Son of the Shadows Read online

  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, Padriac, 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 had been 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 lord 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 honor 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 colored 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 gray, 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’d 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 west 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 scrutinizing him closely as he finished speaking with one of the younger druids and glanced my way. He gave me a half smile, as if in defiance of my assessment, and I looked away, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks. Niamh was silly, I thought. She was unlikely to do any better; and at seventeen, she needed to make up her mind quickly before somebody else did it for her. It would be a very strong partnership and made stronger still by the tie of kinship with Seamus, who owned the lands between. He who controlled all of that could deal a heavy blow to the Britons when the time came.

  The druids made their way to the end of the line, finishing their greetings. The sun was low in the sky. In the field behind our home barn, in neat rows, the plows and forks and other implements of our new season’s work lay ready. We made our way down paths still slippery from spring rains to take up our places in a great circle around the field, our shadows long in the late afternoon light. I saw Aisling slip away from her brother and reappear slightly later at Sean’s side, as if by chance. If she thought her move unnoticed, she thought wrong, for her cloud of auburn hair drew the eye however she might try to tame its exuberance with ribbons. As she reached my brother’s side, the rising breeze whisked one long, bright curl across her small face, and Sean reached out to tuck it gently behind her ear. I did not need to watch them further to feel her hand slip into his and my brother’s fingers tighten around it possessively. Well, I thought, here’s someone who knows how to make up his mind. Perhaps it didn’t matter, after all, what Niamh decided, for it seemed the alliance would be made one way or another.

  The druids formed a semicircle around the rows of tools, and in the gap stood Conor, whose white robe bore an edging of gold. He had thrown back his hood, revealing the golden torch he wore around his neck, a sign of his leadership within this mystic brotherhood. He was young yet by their standards, but his face was an ancient face; his serene gaze held more than one lifetime’s knowledge in its depths. He had made a long journey these eighteen years in the forest.

  Now Liam stepped forward, as head of the household, and passed to his brother a silver chalice of our best mead, made from the finest honey, and brewed with water from one particular spring whose exact location was a very well-guarded secret. Conor nodded gravely. Then, he began a slow progress between the plows and sickles, the hay forks and heavy spades, the shears and shovels, and he sprinkled a few drops of the potent brew on each as he passed.

  “A fine calf in the belly of the breeding cow. A river of sweet milk from her teats. A warm coat on the backs of the sheep. A bountiful harvest from spring rains.”

  Conor walked evenly, his white robe shifting and changing around him as if with its own life. He bore the silver chalice in one hand, his staff of birch in the other. There was a hush over all of us. Even the birds seemed to cease their chatter in the trees around. Behind me, a couple of horses leaned over the fence, their solemn, liquid eyes fixed on the man with the quiet voice.

  “Brighid’s blessing be on our fields this season. Brighid’s hand stretch out over our new growth. May she bring forth life; may our seed flourish. Heart of the earth; life of the heart; all is one.”

  So, he went on, and over each of the homely implements of toil he reached his hand and dropped a little of the precious mead. The light grew golden as the sun sank below the tops of the oaks. Last of all was the eight-ox plow, which the men had made under Iubdan’s instruction long years ago. With this, the stoniest of fields had been made soft and fer tile. We had wreathed it in garlands of yellow tansy and fragrant heather, and Conor paused before it, raising his staff.

  “Let no ill fall on our labors,” he said. “Let no blight touch our crops, no malady our flocks. Let the work of this plow, and of o
ur hands, make a good harvest and a prosperous season. We give thanks for the earth that is our mother, for the rain that brings forth her life. We honor the wind that shakes the seed from the great oaks; we reverence the sun that warms the new growth. In all things, we honor you, Brighid, who kindles the fires of spring.”

  The circle of druids echoed his last sentence, their voices deep and resonant. Then, Conor walked back to his brother and put the cup into his hands, and Liam made a comment about maybe sharing what was left in the flask after supper. The ceremony was almost over.

  Conor turned and stepped forward, one, two, three steps. He stretched out his right hand. A tall-young initiate with a head of curls the deepest red you ever saw came quickly forward and took his master’s staff. He stood to one side, watching Conor with a stare whose intensity sent a shiver down my spine. Conor raised his hands.

  “New life! New light! New fire!” he said, and his voice was not quiet now but powerful and clear, ringing through the forest like some solemn bell. “New fire!”

  His hands were above his head, reaching into the sky. There was a shimmering and a strange humming sound, and suddenly above his hands was light, flame, a brightness that dazzled the eyes and shocked the senses. The druid lowered his arms slowly. Still between his cupped hands flared a fire, a fire so real I watched with awe, expecting to see his skin burn and blister under the intense heat. The young initiate walked up to him, an unlit torch in his hands. As we stared transfixed, Conor reached out and touched this torch with his fingers, and it flamed into rich, golden light. And when Conor drew his hands away, they were just the hands of a man, and the mysterious fire was gone from them. The face of the youth was a picture of pride and awe as he bore his precious torch up to the house, where the fires of the hearth would be rekindled. The ceremony was complete. Tomorrow, the work of the new season would begin. I caught fragments of conversation as we made our way back to the house, where feasting would commence at sundown.

  “ … was this wise? There were others, surely, who could have been chosen for this task?”

  “It was time. He cannot be kept hidden forever.”

  This was Liam and his brother. Then I saw my mother and my father as they walked up the path together. Her foot slipped in the mud, and she stumbled; he caught her instantly, almost before it happened, he was so quick. His arm went around her shoulders, and she looked up at him. I sensed a shadow over the two of them, and I was suddenly ill at ease. Sean ran past me, grinning, with Aisling not far behind. They were following the tall, young man who bore the torch. My brother did not speak, but in my mind I caught his happiness as he passed me. Just for tonight, he was only sixteen years old, and he was in love, and all was right in his world. And I felt that sudden chill again. What was wrong with me? It was as if I were wishing ill on my family, on a fine spring day when everything was bright and strong. I told myself to stop being foolish, but the shadow was still there on the edge of my thoughts.

  You feel it too.

  I froze. There was only one person I could speak to this way, without words, and that was Sean. But it was not my brother’s inner voice that touched my mind now.

  Don’t be alarmed, Liadan. I will not intrude on your thoughts. If I have learned anything these long years, it is to discipline this skill. You are unhappy. Uneasy. What happens will not be your doing. You must remember that. Each of us chooses his own path.

  Still I walked toward the house, the crowd around me chattering and laughing, young men holding their scythes over a shoulder, young women helping to carry spade or sickle. Here and there hands met and clasped, and one or two stragglers disappeared quietly into the forest about their own business. On the path ahead, my uncle walked slowly, the golden border of his robe catching the last rays of setting sun.

  I—I don’t know what I feel, Uncle. A darkness—something terribly wrong. And yet, it’s as if I were wishing it on us by thinking of it. How can I do this when everything is so good, when they are all so happy?

  It’s time. Not by so much as a turning of the head did my uncle show that he spoke with me thus. You wonder at my ability to read you? You should talk to Sorcha, if you can make her answer. It was she, and Finbar, who excelled in this once. But it may pain her to recall it.

  You said it’s time. Time for what?

  If there was a way to sigh without making a sound that was what Conor communicated to me. Time for their hands to stir the pot. Time for their fingers to weave a little more into the pattern. Time for their voices to take up the song. You need feel no guilt, Liadan. They use us all, and there is not much we can do about it. I discovered that the hard way. And so will you, I fear.

  What do you mean?

  You’ll 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 harper, and one who excelled at anything he put his hand to, bodhrán or whistle or flute. There were tables and benches set out in the courtyard, 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 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.

  “O
h. 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 around 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 toward 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.