Flame of Sevenwaters (56 page)

There seemed no harm in the request, and I was well beyond feeling embarrassed. I held out my good hand, if such a misshapen thing could be called good, and the two beings peered at it. Cat Mask touched it with a furred finger, turned it over to compare the soft skin of the back to the ugly scarring of the palm. The creature wrapped its hand around each of my fingers in turn, humming a vague little tune to itself as if deep in thought. It reached out to lay its palm against my other hand in its enveloping bandage.

“If you had perished in that long-ago fire,” the hedgehog-dwarf said gravely, watching as its companion performed its strange ritual, “who would have come with your brother to turn darkness to light? We might have waited a hundred years more, two hundred, to see Mac Dara meet his destined fate.”

It was true, I supposed. Maybe this had been the only chance in a lifetime, or several lifetimes, for the elements of the geis to come together in one place. Caisin had planned it, of course; she had used Luachan and she had used us. Used us sorely and lied to us grievously, for of course it was not Mac Dara’s people who had taken the dogs by force, but those of Caisin herself. Why coax Finbar to a place of refuge high in a tree, if not so I must leave the dogs behind while I fetched him down? But…

“What about the Disappearance?” I asked. “Why would Mac Dara turn three men into dogs, but condemn the others to their bizarre deaths? Or was it Caisin who changed them? How could she know I would become so close to the brothers?”

“Visions.” It was Finbar who spoke. “She may not have seen everything, but if she was looking for hands that cannot hold, or brothers in purpose and in kind, or a proud, bold steed, she might have seen them in her scrying vessel. She could have seen you in the fire, long ago, the way I did. She might have seen you training Swift or coaxing the dogs out of the forest. Probably she can conjure up whatever she wants, like Cathal. Past, present or future. Real, unreal, possible, impossible.”

“But how did she know the words of the geis in the first place? How did she know what to look for?”

“Ah,” said the hedgehog-dwarf, and there was a world of sadness in that sound. “She learned it from one of our kind. One who was unfortunate enough to be present, long years ago, when the charm was spoken over Mac Dara’s cradle. Caisin got word of this and sought her out. She obtained what she needed by the cruelest of means. That was a day of darkness; a day of great sorrow for our people. And of shame.” He bowed his head for a moment, and nobody spoke. Then he said, looking up, “Today is brighter. A new dawn. We will be sad to bid farewell to Mac Dara’s son; he is a staunch friend of our people. But we are content.”

I could not imagine, now, that I had ever thought Caisin might be a good person. I shuddered at the risk I had taken, for myself and for Finbar. “Where is Cathal now, Uncle Ciarán?” I asked.

“Down by the stone basin. He is much troubled by what has unfolded today; he needs time alone.”

Remembering the look on Mac Dara’s face when he saw that his son had come home, that moment of utter transformation, I understood how hard this must be for Cathal. The Lord of the Oak had been evil. He had been cruel. He had killed without mercy and had caused untold misery. But he had still been a father, and in his own way he had loved his son. It might be a long time before Cathal came to terms with this.

“You asked what happened that day in the forest,” said the hedgehog-dwarf. “I can tell you. Mac Dara’s folk attacked the riders. There was a skirmish and the riders scattered under the trees. Three moved more swiftly and escaped their assailants’ reach. The others fell victim to the enchantment ordered by the Lord of the Oak. It was long and cruel, a spell that twisted their minds. We would not meddle with such a potent charm; we could not help them. He prolonged their lives until it suited him to make an end of them, each in turn.”

“I have a recollection of fighting an enemy that was no human warrior,” Artagan said. “Our horses bolted. I was thrown, alongside my brother. And we were changed. That is the sum of it.”

“A spell was cast over the two of you and over your friend,” the hedgehog-dwarf said. “Not by Mac Dara. Not by Caisin Silverhair. Not by any lord or lady of the Tuatha De Danann. By my people. We did what we could to keep you from the same fate as your companions. Your friend fled in panic; he wandered long in the woods before he fell into the clutches of the Fair Folk, who kept him as a plaything. You and your brother reached kinder hands.”

I laid my head on Artagan’s shoulder. Warmth spread through me, tugging me toward sleep. “Then I owe your people a debt,” I told the little being. “Your foresight has given me the greatest gift of all my life, and I honor you.”

“Weary.” Cat Mask spoke for the first time, its tone suggestive of the creature whose face it wore, for it was rich and soft, cream and sunshine. “Rest soon.” It lifted one of its odd little hands and made a kneading motion, flexing the fingers. “Later, bend. Like this. Stretch. Work.”

“Me? There would be no point in that; I can’t move my fingers at all. I haven’t been able to since I was burned as a child. They are quite stiff; look—” I held out my free hand again, wondering that the creature’s close examination had not made this obvious.

“Like this,” said Cat Mask, demonstrating again. “Bend. Stretch. Work. Every day.” The creature turned its odd eyes on Artagan. “Salve,” it added. “Song. Love. Every day.”

“But I—” I fell silent. “For how long?”

“How long is hope?” purred the creature. “Weary. Rest now.”

The two small beings inclined their heads to Ciarán and departed from the pavilion. The long coarse spines of the hedgehog-dwarf rattled faintly as it passed; Cat Mask padded behind on silent feet.

I worked hard not to disgrace myself by weeping. This particular hope, I had long ago set aside; I knew it could never be fulfilled. And I had made it quite plain I would not accept a magical cure.

“Would you not attempt what they suggest?” asked Ciarán, evidently reading my distress in my face.

“I told you, I’ve already done all of it, poultices, stretching, salves, leeches, a hundred things, every one of them useless. There was no lack of love or of knowledge. Aunt Liadan is the most expert of healers. We tried for two years. When she told me I would not regain the use of my hands, she told me the truth. I could spend the rest of my life trying to move just one finger. I could be eaten up by forlorn hope. Isn’t it better to get on with things the way I am?” A pox on it, now I really was crying. I was too tired for this.

Artagan wiped away my tears with his fingers; his lips brushed my temple.

Finbar regarded me with troubled eyes, and I regretted speaking out. Ciarán appeared to be deep in thought.

“I have no doubt Liadan is the most expert of human healers,” he said eventually. “I’m certain she applied all her knowledge and skill, and I’m sure you did everything she asked of you. But there are branches of healing unknown to humankind, Maeve. I do not imagine that during those ten years in Britain you consulted the healers of the Fomhóire, the Old Ones.”

“Of course not.” I sniffed back more tears. Finbar took a piece of cloth from Ciarán’s basket and hooked it between the fingers of my good hand. I dried my eyes and wiped my nose. “But I can’t accept a magical cure from them, Uncle Ciarán, any more than I could have from Caisin. It’s…it’s not right. It’s too much; it’s too easy.”

All three of my companions studied me in silence. Then Ciarán said, “It is possible the Old Ones could use their earth magic to restore your hands instantly. Possible, but unlikely. I doubt they have such power over humankind, and I doubt they would choose to use it thus if they did. Indeed, I do not believe Caisin Silverhair had the skill to do for you what she implied she could. The illusion, she might have created; but not the reality. What you have been offered now is the expertise of a different kind of healer. A salve to which Liadan would not have access; a regimen of exercises that requires you to love and to hope. You have not been promised a complete cure. Indeed, they promised nothing, but these are good folk, and if they suggest you may gain some benefit by taking their advice, I believe you should at least consider acting as they recommend.”

“But I can’t move my fingers at all! How can I—”

“I would help you.” Artagan spoke against my hair; he had wrapped his arms around me, careful not to jolt my damaged hand. “I have hope enough for two.”

“This time it’s not a bribe,” said Finbar. “It’s a gift of thanks. You did just save them from Mac Dara. You changed all their lives for the better. That’s not a little thing. And all they’ve said is that you could try the salve and the stretching, so it would be you doing this yourself, not someone doing it for you.”

Ciarán’s somber features were transformed by a sudden smile.

“You understand your sister well, Finbar,” observed Artagan.

“It’s a conspiracy,” I said, looking from one to another. “Do I really seem so set on doing everything myself?” A yawn overtook me.

“No more for now,” Ciarán said. “All of you must rest.”

“I don’t feel tired at all.” Finbar did indeed look rosy-cheeked and alert; he seemed a different child. “Can I go out and talk to that boy again, Uncle Ciarán? Will I be able to come back here and see him, and the other folk?”

Unusually, it seemed Ciarán was lost for words. The silence was full of things unsaid.

“You’re going to lie down for a while, at least,” I told my
brother. “That’s what Mother would expect under the circumstances. Come on, we’ll walk over to the sleeping quarters together.” With Artagan’s assistance, I rose to my feet. My hand hurt less than before. Something was working: the salve, the draught, the warmth of Artagan’s arm around me, sheer relief that this was almost over. “Thank you, Uncle Ciarán,” I said, and I saw in his eyes that he knew I was not only referring to the salving and bandaging, or indeed to his kindness and care for us.

“We’ll talk more in the morning,” he said. “I hope by then we will have news of the horse. Now go to your rest, all of you. This has been a long journey. A long test. Sleep well.”

We left him standing in the pavilion, gazing out toward the darkness of the oak forest. Shadows gathered in the garden, turning verdant green to gray and violet and brown. Had the afternoon vanished already? Ciarán’s face was that of a statue in pale stone, high-boned, authoritative, deeply sad. And yet, within, the flame burned bright.
I sacrifice my life among humankind
, he had said.
My bonds of human kinship; my ties of human friendship.

I wanted to run back, to throw my arms around him and say how sorry we were, to tell him we understood what this must be costing him, to thank him again. But I did not. How could I begin to understand the depth of such a loss? Tomorrow I would talk to him. Right now, the most I could manage would be to stay awake long enough to reach a bed.

“Wonder what was in that draught…” I murmured. I felt myself lifted up in Artagan’s arms. Then I was in a lamp-lit chamber and a woman in a red robe was easing my arm out of the sling, helping me undress, slipping a night robe over my head. She tucked me into a soft bed. I sank into sleep.

CHAPTER 17

W aking, I thought myself still meshed in dreams, for around the bed hung filmy curtains, too fine to be of human make. Within the gossamer fabric, jewel-bright spots glowed, perhaps insects, perhaps only an illusion. The vine-wreathed walls of the chamber and the soft cushioning of the bed made me feel as if I were in a nest. I lay still awhile as it all came back to me. My arm was resting on a pillow; the hand Luachan had smashed with his stone lay there in its neat bandage, and I could feel every bit of damage he had inflicted. The draught had given me long and peaceful sleep, but morning had brought back the pain.

Today we would be going home. Somehow that felt the oddest thing of all. It came to me, as I maneuvered myself to an upright position, that it was not only Tiernan, Artagan and Daigh who had been changed, but all of us. Ciarán’s life had turned upside down. Cathal had watched his father die; he had seen Ciarán take the burden Mac Dara had intended for his son. Luachan had earned a long penance. He had told bare-faced lies to me and to my family. His betrayal of Finbar had been unforgivable. And yet
I had some sympathy for the man. With his sisters under threat, he had faced a terrible choice.

As for me, I had found love, and that was a gift worth suffering for. Whether I could learn to bend was still to be determined; but I could try.

And Finbar…I had seen a new light in his eyes, and I prayed that it would keep shining. How much had he known? What terrifying secrets had he hugged to himself, lest he reveal his knowledge to Luachan or to Caisin? How could a child so young be so unutterably brave?

Without a helper I could not wash or dress. There was a fine shawl by the bedside, a swathe of delicate gray, soft as swansdown. I managed to get it around my shoulders, though the awkward movement made my hand throb anew. I felt a sharp pang of longing for Rhian, with her capable hands and droll humor. Perhaps she would not want to come to Tirconnell. Harrowfield was home for her, close to her mother and brothers. Perhaps I should let her go.