Son of the Shadows. Juliet Marillier
find out soon enough. Why not enjoy yourself, and be young, while there is still time?
And that was it. He shut off his thoughts from me as suddenly and surely as if a trapdoor had slammed closed. Ahead, I saw him pause, waiting for my mother and Iubdan to catch up, and the three of them went into the house together. I was left none the wiser for this strange conversation.
My sister was very beautiful that night. The hearth fires of the house had been rekindled, and there was a bonfire out of doors, and cider, and dancing. It was quite cool. I had wrapped a shawl around me, and still I shivered. But Niamh’s shoulders were bare above her deep blue gown, and her golden hair was cunningly woven with silk ribbons and little early violets. As she danced, her skin glowed in the firelight and her eyes spoke a challenge. The young men could scarce keep their eyes off her, as she whirled first with one and then another. Even the young druids, I thought, were having difficulty in keeping their feet from tapping and their gaze suitably sober. Seamus had brought the musicians. They were good; a piper, a fiddler, and one who excelled at anything he put his hand to, bodhrán or whistle or flute. There were tables set out in the courtyard, and benches, and the older druids sat with the household there, talking and exchanging tales, watching as the young folk enjoyed themselves.
There was one who stood apart, and that was the young druid, him with the dark red hair, who had held the torch rekindled with a mystical fire. He alone had not partaken of food and drink. He showed no sign of enjoyment, as the household exploded in merriment around him. His foot would not be tapping to an old tune, his voice would not be raised in song. Instead, he stood upright and silent behind the main party, watchful. I thought that only common sense. It was wise to have a few who did not partake of strong ale, a few who would listen for unwanted intruders, who would be alert to sounds of danger. I knew Liam had posted men to watch at strategic points around the house, in addition to his usual sentries and forward guards. An attack on Sevenwaters tonight could wipe out not just the lords of the three most powerful families in the northeast, but their spiritual leaders as well. So, no chances were taken.
But this young man was no guard, or if he were meant to be, he was a pretty poor one. For his dark eyes were fixed on one thing only, and that was my lovely, laughing sister Niamh as she danced in the firelight with her curtain of red-gold hair swirling around her. I saw how still he was, and how his eyes devoured her, and then I looked away, telling myself not to be stupid. This was a druid, after all; I supposed they must have desires, like any other man, and so his interest was natural enough. Dealing with such things was no doubt part of the discipline they learned. And it was none of my business. Then I looked at my sister, and I saw the glance she sent his way, from under her long beautiful lashes. Dance with Eamonn, you stupid girl, I told her, but she had never been able to hear my inner voice.
The music changed from a reel to a slow, graceful lament. It had words, and the crowd had drunk enough by now to sing along with the piper.
‘Will you dance with me, Liadan?’
‘Oh.’ Eamonn had startled me, suddenly there beside me in the darkness. The firelight showed his face as gravely composed as ever. If he were enjoying the party, he gave no sign of it. Now that I thought about it, I had not seen him dancing.
‘Oh. If you – but perhaps you should ask my sister. She dances far better than I.’ It came out sounding awkward, almost rude. Both of us looked across the sea of dancing youths and girls, to where Niamh stood smiling, running a careless hand through her hair, surrounded by admirers. A tall, golden figure in the flickering light.
‘I’m asking you.’ There was no sign of a smile on Eamonn’s lips. I was glad he was not able to read my thoughts as my uncle Conor could. I had been quick enough to assess him, earlier that evening. It made my cheeks burn to think of it. I reminded myself that I was a daughter of Sevenwaters, and must observe certain courtesies. I got up, and slipped off my shawl, and Eamonn surprised me by taking it from me and folding it neatly before he laid it on a nearby table. Then he took my hand and led me into the circle of dancers.
It was a slow dance, couples meeting and parting, circling back to back, touching hands and letting go. A dance well suited to Brighid’s festival which is, after all, about new life and the stirring of the blood that gives it form. I could see Sean and Aisling moving round one another in perfect step, as if the two of them breathed the one breath. The wonderment in their eyes made my heart stop. I found myself saying silently, Let them keep this. Let them keep it. But to whom I said this, I did not know.
‘What is it, Liadan?’ Eamonn had seen the change in my face as he came towards me, took my right hand in his, turned me under his arm. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ I lied. ‘Nothing. I suppose I’m tired, that’s all. We were up early, gathering flowers, preparing food for the feast, the usual things.’
He gave an approving nod.
‘Liadan –’ He started to say something, but was interrupted by an exuberant couple who threatened to bowl us over as they spun wildly past. Adroitly, my partner whisked me out of harm’s way, and for a moment both his arms were around my waist, and my face close to his.
‘Liadan. I need to speak with you. I wish to tell you something.’
The moment was over; the music played on, and he let go as we were drawn back into the circle.
‘Well, talk then,’ I said rather ungraciously. I could not see Niamh; surely she had not retired already. ‘What is it you want to say?’
There was a lengthy pause. We reached the top of the line; he put one hand on my waist and I put one on his shoulder, and we executed a few turns as we made our way to the bottom under an arch of outstretched arms. Then suddenly it seemed Eamonn had had enough of dancing. He kept my hand in his, and drew me to the edge of the circle.
‘Not here,’ he said. ‘This is not the time, nor the place. Tomorrow. I want to talk with you alone.’
‘But –’
I felt his hands on my shoulders, briefly, as he placed the shawl about me. He was very close. Something within me sounded a sort of warning; but still I did not understand.
‘In the morning,’ he said. ‘You work in your garden early, do you not? I will come to you there. Thank you for the dance, Liadan. You should perhaps let me be the judge of your skills.’
I looked up at him, trying to work out what he meant, but his face gave nothing away. Then somebody called his name, and with a brief nod he was gone.
I worked in the garden next morning, for the weather was fine, though cold, and there was always plenty to do between herb beds and stillroom. My mother did not come out to join me, which was unusual. Perhaps, I thought, she was tired after the festivities. I weeded and cleaned and swept, and I made up a coltsfoot tea to take to the village later, and I bundled flowering heather for drying. It was a busy morning. I forgot all about Eamonn until my father came into the stillroom near midday, ducking his head under the lintel, then seating himself on the wide window embrasure, long legs stretched out before him. He, too, had been working, and had not yet shed his outdoor boots, which bore substantial traces of newly ploughed soil. It would sweep up easily enough.
‘Busy day?’ he asked, observing the well-ordered bundles of drying herbs, the flasks ready for delivery, the tools of my trade still laid out on the workbench.
‘Busy enough,’ I said, bending to wash my hands in the bucket I kept by the outer door. ‘I missed Mother today. Was she resting?’
A little frown appeared on his face. ‘She was up early. Talking to Conor, at first. Later with Liam as well. She needs to rest.’
I tidied the knives, the mortar and pestle, the scoops and twine away onto their shelves. ‘She won’t,’ I said. ‘You know that. It’s like this, when Conor comes. It’s as if there’s never enough time for them, always too much to be said. As if they can never make up for the years they lost.’
Father nodded, but he didn’t say anything. I got out the millet broom and began to sweep.
‘I’ll