually the druid says, “You brought them with you, then.”

“
Brought.
That is not quite the word. I knew I must come. Clodagh was adamant that if I did so, she must travel with me, and the little ones as well. Believe me, I weighed that risk over and over. They are protected by ancient magic. We must hope it holds.” After a moment, the warrior adds, “My wife believes the time for standing back and staying safe is past. We must step forward boldly and confront our enemies, or our lives—long as they may be—will not be worth living.”

The druid nods. There’s a little smile on his lips. “That does not surprise me. Her sister Maeve put forward a very similar theory not so long ago. And if Sibeal were here—I thank the gods that she is not—no doubt she would tell us just the same.” Suddenly he is as somber as his companion. “I admire their attitude, though it is based on an incomplete understanding of the situation before us.”

The warrior glances up, his eyes full of shadows. “Oh, Clodagh understands perfectly well. We keep no secrets from each other. She is afraid for me and for our future. But that fear has not made her any less resolute.”

They wait some time longer. Nobody comes. The grove grows a little darker. Birds begin to wing their way in, alighting on the roof of the hut and in the bare branches all around. Thrush, robin and swallow. Dove and raven. Even a small owl, though it is not yet dark.

“My bones tell me time is running out,” the warrior says, getting up to pace. “What if the wise woman is gone? Her way of life was to wander from one household to another with her stories. If this was her home, perhaps she was seldom here. And she was old. What if—”

“We need the last lines of the geis.” The druid speaks in a murmur, as if that telltale word might in itself be dangerous. “Incomplete, it cannot help us. And only she knows them. Exercise patience. Her sister said she would be here. Or implied it, at least.”

“What of your own visions? Have you sought wisdom on this matter?”

The druid looks into the flames of their little campfire. “What I saw troubled me. Like you, I feel the sand running swiftly through the glass. Still, we will wait. I am not ready to give up hope.”

When the old woman comes, she, too, is not alone. She leans on a girl of perhaps ten years old, a mouse-haired waif in a gown too big for her skinny frame. The child looks too frail to provide the crone with much support, but perhaps she is stronger than she seems.

“Ah, visitors,” says the woman. “Greetings. I believe I know the two of you and I believe I know what you’re after. A story, hmm? Or a verse?”

“Our greetings to you, wise woman,” says the druid with a little bow. “And to your young companion. We do indeed seek a verse, or rather the missing part of one.”

The woman ignores him. She’s scrutinizing the warrior through narrowed eyes. “How’s that wife of yours?” she asks. “I liked her. Got a brood of little ones by now, I expect. She was cut out to be a mother if anyone was.”

“Two,” says the warrior. “A son and a daughter, lovely as stars. Precious to us.”

“Mm.” Her look has softened somewhat. “And now you’re in a rush to set the world to rights for them, yes?”

A silence unfolds.

“I wish it were as simple as that,” the warrior says eventually. “I would that courage alone were enough to make this good. I know that for every victory, a man may expect a corresponding loss. There’s a balance about these things, and it cannot give every man what he wishes for. Of course I want them to grow up in a world of justice and courage and mercy. I want them to know that their father was a good man, a man who fought for what matters.”

After a while, the druid echoes quietly, “Was?”

But the warrior says nothing at all.