Son of the Shadows. Juliet Marillier
stay here, I promise. Please.’
For all her faults, I loved my sister, and had never found it easy to refuse her. Besides, I had to admit that I, too, wanted to know what was being said behind closed doors. I was not comfortable living in a house of secrets. But I had seen the look on Liam’s face, and heard the anger in my father’s voice. I had no wish to be discovered where I had no business to be.
‘Please, Liadan. You have to help me. You have to.’
She went on in this vein for some time, weeping and pleading, her voice growing hoarse with tears. In the end she wore me down.
I threw a shawl over my nightrobe, and went soft-footed along the hallway until I saw a line of faint light under the door of that room where we had spoken before. There was nobody about. It seemed Liam had been quick to avoid a public scene.
From inside came the sound of voices, but I could not hear the words. It sounded as if there were four of them there. Liam, curtly decisive; the more measured tones of Conor. My father’s voice was deeper and softer. Sean, it seemed, had been excluded. Perhaps they considered him too young and rash for such a council. I stood shivering at the top of the stairs. Now Ciarán’s voice; the words indistinct, the tone harsh with grief and outrage. I sensed movement within the chamber, and sought to retreat. But I was not quick enough. The door slammed open and the young druid strode out, face chalk white, eyes blazing. As the door swung to I heard Liam saying, ‘No. Leave him be.’
Ciarán halted in his tracks, staring at me as I stood motionless there in my old nightrobe and woollen shawl. I thought he hardly saw what was in front of him; his eyes were full of ghosts. But he knew who I was.
‘Here,’ he said, reaching into the pouch he had at his belt. ‘Tell her I’m going away. Tell her – give her this.’ He dropped something small into my hand, and then he was gone without a sound, down the stairs and away into the darkness.
When I was safely back in my room, I gave Niamh the smooth white pebble with a neat hole through it, and I told her what he had said, and I held her in my arms while she wept and wept as if she would never stop. And deep in my spirit, I heard the sound of hoofbeats as Ciarán rode away, further and further, as many miles from Sevenwaters as his horse would carry him by sunrise.
Before midsummer my sister wed Fionn, chieftain’s son of the Uí Néill, and that same day he took her away with him to Tirconnell. I rode with them as far as the village of Littlefolds. At least, that was the plan. Silent, frozen, impenetrable as she was in her grief, Niamh had made a single request, and that was for my company to see her on her way.
‘Are you sure this is all right?’ I had asked Mother.
‘We’ll manage,’ she smiled, but there was a sorrow in her eyes these days. ‘You must live your life, daughter. We’ll do well enough without you for a while.’
I thought to ask her what it might mean, that an Otherworld guide had led me to discover my sister’s secret, and set her on a path out of Sevenwaters and away from the forest. For I had no doubt that the Fair Folk had a hand in that, but I could not guess their motive. My mother might know, for she had more than once seen these powerful beings face to face, and been guided by their wishes. But I did not ask. Mother had enough to bear. Besides, it was too late. Too late for Niamh, and too late for Ciarán, who was gone away, nobody knew where.
Father was not quite so ready to see me ride off, but he recognised how it was with Niamh, and reluctantly he agreed. ‘Don’t be gone too long, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Five or six nights at most. And go nowhere unguarded. Liam will provide armed men to see you home safely.’
Before her wedding, I fashioned a fine, strong cord for my sister to wear about her neck. As I wove it I told myself the tale of Aengus Óg and the fair Caer Ibormeith, and I felt the weight of unshed tears heavy behind my eyes. Into this cord I wove one gold thread from my uncle Conor’s robe. There were fibres there of heather and lavender, celandine and juniper; I sought to protect her as well as I could. There were plain linen strands from my own working attire, and a thread of blue from my mother’s ancient, most beloved gown. Sean’s riding cloak provided dark wool, and the leather strips that bound the ends of it were snipped from an old pair of Iubdan’s working boots. A farmer’s muddy boots. I fashioned all together into a cord that was fine and smooth, and crafted so that it would take more than mortal strength to break it. I didn’t say anything when I slipped it into Niamh’s hand, and neither did she. But she knew what it was for. She took the small white stone from her pocket, and threaded the cord through the little hole in it, and put it around her neck, and I lifted aside the weight of her beautiful fiery hair, and tied the leather strips tightly together. When she slipped the stone under her gown, it could not be seen at all.
Since that night, when she had learned that it is men who make decisions and women who must follow them, my sister had not once mentioned Ciarán. Indeed, she had not spoken much at all. Those had been her last tears; her last signs of weakness. I saw the bitter resentment in her eyes as she told Liam she would wed Fionn as he wished. I saw the pain on her face as she made ready her gowns and shoes and veils, as she watched the women sew her wedding dress, as she gazed out the window at the soft summer woods of Sevenwaters. She would barely speak, even to Mother. Father tried to talk to her, but she tightened her lips and would not hear his quiet words, as he attempted to explain to her that this was indeed best for her; that she would discover in time that the right choice had been made. After that, Father took to staying out late in the fields, so he need not speak to any of us. Sean busied himself with the men in the practice yard, and gave both his sisters a wide berth.
As for me, I loved Niamh and wanted to help her. But she would not let me in. Only once, the night before her wedding, as we lay sleepless, sharing our bedchamber for the last time, she said very softly,
‘Liadan?’
‘What is it, Niamh?’
‘He said he loved me. But he went away. He lied to me, Liadan. If he had truly loved me, he would never have left me. He would not have given up so easily.’
‘I shouldn’t think it was easy at all,’ I said, remembering the look on the young druid’s face in the shadow of the hallway, and the harsh note of pain in his voice.
‘He said he would love me for ever.’ My sister’s voice was tight and cold. ‘All men are liars. I told him I would be his alone. He did not deserve such a promise. I hope he suffers when he learns that I have wed another, and gone far from the forest. Perhaps he will know then how betrayal feels.’
‘Oh, Niamh,’ I said, ‘he does love you, I am sure of it. No doubt he had his reasons for going away. There is more to this than we know; secrets not yet told. You should not hate Ciarán for what he has done.’
But she had turned her face to the wall, and I could not tell if she heard me or not.
Fionn was a man of middle years, as my uncle had said, well mannered, decisive, and accompanied by the retinue one would expect for a man of his standing. His eyes followed my sister, and he made no attempt to conceal the desire in them. But his mouth was cold. I did not like him. What the rest of my family thought was anyone’s guess, for we made a convincing pretence of joyful celebration, and the wedding day was not lacking in music, and flowers, and feasting. The Uí Néills were a Christian household, and it was a Christian priest who spoke the words and heard the couple’s vows. Aisling was there, and with her Eamonn. I was relieved there was no opportunity to speak with him alone. He would have read the unhappiness in my eyes, and demanded to know the cause. Conor was not there, nor any others of his kind. Underneath the jollity there was a freezing wrongness about the whole thing, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. Then we rode away to the northwest, Niamh and her husband, and the men of Tirconnell, and the six men at arms from our own household, with me in the middle, feeling just a little ridiculous.
The village of Littlefolds lies tucked under a hill, in a fold of the land amidst thickly wooded, undulating country. It is to the west of Eamonn’s estates, and northwest of his border with Seamus Redbeard. Our journey had taken us, thus far, through familiar and friendly territory. Now it