Son of the Shadows. Juliet Marillier
shape of a man, his sweetheart was married and already the mother of a son. She had obeyed her father’s wishes, believing Liam dead. So, he would not take a wife. And he needed no son of his own, for he loved his nephew as fiercely as any father could, and brought him up, without knowing it, in his own image. Sean and I were the children of a single birth, he just slightly my elder. But at sixteen he was more than a head taller, close to being a man, strong of shoulder, his body lean and hard. Liam had ensured he was expert in the arts of war. As well, Sean learned how to plan a campaign, how to deliver a fair judgement, how to understand the thinking of ally and enemy alike. Liam commented sometimes on his nephew’s youthful impatience. But Sean was a leader in the making; nobody doubted that.
As for our father, he smiled and let them get on with it. He recognised the weight of the inheritance Sean must one day carry. But he had not relinquished his son. There was time, as well, for the two of them to walk or ride around the fields and byres and barns of the home farms; for Iubdan to teach his son to care for his people and his land as well as to protect them. They spoke long and often, and held each other’s respect. Only I would catch Mother sometimes, looking at Niamh and looking at Sean and looking at me, and I knew what was troubling her. Sooner or later, the Fair Folk would decide it was time. Time to meddle in our lives again, time to pick up the half-finished tapestry and weave a few more twisted patterns into it. Which would they choose? Was one of us the child of the prophecy, who would at last make peace between our people and the Britons of Northwoods, and win back the Islands of mystic caves and sacred trees? Myself, I rather thought not. If you knew the Fair Folk at all, you knew they were devious and subtle. Their games were complex, their choices never obvious. Besides, what about the other part of the prophecy, which people seemed to have conveniently overlooked? Didn’t it say something about bearing the mark of the raven? Nobody knew quite what that meant, but it didn’t seem to fit any of us. Besides, there must have been more than a few misalliances between wandering Britons and Irish women. We could hardly be the only children who bore the blood of both races. This I told myself; and then I would see my mother’s eyes on us, green, fey, watchful, and a shiver of foreboding would run through me. I sensed it was time. Time for things to change again.
That spring we had visitors. Here in the heart of the great forest, the old ways were strong despite the communities of men and women that now spread over our land, their Christian crosses stark symbols of a new faith. From time to time, travellers would bring across the sea tales of great ills done to folk who dared keep the old traditions. There were cruel penalties, even death, for those who left an offering, maybe, for the harvest gods, or thought to weave a simple spell for good fortune or use a potion to bring back a faithless sweetheart. The druids were all slain or banished, over there. The power of the new faith was great. Backed up with a generous purse and with lethal force, how could it fail?
But here at Sevenwaters, here in this corner of Erin, we were a different breed. The holy fathers, when they came, were mostly quiet, scholarly men who debated an issue with open minds, and listened as much as they spoke. Amongst them, a boy could learn to read in Latin and in Irish, and to write a clear hand, and to mix colours and make intricate patterns on parchment or fine vellum. Amongst the sisters, a girl might learn the healing arts, or how to chant like an angel. In their houses of contemplation there was a place for the poor and dispossessed. They were, at heart, good people. But none from our household was destined to join their number. When my grandfather went away and Liam became lord of Sevenwaters, with all the responsibilities that entailed, many strands were drawn together to strengthen our household’s fabric. Liam rallied the families nearby, built a strong fighting force, became the leader our people had needed so badly. My father made our farms prosperous and our fields plentiful as never before. He planted oaks where once had been barren soil. As well, he put new heart into folk who had drawn very close to despair. My mother was a symbol of what could be won by faith and strength; a living reminder of that other world below the surface. Through her they breathed in daily the truth about who they were, and where they came from; the healing message of the spirit realm.
And then there was her brother Conor. As the tale tells, there were six brothers. Liam I have told of, and the two who were next to him in age, who died in the first battle for the Islands. The youngest, Padraic, was a voyager, returning but seldom. Conor was the fourth brother, and he was a druid. Even as the old faith faded and grew dim elsewhere, we witnessed its light glowing ever stronger in our forest. It was as if each feast day, each marking of the passing season with song and ritual put back a little more of the unity our people had almost lost. Each time, we drew one step closer to being ready. Ready again to reclaim what was stolen from us by the Britons, long generations since. The Islands were the heart of our mystery, the cradle of our belief. Prophecy or no prophecy, the people began to believe that Liam would win them back, or if not him, then Sean who would be master of Sevenwaters after him. The day drew closer, and folk were never more aware of it than when the wise ones came out of the forest to mark the turning of the season. So it was at Imbolc, the year Sean and I were sixteen, a year burned deep in my memory. Conor came, and with him a band of men and women, some in white, and some in the plain homespun robes of those still in their training, and they made the ceremony to honour Brighid’s festival, deep in the woods of Sevenwaters.
They came in the afternoon, quietly as usual. Two very old men, and one old woman, walking in plain sandals up the path from the forest. Their hair was knotted into many small braids, woven about with coloured thread. There were young folk wearing the homespun, both boys and girls; and there were men of middle years, of whom my uncle Conor was one. Come late to the learning of the great mysteries, he was now their leader, a pale, grave man of middle height, his long chestnut hair streaked with grey, his eyes deep and serene. He greeted us all with quiet courtesy, my mother, Iubdan, Liam, then the three of us. And our guests, for several households had gathered here for the festivities. Seamus Redbeard, a vigorous old man whose snowy hair belied his name. His new wife, a sweet girl not so much older than myself. Niamh had been shocked to see this match.
‘How can she?’ she whispered to me behind her hand. ‘How can she lie with him? He’s old, so old. And fat. And he’s got a red nose. Look, she’s smiling at him! I’d rather die!’
I glanced at her a little sourly. ‘You’d best take Eamonn, then, and be glad of the offer, if what you want is a beautiful young man,’ I whispered back. ‘You’re unlikely to do better. Besides, he’s wealthy.’
‘Eamonn? Huh!’
This seemed to be the response whenever I made this suggestion. I wondered, not for the first time, what Niamh really did want. There was no way to see inside that girl’s head. Not like Sean and me. Perhaps it was our being twins, or maybe it was something else, but the two of us never had any problem talking without words. It became necessary, even, to set a guard on your own mind at times, so that the other could not read it. It was both a useful skill and an inconvenient one.
I looked at Eamonn, where he stood now with his sister Aisling, greeting Conor and the rest of the robed procession. I could not really see what Niamh’s problem was. Eamonn was the right age, just a year or two older than my sister. He was comely enough; a little serious maybe, but that could be remedied. He was well built, with glossy brown hair and fine dark eyes. He had good teeth. To lie with him would be – well, I had little knowledge of such things, but I imagined it would not be repulsive. And it would be a match well regarded by both families. Eamonn had come very young to his inheritance, a vast domain surrounded by treacherous marshlands, to the east of Seamus Redbeard’s land and curving around close by the pass to the north. Eamonn’s father, who bore the same name, had been killed in rather mysterious circumstances some years back. My uncle Liam and my father did not always agree, but they were united in their refusal to discuss this particular topic. Eamonn’s mother had died when Aisling was born. So Eamonn had grown up with immense wealth and power, and an overabundance of influential advisers: Seamus, who was his grandfather; Liam, who had once been betrothed to his mother; my father, who was somehow tied up in the whole thing. It was perhaps surprising that Eamonn had become very much his own man, and despite his youth kept his own control over his estates and his not inconsiderable private army. That explained, maybe, why he was such a solemn young man. I found that I had been scrutinising him closely, as he finished speaking with one of the younger druids and glanced my way. He gave me a half-smile,