Heir to Sevenwaters (21 page)

Becan was very quiet. Was he still breathing? Once, twice, a dozen times I got up from the bed and crouched down to check on him, reassured only when I heard the slight snuffling of his breath and saw the little chest rise and fall under the shawl I had put around him. Poor thing; he’d been as cruelly wrenched from his true home as Finbar had. I loved my brother. I wanted him to be safely back at Sevenwaters and for my world to be at rights. But this sorry course of events had not one, but two babies in it. Why had I been singled out as the only person to see that?

Before dawn I slept a little and dreamed I was out in the forest, pursued by monsters that looked like trees. Baby Finbar lay all alone in a deep cave, with shadowy figures keeping a vigil around him. I had to reach him before he died of cold, but the trees stuck out their roots and tripped me, they tangled my hair in their branches; a strange wind howled through their leaves, like the cry of a starving infant . . . I woke in a cold sweat, my pillow soaked with tears. Outside my narrow window the sky was washed with the first light of dawn, and from the courtyard below came the sound of hooves on the flagstones. A rider, so early. A messenger arriving with news? Perhaps Finbar had been found safe and well. Perhaps he had been found lying in a cave, cold and dead because nobody had got there in time. Shivering, I rose and splashed my face in the bowl of chill water that stood in the alcove. Water, I thought suddenly. Trees, plants . . . Perhaps a baby made of all manner of forest materials did not need milk at all, but something far simpler.

Folk were accustomed to seeing me in the kitchen early, since I was the one who generally saw to it that the baking was underway and the clearing and setting of fires being attended to. I observed that without my supervision the day’s domestic activities were unfolding precisely as they should. All I did this morning was refill my water jug and help myself, surreptitiously, to a small crock of honey. I glanced into the hall, saw no sign of activity, and fled back upstairs. Perhaps that rider had not been a messenger after all.

The sound hit me as soon as I opened my chamber door. The changeling had flung off the swathing shawl. His limbs were flailing, his eyes were screwed shut and he was crying in jerky sobs interspersed with gasping breaths. Setting down my jug and jar I hastened to gather him up, to wrap the shawl around his twiggy form, to reassure him. “There, there . . . Hush, sweetheart, I’m here now . . .” His small body was rigid with distress; he seemed beyond comforting. I had not been gone long, but he had woken alone and starving. I could feel his terror in my own body.

I put him against my shoulder and managed to get the stopper off the honey jar. I tipped a few drops into the water jug. I found a cloth. The baby raged and sobbed against me. Right now, it was just as well I was the only one who could hear him. “Hush, little one,” I murmured. “I need you to help me. Be calm now.”

I sat on the bed, cradling him in one arm, and dipped the cloth into the bowl. I squeezed a drop or two into his gaping mouth. “Just a bit,” I murmured. “Slowly does it.”
Please don’t be sick
, I begged.
Please, please be able to drink this.

He drank, choked, drank again. He was sobbing so violently he could not really swallow. I lifted him, held him against my shoulder once more, sang a verse of the lullaby. “Oo-roo,
little dove, stars are twinkling high above, owls are gliding, shadow-gray,
time to bid farewell
to day
.”

The sobs were dying down. He nuzzled my shoulder, turning his head from side to side. When I tried the honey water again, he drank more thirstily and did not choke. He sucked hard at the soaked cloth; he was swallowing the mixture as quickly as I could gather it up. When I paused to add more honey he squalled in protest. “Hush, hush,” I murmured. “Just wait a little.” As I began to feed him again his eyes softened, then closed in contentment. I was hard put not to burst into exhausted tears. After all, I would not have to watch him starve.

The jug was empty; Becan had drunk it dry. I sat on the edge of my bed with him cradled in my arms. His little scratchy hand emerged from the shawl to scrabble at, then claw into, the fabric of my gown. He turned his strange head against my breast. I hummed quietly, watching as he fell gradually asleep.

“You’re safe, little one,” I murmured. “Now what in the name of the gods am I going to do with you?”

When Becan was settled on the cushions once more, I made my way back downstairs. I wanted to stay with him, to watch over him, and to spend time working out a plan of action. The baby couldn’t stay in my chamber undetected for long. Since everyone thought he was only some kind of manikin, it was all too easy to guess what might happen to him if he were found there, or if Father went back into the nursery and discovered him gone. He’d be sure to do that when Conor arrived, and he’d suspect me immediately. That gave me a day, at best, to find a solution.

Sticking to my normal routine, as far as I could, seemed a good idea. I’d have to go upstairs to feed the baby quite often, but in between I would be least obtrusive if I went through my usual daily tasks.

By the time I reached the hall an early breakfast of sorts had been set out for those who needed it. Father was in there, fully dressed and looking as if he hadn’t slept at all. He gave me a sharp nod, saying nothing. His jaw was set tight. I did not feel I could offer an embrace or words of reassurance. After yesterday, I did not think I could be a proper daughter to him ever again.

Johnny came in with Aidan behind him. “A man’s arrived from the north,” he said. “He has a message from Gareth.” He glanced from Father to me. “We need his news straightaway.”

“Of course,” Father said, not even looking at me. “Clodagh, ask the serving people to stay out until we’ve heard this messenger.” His tone was curt, clipped; I heard in it that he had been hoping beyond hope for good tidings of Finbar.

Then, at last, there was some positive news. Gareth had met with Eoin of Lough Gall. Although the northern chieftain had not been well pleased about Deirdre’s marriage to Illann, he had said he would give serious consideration to the matter of a council, and had offered Gareth’s party the hospitality of his house for two nights. They were to ride from there to Eoin’s nearest neighbor, and then continue their round of diplomatic visits.

Father thanked the messenger, and Johnny took him off for some rest and refreshment, leaving Father, Aidan and me standing in awkward silence in the middle of the big chamber. I could not bring myself to state the obvious: that if Eoin of Lough Gall had responded in such a civil fashion to Gareth’s message, he surely couldn’t be responsible for the abduction of Finbar. There were other northern chieftains, of course. But shouldn’t the news make Father give fresh consideration to my theory? He was looking so forbidding that all I asked was, “How is Mother this morning?”

“Not herself.” His voice was flat. “Muirrin’s sleeping drafts have not been effective. We must widen the search today. If we don’t find him soon, I fear . . .” The words trailed off.

I understood him perfectly. I had seen that wretched face peering at me from the pillow yesterday, not my mother’s sweet features but those of a death’s-head. If Finbar was not found safe and well, and soon, she would indeed slip away from us. There had to be some way of putting this right. But I couldn’t say anything. To do so was to risk Becan’s life. It was not just that he was little and frail and in need of nurture. Somewhere deep inside me I felt a growing conviction that his survival was tied up with Finbar’s; that if we let the changeling die, my parents would never again see their only son.

“Lord Sean,” Aidan said, “you spoke yesterday of Cathal and of a conspiracy. I feel I must speak up. I know Cathal would not do anything such as you suspect. He may be abrasive at times, but he is faultlessly loyal. He admires Johnny above any man. To be one of the Inis Eala warriors was a dream come true for him, especially as his origins are quite humble. Whatever it may look like, I am absolutely certain he had nothing to do with . . .”

“With my son’s abduction?” Father’s eyes were chill. “You cannot know this, Aidan. Your bond of loyalty with Cathal is strong, and no wonder, since you were childhood friends. But children grow into men, and men have causes for dispute that children do not. Matters of birth and blood.” He glanced in my direction. “Rivalries over women.”

“There’s no real evidence for any accusations against Cathal, and I don’t wish to hear them made without it.” Johnny had come back into the hall. His tone was level, but I heard in its iron strength the quality that made men worship him as a leader. “He is gone without explanation, that is true, but this is not the first time that has occurred. There’s always a good reason, some of them surprising, all of them providing a sound basis for independent action. If I see a need to discipline Cathal I will do so when he returns. It would be a mistake to leap to conclusions about this. I know the man. So does Aidan.”

“My son is missing,” said Father simply. “Cathal diverted Clodagh’s attention at the precise moment when someone snatched him. That, coupled with his abrupt departure without explanation, seems sufficient evidence for suspicion. You expect me to sit back if any path toward finding Finbar is unexplored?”

It was the closest I had ever seen the two of them to an argument, and it made me deeply uneasy. It seemed to me that Finbar’s abduction had sent a widening circle of wrongness through our whole household. What was this? Were the Fair Folk playing a particularly dark game with us, or had their plot somehow got mixed up with the plans of one of Father’s worldly enemies? I thought of Willow’s tales, and the way she’d looked at me when she told them, as if I should be able to get some particular wisdom from them. Were the tales and the changeling parts of the same mystery? Why couldn’t I make sense of this?

“I’m sorry, Sean,” Johnny said. “Of course I don’t, and I will help you all I can to find your son. But my men are my responsibility, and I don’t like to hear their integrity questioned without solid evidence. It’s very likely Cathal’s presence outside the nursery at that particular time was coincidental. Until I have good reason to doubt that, I will not hear him accused. Let him return and account for himself, and then we can judge his actions.”

We moved to sit at the table. While I crumbled my bread onto my platter, the men made plans for today’s search.

“I’ll lead the group that’s headed west on the Glencarnagh track,” Johnny said. “Aidan will stay with you. I’m happier if at least one of my men is here in such a time of uncertainty, though I recognize that you have good guards of your own. In fact, the Sevenwaters men have an advantage in such a search, since they know the forest so well. We covered a wide area yesterday, Sean. We must consider the possibility that whoever took Finbar has by now conveyed him beyond your borders.”

“Only if they rode all night,” Father said.

Or if they went somewhere beyond the human world
, I thought.

“You know we could not continue the search in the darkness,” Johnny said quietly. “Believe me, I will give all my energy to this until we find him.”

Father nodded wearily. “Whoever has done this is highly skilled. We should have overtaken them.”

“Father?” It felt terrible to be afraid to ask a simple question.

He looked at me but did not speak.

“Have you considered asking Sibeal to scry? I know she doesn’t like sharing what she sees, but when it’s so important . . .”

“Sibeal is only twelve years old. I recognize her gift, but I think it best that we wait for Conor. He should be here by tomorrow. I would not place so great a burden on one so young. You hope, I suppose, that she will come up with an answer supporting your own theory, that that heap of debris up there is in fact a living, breathing being.”

“No, Father,” I lied, my heart cold. “I am beginning to think maybe I was wrong about that. I was shocked and upset. And guilty, even though I can’t understand how someone could get in and out so quickly and invisibly. I’m sorry if my behavior has only made things worse.” Whether it was convincing or not, I could not tell. Aidan and Johnny were both looking at me, Johnny quizzically, Aidan with narrowed eyes. And although I had told a lie to avert attention from what I had concealed upstairs, I realized as I sat miserable under their scrutiny that I was beginning to doubt the evidence of my own eyes and ears. While my heart still knew I was right about Becan, it was becoming harder to ignore the possibility that my mind was playing tricks. These were good, sensible men, men who usually treated me with respect and kindness. How could all of them be wrong? Why would the Fair Folk show me the truth and not Muirrin? It made no sense.

“You can assist us today by arranging provisions for the searchers,” Father said, and I took it as a slight thawing of his attitude. “They’ll be riding out as soon as they’ve had breakfast. Aidan, you look as if you need sleep. If you’re to act as a family guard in Johnny’s absence, take some time now to rest, and come to find me later in the morning.”

“Yes, my lord.” Aidan got up and left the hall promptly. A little later, I did the same, heading for the kitchen where I gave the necessary instructions about provisions and acquired a fresh supply of water and honey. It was still early. Muirrin had not come down, but Eithne was there filling a tray with breakfast items.

“How is Mother?” I asked her, grimly setting aside the matter of an ill-timed kiss she might better have kept to herself.

“Not so well, my lady.” She had the grace to blush. “This is for Muirrin and me and Orlagh, who’s watching the door. Lady Aisling won’t eat. It’s been hard to get her to take even water. She’s just sitting on the bed staring at nothing. I don’t think she really understands what’s happened.”

“I see. Well, I’m sure you’re doing your best.” What more could I say? I wanted to go in there and put my arms around my mother. I wanted to tell her that if this really was my fault I was sorrier than anyone could ever imagine, and that I wished above anything in the world that I had the power to make things right for her. But what was the point of that? I couldn’t fix it. Nobody would listen to me. If anyone had asked me yesterday whether I would ever lie to my father, I would have been affronted that they considered such a thing possible. Today I had done it. And in my bedchamber, tucked up in Finbar’s soft shawl, lay the thing that had been left in place of my mother’s darling son.