Heir to Sevenwaters (28 page)

This was not one of the seven streams. Even when swollen by the rains of an unusually wet winter, the largest of those waterways would have been dwarfed by this. Its channel was as wide as a substantial grazing field, its surface eerily smooth, its flow quick; scraps of leaf or bark, borne crazily down, turned and twisted and passed like small eccentric racers. It looked deep. It looked cold. On its other side was a landscape unlike anything I had ever seen in the forest of Sevenwaters. The trees were massive, their trunks and branches knotted and gnarled and old. They were of no kind I recognized. A profound shade lay over them, and within that cloak of darkness it seemed to me no bird would have the courage to sing, no creature the heart to venture forth in search of nourishment. I saw no bridge, and was glad of it, for my heart quailed at the thought of setting foot on that far shore. Such a river did not exist on my father’s territory. And yet, here it was.

“Cathal!”

I started in fright; Aidan’s voice came from close behind me. I made to turn and look back, and under his breath Cathal said, “Down there. The boat. Quick, Clodagh.”

A boat. Danu preserve us. As Cathal helped me down the last sharp drop I saw it: a raft, its wooden decking dark with age, its edges crumbling, its surface just big enough for two people if they sat close together and kept very still. It floated in the shallows, rocking ominously, tethered by a short rope. Another rope, thicker, much longer, stretched all the considerable way from this bank to the far side, dipping in the middle to a mere handspan above the fast-moving surface of the waterway. The poles that held it at either end looked far from substantial. A coil of the lighter rope lay on the raft. Perhaps there was some way of fastening it to the unlikely-looking line and pulling or pushing the thing across. The thought of it turned me cold.

We were at the river’s edge. Cathal took my arm, tugging me toward the bobbing craft. I trembled with terror. My cowardice appalled me, but I could not make myself be brave about this. In my mind I saw the ramshackle conveyance tipping midstream and sending us into the swift-flowing water. Becan would be borne away in a heartbeat. And I could not swim.

“No,” I whispered even as we reached the raft. “There has to be another way.”

“In the name of the gods, Clodagh,” Cathal snapped, “do you have a mission or don’t you? This is it. There is no other way.”

“Stop!” The voice was loud and commanding. I looked over my shoulder and my heart froze. Aidan was standing ten strides up the bank, visible between the oddly separated sheets of rain, his brown hair plastered flat to his head, his jaw set grimly, the arrow in his hunting bow aimed squarely in our direction. “Let her go, Cathal. Now.” It was a warrior’s tone, deathly calm. The moment Cathal obeyed him, he would be ready to shoot. If Cathal would not give himself up, his best friend was going to make an end of him.

“Aidan, don’t!” I called. This couldn’t be right. Neither my father nor Johnny would have wanted Cathal dead. “Don’t do this!”

I might as well not have spoken. “Let her go, Cathal,” Aidan said again. “She’s not for you. I don’t know what you’re planning, but Clodagh has no part in it.” The bow was perfectly steady.

Cathal let go of my hand. I was between him and Aidan’s arrow. Aidan would not release it while there was a risk of hitting me. And now Cathal was giving me the choice. Be safe; go home. Forget him and his rash offer of help. Or . . .

“Get on the raft,” I said. “Left foot first. Keep behind me. Take my hand, please. I’d rather not slip and go into the water.”

His hand closed around mine again; I heard his indrawn breath. He had actually thought I would walk away. He’d really believed I would leave him facing that arrow. The raft creaked as he stepped on; I felt his grip tighten as the thing rocked and he fought for balance. A moment later I was standing there beside him, wobbling, my gut clenching in fear. Up on the bank, Aidan had lowered his bow. He looked like a man watching something dear to him perish before his eyes. His two companions had appeared behind him now, each with a straining dog on a rope. One gestured, clearly asking if the hounds should be loosed, and Aidan answered with a sharp negative.

I couldn’t balance; it was impossible to stay upright. I tried to keep my body between Cathal and the shore while he did something complicated with the coil of rope, whistling through his teeth as he worked. I waited for Aidan to set the dogs on us; while we were moored here, they could reach us easily. I waited for him to come down and try to cut the rope. I waited for the three men to launch a concerted attack on Cathal—even a warrior of his talents could surely not prevail in such an uneven contest. But all Aidan did was put the arrow back in his quiver. As the shorter rope was fastened to the longer by means of an elaborately carved bone hook and Cathal began to pull us out onto the river hand over hand, his childhood friend stood utterly still, eyes dark in an ashen face, and simply watched us go.

CHAPTER 9

T
he river was swift. Its flow caught the raft a short distance out from the bank, sweeping us under the long rope and pulling the short tether so taut I was sure it would snap. Cathal was breathing hard; the muscles in his arms were bunched as he struggled to move us across the current. I crouched beside him, sheltering Becan. It was raining upstream and downstream, but not here. The downpour stopped a little short of our rope on either side, as if whoever had chosen to play with us had decided rain might be one challenge too many right now. Nonetheless, my cloak was sodden and Becan’s sling was damp; he must be cold. I held him close, making myself keep my eyes open, though every instinct told me to curl up and shut out reality until this passage was over. There was nothing to hold onto. Each time the raft dipped one way or the other, freezing river water washed across its surface, drenching my skirt anew. My stomach was tight with fear. My back ached with the effort of keeping my balance.

Cathal’s hand slipped on the rope. Cursing, he snatched and held. His narrow face wore an expression of fierce concentration. I dared not utter a word. What had I been thinking of, to let him risk his own safety coming with me? If he fell off, not only would he likely drown, but I would be stuck out in the middle of the river, lacking the strength to pull the raft to one side or the other. I should never, ever have allowed this to happen.

I risked a glance back. For a moment, just a moment, I saw the diminishing figure of Aidan on the shore behind us, and it seemed to me he half raised one hand in a tentative salute of farewell. Before I could respond, the rain descended over him. There was nothing to be seen but a sheet of gray. Ahead, the shadowy expanse of the unknown forest loomed ever closer as Cathal inched us forward, hand by straining hand, breath by labored breath.

“All right?” I asked, ashamed that my terror held me cringing on the raft, unable to help him.

“Mm. You?” was all he could manage.

I opened my mouth to tell him I was fine. Before I could utter this blatant lie, something flashed past a handspan from my eyes, whirring, creaking, crying out in sharp derision. I flinched back. Cathal swore as another of the creatures dived close, then rose, flapping, toward the trees on the far side. The raft jerked and began to rock crazily in the current. I clutched Becan; he screamed in fright. When I looked up again I saw that Cathal had lost his hold on the guide rope. We were still linked to it by the shorter tie, but the river was doing a powerful job of straining that tether to snapping point.

“All I can say is, I very much hope there’s another way back.” Grim-faced, Cathal took hold of the shorter rope with both hands and worked his way up it, leaning out over the water, until he could grasp the guide rope again. His palms were red raw; they would be all blisters.

“You’re doing well,” I said, eyeing the far bank. It still looked rather a long way away. And what if those creatures came back, bats, birds, something in between? “I’m sorry I’m not helping.”

“You are helping,” said Cathal. “Someone has to hold the child. Keep down, they’re coming back.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw them approaching. They were feathered and beaked like crows, but their bodies resembled those of bats, with clawlike hands and feet. Pale eyes gleamed amid the coal-dark plumage. At a certain point in their flapping progress they simply folded up their bodies and plummeted straight toward us. This time I felt a sharp, raking blow across my cheek and I cried out in fright, pressing Becan’s head against my chest. Cathal took one hand off the rope, reaching for the dagger in his belt. His eyes narrowed as he watched the creatures circling in preparation for a third assault.

“Leave it, just get us across,” I gasped. I could feel blood trickling down my face. “I’m all right.”

“A pox on it!” Cathal hissed, his jaw tight. He drew the dagger, weighing it in his hand as if preparing to throw. The raft swung this way, that way; water washed over my legs.

“Please, Cathal! Forget them, just get us to the other side. Ahh!” A swoop, a dive. Something sharp drew a line across my brow. Blood filled my eyes, blinding me. I hunched myself over Becan and muttered an incoherent prayer. The raft seemed to be moving more quickly now; Cathal had seen the wisdom in my words and was concentrating on hauling us over.

“Off, vermin!” he shouted. I felt sharp pain on the back of my neck, then across my arm, through the fabric of cloak and shirt. “Off!” And then, “Clodagh, here!” He was offering me the knife. The raft was dancing about on the water; I grabbed the weapon with difficulty. Cathal put his hand back on the rope and we steadied. “Try to fend them off,” he said, his tone calm, his eyes far less so.

“It’s not far now,” I whispered, wondering if I might faint and knowing I could not possibly afford to do so. Cathal was only in this mess because of me. As for Becan, I was all he had. “I’m fine. Really.” Brighid help me, the way the raft was rocking I’d as likely stick the knife into Cathal himself as land a blow on one of the attackers.

The things came again, three in formation, swooping low. They were aiming for me and me alone. With my left arm around the baby, I held the knife in my right hand, waving it more or less at random, for my head was muzzy now, my vision blurring. “Get off!” I yelled. As battle cries went, it was hardly impressive, but this time the creatures passed without making a mark on me.

“Good girl,” I heard Cathal say. “Firm grip; keep your arm relaxed. Be ready for them.”

I was, next time. The three dived toward me. I slashed with purpose and felt the weapon connect. There was an eldritch shriek as the wounded creature veered away from the raft, its companions creaking heavily after it. Their dark shapes merged into the gray obscurity of the rain. My hand relaxed on the dagger, then tightened again. I must not drop it. If one thing was sure, it was that we’d need a weapon on the other side. Cathal’s tall form wavered before my eyes. The bank was closer now, but I could see it only as a shadowy blur. I thought maybe I was crying, or perhaps it was the blood.

“Clodagh!” Cathal’s voice was sharp. “Don’t faint, stay with me! I can’t help you now, but we’re nearly there. Hold onto the child; do your job.”

Becan. I wiped my eyes again, noting with some detachment that my hand came away red, and looked down at the baby. He was hiccupping weakly; he had gone beyond fright. “Nearly there,” I murmured to him. “Nearly there, sweetheart. Oo-roo,
little dove
. . .” My voice was rough as a toad’s, but Becan didn’t seem to mind. While Cathal wrestled with the rope, heaving us across the water, I continued the lullaby. The infant quieted, his sobs subsiding, his little twiggy hand curling trustfully into the sodden fabric of my shirt, his lips forming what looked oddly like a smile. Did babies smile so early? “
Time to bid farewell to day
,” I sang, and we reached the other side.

Cathal hooked our craft to a weathered pole set among rocks. He held out his hand to help me up. My legs were not keen to support me.

“Left or right this time?” he asked, standing on the edge of the raft. He sounded admirably calm.

“Left going in,” I said. “Right coming back. I heard a tale about it once.”

“What happens if you make a mistake?” He stepped off with his left foot, guiding me after him. The shore was covered with tiny white stones as smooth and regular as eggs. They crunched as we walked forward.

“I don’t know. I think you might end up somewhere different, not where you wanted to go. Or you might not be able to cross the margin at all. These things matter. I wish I could remember properly.” I reached up to wipe my face again.

“Here,” Cathal said. He had put the two bags on the ground. Now he began to unfasten his, perhaps seeking a cloth with which to stem the flow of blood.

“Don’t worry about that, I’m fine.” I heard my own voice as if down a tunnel, its tone distant and hollow. “Shelter. We must get dry . . .” A moment later trees, rocks and pebbles spun before me and everything went dark.

I woke to the crackling of a fire and the sound of Cathal muttering, “All right, all right, I’m doing the best I can.” Becan was crying. I had Cathal’s cloak around me, and when I opened my eyes I could see the sky. It was a shadowy purple-gray with neither sun nor moon in evidence. I could not tell whether it was day or night. Dusk? Had I lain in a dead faint most of the day? I lifted a cautious hand to my face, feeling for damage, and winced as I touched swollen, abraded skin. My hair was sticky with blood.