“I extend the hand of friendship to all save these two,” Ciarán went on. “Yes, even to the kinsfolk of Caisin Silverhair, who has so ruthlessly exploited my own family in her quest for power.” He allowed his gaze to rest on Finbar and me for a moment, and his eyes were full of love and respect. “But for the courage of these children of Sevenwaters, we would not have reached this point.” He drew a long breath and squared his shoulders. “It is time. I sacrifice my life among humankind; my place as chief druid in waiting; my bonds of human kinship; my ties of human friendship.”
Bear was struggling to get up, writhing, moaning. I set my hand on his collar and it fell apart under my touch. His body was stretching, changing…
“My first act as your ruler will be one of mercy,” said Ciarán. “Mac Dara. Caisin. The two of you will leave this place in exile and never return, on pain of death. I release you from your bonds.”
Sever now the ties that bind.
The vinelike ropes fell away, leaving the two of them exposed on the tongue of stone. Caisin wrapped her arms around herself, her lovely face stricken, her assurance gone. She looked like an ordinary woman, too stunned by this turn of events to move. And something had happened to Mac Dara. Instead of the tall, hale prince we had seen before, a ruler in
his prime, there stood before us an old, old creature, shrunken and bowed. The geis had robbed him of his glamour. It had stolen his magic.
Bear scrabbled at me with his paws…clutched at me with his hands…whimpered…whispered…“
Maeve
…”
“Exile?” spat the ancient that was Mac Dara. “
Exile?
A pox on you, druid!” And faster than any old man had the right to move, he hurled himself at Caisin, seized her by the hair and toppled the two of them into the fire. The flames rose to take them, devouring all.
“Maeve,” whispered Bear.
And there he was, his dark hair under my crippled hand, his body prone on the rocks, his face bloodied and bruised, his tattered clothing scorched and stained. A man. A man who, with a little cleaning up, would be a younger version of that fine chieftain, Cruinn of Tirconnell.
“Bear,” I said, looking into his lovely amber eyes and failing utterly to hold back my tears. “Oh, Bear.”
All around us was a babble of high, overwrought voices. Folk were milling around as if they had forgotten how to go about their ordinary business. I was aware of Finbar getting up and going over to Ciarán; of both Ciarán and Cathal moving into the crowd, where they stopped to speak to one group of folk after another. A retinue of strange small personages followed the two of them wherever they went, bright-eyed and watchful. Ciarán was calm and composed; Cathal looked shattered. Amidst the upheaval, Bear and I were a small island of stillness. I gazed at him and he gazed back at me.
There were many questions yet to be answered; many things still to be explained. But in this moment, our world was all here between us. I should have been startled, perhaps. Frightened; confused. Instead, my heart was flooded with delight, for in the eyes of the man who had been Bear I saw that, to him, I was the most perfect woman in all Erin. I saw that the love of the man was as deep and steadfast as that of the dog, and a great deal more besides. There was no place here for doubt, no place for uncertainty, no room for the misgivings I had long believed would rob me of
any chance to love a man and be loved in return. I hoped he could read in my own eyes that he was my beloved, my dearest boy, my one and only. I hoped he saw my longing to dance with him as a bride and as a young mother, as a wife of middle years and as an old, old woman.
“Maeve,” he said again, sounding somewhat unsure, as well he might since, as far as I knew, he had not used his human voice since the day of the Disappearance. So long ago; before ever I left Harrowfield and found myself on this strange adventure. “Love…”
“I know,” I said quietly. “It’s the same for me.”
“Wife…” he managed. “Husband…wife?”
I felt a grin spread across my features, incongruous in this place of blood, fire and death. If this was a proposal of marriage, it must be one of the strangest ever spoken.
“You’re smiling…” He propped himself up on his elbow, wincing. “Is that…a yes?”
“I’m smiling at how quick that was.”
“Had to ask…before he did. My brother.” He was looking over my shoulder now, to the trees beyond the stone basin; Finbar was up there with Ciarán, talking to a pair of men who stood half in shadow.
I remembered, then, that before the Disappearance one of the brothers had been riding to meet his betrothed. “It’s a yes,” I said before he could change his mind. “Which brother are you, Bear?”
He attempted a smile. “Artagan, son of Cruinn, my lady. You chose…apt name for me. Yes? Really?”
I put my arms around him, trying to be gentle and wondering at how natural it felt, since, in a way, I had only just met him. Gods, my hand hurt! “Yes, dear one. I see your brother coming; can you stand up?” I remembered, then, that it was Tiernan who was to wed the daughter of an Uí Néill chieftain. Just as well. Bear was mine, and I was not giving him up for anyone.
They came down to us: my brother, his brother, Ciarán and another man, a man of slight build and wry, humorous features, clad in filthy, tattered garments like those the brothers wore. Clothing
that had once been of good quality, suitable for a chieftain’s sons to wear on a journey of celebration. So many lost. So many fallen. Did they know?
The man who had been Badger knelt before me, putting his arms around my waist, laying his head on my breast as a child might. I stroked his dark hair, wishing there were two of me. Tiernan drew in a long, uneven breath and released it. Then he took his arms away and rose to his feet. His features were Bear’s, though he was less tall, less robust. Both resembled their father. But in Tiernan the face had an edge, a restless quality. I felt, as I had long ago, that he was searching for something yet unfound; that he had still a journey ahead of him.
“Badger,” I said through tears. “You’re safe, thank all the gods.”
“I should have stayed by you,” he said. “Stood up to them. I cannot forgive myself for that.”
“You obeyed a command,” said Finbar. “That’s what a dog is supposed to do. If you hadn’t run away when I told you to, Caisin would have killed you. It didn’t matter to her which brother was sacrificed. It’s just as well you were obedient or we might all be dead. My lord,” he added belatedly.
“You showed remarkable presence of mind, Finbar,” Ciarán said. “In every respect you surpassed what I would expect of you. And my expectations are high indeed.”
I had never seen my brother blush before, but now he did. His silence spoke much.
“Daigh!” exclaimed Artagan, moving to throw his arms around the slightly built man. “You’re here…You’re safe! I cannot believe…What happened to you?”
Someone must tell them about the others. But not now, not in this moment of joyful reunion. How much had they taken in while they were dogs? It seemed Artagan, at least, had some memory that went beyond a creature’s, or he would not have been so quick to ask me that question; he would likely not have known my name.
“It seems we were all changed,” said Daigh. “There was a woman…I rode on her saddle…a soft bed and tasty food…harsh words and sudden beatings. Then, suddenly, I was running
before the hounds and this young man saved me. A great debt to repay…In time, I hope I can do so.”
“It was nothing much,” Finbar said. “I caught you, that was all. How was it the three of you were turned into dogs, when—”
“Artagan is hurt,” I said. “He needs the attention of healers.”
“You as well, Maeve,” Ciarán said, looking from Artagan to me. “Cathal, please do me the service of seeking out that councilor who spoke earlier. Ask him if there is a place close by where our wounded can rest and be tended to. Not in Mac Dara’s hall, and not, I think, in Caisin’s. My friends, go with him.” He was addressing the group of small folk who had remained close by all through this encounter as if to see off anyone who might seek to harm their new prince. “Mac Dara’s people must learn tolerance. We are all kinds; we must learn to live together.”
Folk were leaving the stone basin now, perhaps in search of the festivities that had been mentioned earlier, but more likely to retreat to their homes and ponder a future very different from the one they had expected. I saw Cathal engage both Breasal and Fraochan in earnest conversation. I did not think Ciarán would be without allies here. Fear could be a powerful tool for holding good folk quiet when they should speak out; but the time of fear was over. I wished my uncle well.
“There’s one matter that needs immediate attention,” Ciarán said, and his gaze moved a little beyond our group, to the man standing all alone a few paces from us. “Luachan, come forward.”
I wondered why Luachan had not taken the opportunity to slip away quietly while folk’s attention was elsewhere. How could anyone make amends for the betrayal of a child?
Luachan walked up to Ciarán. He was a ghost of the handsome druid we had known. His face was a mask of sharp bones and shadowy hollows; he looked ten years older. He waited, silent, his hands loosely clasped before him.
“In the spirit of fairness and justice, Luachan,” Ciarán said, “I offer you the opportunity to account for your actions. Keep it brief; we have injured folk here.”
“I…”
“Speak plainly; a man trained in the nemetons should not lack self-control.”
“They threatened my family.” Luachan’s head was bowed; he addressed the ground at his feet. “Caisin and her kin. Said they would harm my sisters, do unspeakable things. They gave me no choice, Master Ciarán.” He looked up, his blue eyes brimming with tears. “I am sorry. More sorry than I can possibly tell you. If I can make amends—I will work in the nemetons in a menial capacity, tending to stock, scrubbing floors—or I can go home and never return here again; you need never see me—”
Ciarán held up a hand and Luachan fell silent. “Work within the sacred grove? Go back home to your comfortable life as a chieftain’s son? I think not. Luachan, even in the most testing of situations, even in the direst danger, we always have a choice. Courage or cowardice; right or wrong. To stand up to evil or to bow down before it. I do not think you are wholly a bad man. But you are easily turned to wrong paths.”
“Master Ciarán, I—”
“It is not for you to determine your own punishment. That falls to me and to me only. You betrayed the child whose safety was in your keeping. You deceived Maeve and placed her in deadly danger. You pretended to be other than you were. To preserve your family’s safety by serving the interests of evil is the choice of a weak man.”
“Master Ciarán, I love my family.” Luachan’s voice was shaking; I could almost feel sorry for him. “I do not understand what other choice I could have made.”
Ciarán smiled thinly. “Then you have much to learn. And you will be given the opportunity to do so.” Luachan made to say something, perhaps words of thanks, but Ciarán silenced him with a gesture. “You will not return to the nemetons; you have proven yourself unworthy of your place among the brethren. Instead you will remain here to assist and support me. You will learn how to tread the paths of light. Only when you can prove to me that you are a changed man, and I mean truly changed in your heart, will I release you from the Otherworld. Should you lie,
should you attempt acts of trickery and deception again, the penalty will be far more severe. I advise you not to put that to the test. Go now and make yourself known to the councilors; I expect they may find a use for you.”
From the shelter of an airy pavilion I watched my brother climb a tree. Two small, well-armed personages had stationed themselves at the foot of the oak. It was clear to me that their purpose was to protect him, if not from falling, then most certainly from anyone who might wish to do him harm. At the foot of the three steps leading to my place of shelter another guard was standing with spear in hand. Nothing was being left to chance, even in this hall where we had been made welcome and provided with the opportunity to bathe, rest, eat and receive the attentions of healers. Word had been sent to my father that we were safe and would be returning home tomorrow.
Finbar had reached a massive bough and seated himself, legs dangling. Beside him perched another boy. Perhaps “boy” was not quite the right term; my brother’s companion was the child of sticks and leaves, of earth and bark and clay, whom I had glimpsed among the tree people watching as Ciarán claimed leadership in Mac Dara’s place. They were conducting an interchange in gestures, rapid and confident; I heard Finbar laugh.
He and I had wandered into this tranquil garden after bathing. While Finbar had been eager to explore, I was content to rest in this open shelter, looking out between gossamer-fine draperies that stirred in a slight breeze. The dwelling where we were lodged resembled Caisin’s in that it seemed to grow up out of the forest. It lay in a long curve like a natural mound or hillock; its many round doors and windows opened to the circle of green sward where this pavilion stood. Flowering plants, red and yellow, bordered the patch of grass. Beyond the grass, beyond the house, the trees formed another great circle, as if to close off the household from the world outside. It might have been oppressive save for the birds chirping in the branches all around. I wondered if they
were exchanging tales of this strangest of days, or merely warning each other off the choicest insect or last remaining berry.
Never in my life had I felt so tired. It was as if I had been part of the most fantastic tale ever told by a wandering bard, a story of cruelty and peril, lies and trickery, visions and transformations; a story that ended, triumphantly, with courage, sacrifice and true love. Folk would applaud the tale as good entertainment, but I doubted they would believe it. Even I was finding it hard to believe.
Footsteps sounded on the gravel pathway. I was expecting Ciarán, who had said he wanted to examine my injured hand before it was bandaged. Perhaps he might have news of Swift. He had promised to send out a search party. Our lovely, long-suffering creature had not been sighted since he fled the terror of the conclave. I had been somewhat reassured when I heard that Dioman, now also vanished, had been seen to cut the burning ropes from the horse’s halter before he bolted. Still, I feared for Swift.