Son of the Shadows Read online

  Some time later, we got up and went inside, and by the lantern light we took off each other’s wet clothes and dried each other, and he told me, rather haltingly, that I was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. For a little while I let myself believe it. He knelt before me, wiping the rain from my body. And he said, “You’re bleeding. What is it? I’ve hurt you.”

  I concealed my surprise. “That’s nothing,” I said. “It’s quite usual the first time. So I’ve heard.”

  He did not reply, simply looked at me; and I thought, this is a different man, quite different from the man who threatened and insulted me. Still it is the same man. He brushed my cheek with his fingers very softly. His words, when they came, were hesitant. “I don’t know what to say to you.”

  “Then don’t say anything,” I told him. “Just put your arms around me. Just touch me. That’s enough.”

  And I did what I had long wanted to do. I began at the top of his head, where the intricate markings of his body began, and I traced the edge with my fingers, slowly, down the high bridge of his nose, across the center of his severe mouth, down chin and neck and well-muscled chest. Then I touched my lips to his skin, and followed the line downward. This pattern did indeed cover him entirely, on all the right side of his body. It was indeed a work of art; not just the finely detailed drawing, but the man whose identity it had become. He was not too tall, nor too short; he was broad in the shoulder and lean with it, and his body was hardened with the life he led, but still, the skin of the left side was fair and young.

  “Stop it, Liadan,” he said unevenly. “Don’t—don’t do that, not unless—”

  “Not unless what?”

  “Not unless you want me to take you again,” he said, lifting me up very gently.

  “That would be—quite acceptable,” I answered. “Unless you have had enough?”

  He let out his breath and put his arms around me, and I felt the rapid beat of his heart against me. “Never,” he said fiercely, his lips against my hair. “I could never have enough of you.” Then we lay down again together, and this time we were slow and careful and it was different, but just as sweet, as we touched and tasted and learned each other.

  We did not sleep much that night. Perhaps each of us knew that time was passing all too quickly; that when dawn broke, tomorrow would be today, and choices would have to be made, and the unthinkable faced. Who would squander such a precious night in sleep? So we touched and whispered and moved together in the darkness. My heart was so full it threatened to spill over, and I thought: This feeling I will keep always, no matter what happens. Even if … even when … Toward daybreak he did fall asleep, with his head on my breast; and once in his dreams he cried out words I could not distinguish, and moved his arm violently as if pushing something away.

  “Hush,” I said, my heart thumping. “Hush, Bran. I’m here. You’re safe. It’s all right.” I held him in the circle of my arms as I stared up at the arch of the high roof and watched the slow brightening of the light through the narrow space there. Let it not be dawn yet, I pleaded silently. Please, not yet. But the rain was gone, and the sun was rising, and the song of woodland birds began to flute through the crisp air. And at last I could pretend no longer that this dark, secret space that held the two of us was real and that other place the dream.

  In silence we rose and dressed, and I folded blankets while he went out and tended to the horse and searched for dry wood. What could be said? Who would dare to begin? When the fire was made and water heating over it, we did not sit on opposite sides as we had always done before but close by each other, bodies touching, hands clasped fast. The light brightened around us. There were no signposts here, no landmarks. We were adrift in this place together.

  “You said, a fair trade,” Bran managed finally, sounding as if he had to drag the words out. “Question for question, maybe?”

  “That depends. Who asks the first question?”

  He touched his lips to my cheek, very lightly. “You do, Liadan.”

  I took a deep breath. “Will you tell me your name now? The real one? Would you trust me with that?”

  “I am content with the name you chose for me.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “What if I told you the name I was given is forgotten?” His hand grew tense in mine. “That I came to believe my name was wretch, scum, cur, filth, that I heard these names so long I could remember no other? A name is pride; it is a place. A worthless creature has no name but a curse.”

  I could hardly speak. “Is this why you … can you tell me when you …” My fingers moved softly against the inside of his wrist, where there was a tiny break in the intricate pattern. A plain space, a neat oval; and in the center, a small design of an insect, a bee I thought it was. Simply done, but perfect in every detail, finely veined wings, delicate legs, fat, neatly striped body. It was the only place on him where such a clear picture was made.

  “You understand almost too well,” he said grimly. “I bore those curses a long time. When I was nine years old I determined I was a man, and I—broke away from that life. Moved on. From that time I have made my own way. This,” and he touched the little insect, “was the beginning. I had heard of a craftsman who did such work for a price. He told me I was too young, too small for what I asked him. But all that I had was this body, these hands. The past was gone; I’d erased it. The future was unimaginable. I needed … well, he listened to me and he told me, come back when you are fifteen years old and grown. Then I will do as you ask. But I insisted, and in the end he said, very well, one little pattern now, the rest when you are a man. I am a man, I said. At least he did not laugh at me. And he made this, very small as you see, but it was a start. The rest came later and over a long time.”

  “Did you choose this pattern? This—small creature?”

  He nodded.

  “Why this?”

  “You’ve had four questions,” he said, with a trace of a smile. “I—I am not sure. Perhaps I remembered it from somewhere. I cannot tell you.”

  He got up and busied himself with the fire. There was food: little wild plums, crisp and sour; hard bread that could be chewed if you dipped it in a cup of hot water. Suitable rations for a traveling man.

  “My turn,” he said. I nodded, expecting that he would ask who I was and where I came from. I would have to tell him. I would have to trust him.

  “Why me?” he asked, staring into the distance. “Why me, of all the men you could have chosen, to be the first; why take a—why choose an outcast, a man whose every action you despise? Why throw yourself away on—on gutter scum?”

  The silence drew out, as birds busied themselves in the trees around us.

  “You must answer,” he said severely. “I will know if you lie to me.” He was not touching me now but sat slightly apart, arms around his knees, his expression forbidding. How could I answer? Didn’t he know? Couldn’t he tell the answer from the way I touched him, from the way I looked at him? Who could put such feelings into words?

  “I—I did not intend it to happen this way,” I said faintly. “But—I had no choice.”

  “You did this out of pity? You gave yourself, thinking to change me, perhaps, to remake me in a form more acceptable to you? The ultimate act of healing?”

  “Stop it!” I exclaimed violently, jumping to my feet. “How can you say that? How can you think that after last night? I have not lied to you, not in my words nor in my actions. I chose you willingly, knowing what you are and what you do. I want no other. I will have no other. Can’t you see that? Can’t you understand that?”

  When I turned back toward him, he had both hands over his face.

  “Bran?” I said softly after a while, and I knelt in front of him and lifted his hands away. No wonder he had shielded his eyes, for they were stripped of any armor now and their clear, gray depths held hope and terror in equal parts.

  “Do you believe me?” I asked him.

  “You’ve no reason to lie to me. But I did
not think … I could not believe … Stay with me, Liadan.” His hands tightened around mine and there was a sudden violence in his tone that made my heart thump.

  “That’s not the most practical suggestion I’ve heard you make,” I said shakily.

  Bran drew a deep breath, and when he spoke again it was with extreme diffidence, his voice under tight control. “This is no life for a woman, I know that. I would not expect that. But I am not without resources. I have a place; I think you would like it. I could provide for you.” He would not meet my eyes as he said this.

  “I can’t,” I said bluntly. “I must go home to Sevenwaters. My mother is very sick, she has little time left. They need me. At least until Beltaine, I must remain there. After that, there may be choices.”

  I knew, the instant I said this, that something had gone terribly wrong. His face changed as abruptly as if a mummer’s mask had been slipped over it, and he unclasped his hands from mine quite slowly and carefully. He was again the Painted Man. But his voice was dark with shock and pain.

  “What did you say?”

  “I … I said I must go home now. I am needed … . Bran, what is it? What’s wrong?” My heart was hammering. His eyes were so cold, remote as a stranger’s.

  “Home to Sevenwaters. That was what you said, wasn’t it?”

  “Y-Yes. That is the name of my home. I am a daughter of that household.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Your father—your father’s name is Liam? Lord of Sevenwaters?”

  “You know him?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Liam is my uncle. My father’s name is Iubdan. B-But my brother is heir to Sevenwaters. We are all of the same family.”

  “You’d better tell me straight. This man—Iubdan. Liam’s brother? Cousin?”

  “What does that matter? Why are you so angry with me? Surely nothing has changed, surely—”

  “Don’t put your hand on me. Answer the question. This man Iubdan, has he another name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Curse you, Liadan, tell me!”

  My whole body was cold. “That is the only name he bears now. The name was chosen for its likeness to the name he had once, before he wed my mother. His name was Hugh.”

  “A Briton. Hugh of Harrowfield.” He spoke this name as if its owner were the lowest form of life imaginable.

  “He is my father.”

  “And your mother is—is—”

  “Her name is Sorcha.” Through my shock, I was starting to feel the first spark of anger. “Liam’s sister. I am proud to be their daughter, Bran. They are good people. Fine people.”

  “Hah!” That explosion of scorn again. He got abruptly to his feet, striding away to stand staring out toward the trees. When he began to speak again, it was softly; and it was not to me he was talking.

  “ … this was never for you, bitch’s whelp … weak, you are, piss-weak, fit to live only in the darkness … how could you believe for an instant … go back to your box, cur …”

  “Bran,”—I spoke as firmly as I could, despite my thudding heart—“what is this? I am still the same woman you held in your arms at daybreak. You must tell me what’s wrong.”

  “She taught you well, didn’t she?” he said, with his back to me. “Your mother. How to turn a man from his path and weaken his resolve and twist him to your will? She was expert at that.”

  I was speechless.

  “When you go home, tell her I am not as weak as he was, the estimable Hugh of Harrowfield. I see through your tricks; I know your performance for what it is. That I ever believed—that I was fool enough to trust—that was indeed stupid. I will not make such an error again.”

  There was no way I could make sense of his words.

  “My mother never—if you knew her, you would realize—”

  “Oh, no, that won’t do,” he said, turning back toward me. “That woman and the man she bewitched, they made me this creature you see here: the man without a conscience, the man with no name, who has no talents save for killing, who has no identity but the one graven on his skin. They took from me my family and my birthright; they took my name. Maybe they told you different. But she stole your father away from his rightful place. He abandoned his duty to follow her. Because of that I lost everything. Because of them, I … I am indeed worthless, scum of the earth.”

  “But—”

  “The irony of it. You would think someone out there played a game with us. How could it be by chance that the one woman I—that the woman who brought me so close to forgetting—that you should be her daughter. That cannot be random. This is my punishment, my doom for daring to believe there could be a future.”

  “Bran—”

  “Hold your tongue! Don’t use that name! Pack your things and go; I don’t want you here one instant longer.”

  A cold stone in the heart. That was how it felt. There wasn’t much to pack. When it was done, I went down the hill and stood for a moment by Evan’s grave. I could barely tell where the earth had been disturbed. It would not be long before every sign was gone.

  “Farewell, friend,” I whispered.

  Bran had brought the horse out, and now she wore a blanket saddle, neatly strapped in place. He had tied my small bag behind this. A water bottle. His coat, rolled up and fastened with a length of rope. That was a little odd.

  “She will carry you safely home,” he said. “You need not trouble yourself to return her. Call it—payment for services rendered.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. I lifted my hand and struck him hard across the cheek, and watched as a red mark stained the clear skin. He made no attempt to avoid the blow.

  “You’d better go,” he said coolly. “Make for the east; the road goes through that way, then south to Littlefolds. It’s not so very far.”

  Then his hands came around my waist, and he lifted me into the saddle; but one hand still lay against my thigh as if he could not quite let go.

  “Liadan,” he said, staring intently at the ground.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Don’t wed that man Eamonn. Tell him, if he takes you, he’s a dead man.” His tone was intense. It was a vow.

  “But—”

  Then he slapped the horse on the rump, and, obedient beast that she was, she headed off at a sharp canter. And before I could form the words for good-bye, he was lost from sight, and it was too late.

  There was no point in being angry. This was over. I would never see the Painted Man again. It was time to go home; and before it was dark of the moon again, all this would be fading into memory like some fantastic dream. I whispered this to the sturdy gray mare as she made her steady way eastward under the trees, and by lonely brooks and still tarns, and carefully between the rocks toward the mad. I had no need to direct her steps; she seemed to know her way.

  When the sun was high in the sky, we rested by a stream. She drank and cropped the grass. I unfastened my pack and discovered hard cheese and dry bread wrapped in a cloth. For a man who could not wait to see the last of me, he had been surprisingly thorough. I supposed he simply followed the well-practiced pattern of hasty departures, of decisions taken on the run. That was his life. It dealt him one blow after another, and he took them and moved on. I tried very hard not to think of him. Home. That was where I must direct my thoughts. Sometime, when I was far enough away, I must use the power of the mind to send a message to my brother Sean, so he could ride out to meet me. Not yet, I thought. Do this too early, and I risked drawing the forces of Sevenwaters down on Bran and his men. I had felt it from time to time in the encampment, a tug at the thoughts, an intrusion in the mind, my brother calling silently, Liadan! Liadan, where are you? But I had shut myself off from him. If anyone were to betray the band of the Painted Man and destroy their fellowship, it would not be me.

  We moved on. I was growing weary. There had been little sleep; and despite myself I heard, over and over, the words of that morning in my head. Don’t put your hand on me. I don’t w
ant you here one instant longer. Call it payment for services rendered. I told myself not to be foolish. What had I expected? That I could change his life forever as he had changed mine?

  I set my thoughts ahead, to home and to my return. What could I tell my family? Not where I had been; nothing of the outlaws who had sought my help, and who had, against all odds, become my friends. Certainly, nothing of the man to whom I had so rashly given myself. Had I not repeated my sister’s error? It followed, then, that if the truth were known I could expect no better treatment than poor Niamh had been given: a hasty marriage and prompt banishment, away from family and friends, away from the forest. A shiver ran through me. Sevenwaters was my home; its dark loveliness was lodged in my very spirit. But I had changed things; I had lain with the Painted Man; and no matter how cruel his words of rejection, he, too, was now a part of me. I wanted to tell the truth; I wanted to ask my father what dark secret of the past had led to this man’s bitter hatred of me and mine. If I did not tell, I would never know why Bran had sent me away. And yet, I could not tell.