Son of the Shadows Read online

The day after I came home, I made a candle. There was nothing so remarkable about this; such crafting was a regular part of the household’s work. But I was supposed to be resting. Mother checked my bedchamber, found the floor swept clean and the quilt neat and flat, and sought me out where I worked in the stillroom, my newly washed hair drawn back tightly by a linen band. If she saw my lips swollen and bruised, if she recognized bite marks on my neck, she did not comment on them. Instead, she watched my hands as they marked one side of the beeswax methodically in an intricate design of spiral and whorl and crosshatching. The other side was plain. I said nothing. When it was done to my satisfaction, I set it in a sturdy holder, and around the base I tied the severed strip of leather with wolf claws strung on it and a little garland I had fashioned. At last my mother spoke.

  “This is a powerful charm: dogwood, yarrow, and juniper, apple and lavender. And are those the feathers from a raven’s wing? Where will this candle burn, Daughter?”

  “In my window.”

  Mother nodded. She had asked me no real questions.

  “Your beacon has been made with herbs of protection and herbs of love. I understand its purpose. Perhaps it is as well your father and brother do not. You close yourself off from Sean. That hurts him.”

  I glanced at her. Concern was written on her small features, but her eyes, as usual, were deep and calm. Of them all, only she had believed me when I said I was all right. The others saw the fading bruises on my wrist, the bite marks, the stains on my clothing, and leapt to conclusions. Their anger burned bright.

  “I have no choice,” I said.

  “Mmm.” Sorcha nodded. “And it is not yourself you are protecting. You have a great capacity to love; you give freely, Daughter. And like your father, you lay yourself open to hurt.”

  The candle was finished. It would burn for many nights. It would burn steadfast at dark of the moon, lighting the way home.

  “I have no choice,” I said again, and as I went out I bent to kiss my mother’s brow. Her shoulder under my fingers was fragile as a bird’s.

  There were many questions. Liam had questions. How were you taken? What manner of men were they? Did you know three of my men were slain guarding you? Where did they take you? North? Morrigan curse your stubbornness, Liadan! This could be vitally important! Sean had his own questions, but after a while he stopped asking them. I felt his hurt and his worry as if it were my own, for thus it always was with the two of us. But this time I was unable to help him.

  As for my father, with him I needed all my will to remain silent. He sat quietly in the garden, watching me work, and he said, “For all that time I did not know if you were alive or dead. I have lost one daughter already, and your mother walks in shadow. I would do anything in my power to keep you safe, Liadan. But I will wait until you are ready to tell me, sweetheart.”

  “You might have a fair wait.”

  Iubdan nodded. “As long as you are home, and safe,” he said quietly.

  Eamonn came to visit, and I refused to see him. Maybe that was discourteous of me, but nobody insisted. It was put down to my feeling poorly after my experience and needing to rest. What Eamonn said, I did not know, but the men of the household were rather tight-lipped after his departure. In truth I had recovered remarkably quickly and soon found myself full of energy, eating heartily, and sleeping sound as a child while my candle conjured strange shadows on the walls around me. The one thing I could not come to terms with, for it was a feeling quite new and strange to me, was the ache within me, the longing to be held, the need to touch and be close and at length to rise again to that peak of joy that no words can describe. It is hard to explain. There was no doubt I felt the lusts of the body, the hot urge of a creature for its mate. But that was not all. I had seen the hand of death over Bran, and over myself, at the mouth of the ancient barrow. I sensed our fates were intertwined; we were closer than any mates or lovers or partners. This was a link that would transcend death, an unbreakable bond. This seemed ever clearer to me, a certainty that could not be questioned. It made no difference that he had sent me away. This was and would be. And as for the Fair Folk, if they wanted me to make some sort of commitment, they would need to provide better explanations. Unquestioning compliance with their wishes was not my idea of common sense.

  I longed for Niamh to be home. Some things you can talk of only with your sister. I wanted to tell her that I understood now why she had acted as she did, though at the time it had seemed to me blind and selfish. That I knew how it must hurt her, each day without Ciarán, giving herself to another man, each day alone among a sea of strangers, thinking only of him, wondering where he was, if he was safe, dreaming of the touch she would never feel again.

  Life went back to its old pattern. The same, and yet not the same. We all missed Niamh, but nobody spoke of that. What was done was done; you could not rewrite the past. As for me, it seemed all of them were just a step farther away from me. They mistrusted my silences, my need to be alone with my thoughts. It was different with Mother. She had her own idea of the truth, and she stopped Liam from questioning me further.

  One evening not long past Lugnasad, in the chill of the season’s change, a messenger came from Tirconnell with welcome news. There was to be a gathering in the south; the chieftains of many clans were summoned to Tara by the high king, and Fionn would go as his father’s representative. There might be no love lost between the two factions of the Uí Néill, but it would be more than folly to spurn such an invitation. Often enough, as the generations passed, the title of Ard Ri, or high king, had gone from one branch of this great family to the other and back again. Liam, too, was to attend. Best news of all, Fionn would bring his wife with him, at least as far as Sevenwaters, so I would see my sister again.

  Linen was aired and floors swept; preparations were made in kitchens and stableyard for an influx of visitors. I had intended to make myself useful, helping Janis and her women with salting and brewing. But the strong smell of the ale seemed to turn my stomach, and I had to make a hurried excuse and retreat outside to retch up my breakfast under a rowan bush. I supposed I had eaten too much. I always seemed to be hungry these days. Later, I felt fine, and dismissed my malady as nothing important. But when it happened again the next day, and the next, I stayed away from the kitchens in the mornings, restricting myself to pruning, sweeping, harvesting seed, drying and storing herbs. I worked extremely hard. I was always busy. I allowed myself no time to think.

  Dark of the moon came and went, and came again. On these nights I did not sleep. Instead, I would sit by the window where the candle burned, and I would think of that small child who had stretched out his hand to me in the darkness, in the nightmare. Don’t let go. In my mind I took this child, who was also a man, and I wrapped my arms around him and held him next to my heart until the first touch of dawn brushed the sky. And although I never spoke aloud, I talked to him constantly through the shadows that encircled him. I’m here. You’re safe now, I have you safe. I won’t let go. Dawn always came at last The sun always rose, and it was a new day. I told him that; and when it was light enough for him to see his way, I blew out the candle, touched the raven feather gently with my fingertips, and went out, yawning, to start the day’s work.

  It was a year of good harvest. Iubdan could be seen everywhere, his great height and his bright hair marking him out from the other men of the household as he oversaw the gathering of root crops, the culling of cattle, the slaughtering of sheep for salting and drying, the mending of roof and wall to guard cottager and herd beast against winter’s eager grasp. Sean was often by his side, a slighter figure, his hair as dark and wild as our mother’s. There was no Aisling to divert him, for their own harvest kept her and her brother away from Sevenwaters, and I was glad of it. Liam was preparing for his journey south, sending and receiving many messages, planning, consulting with his captains. Although Sean was privy to these meetings, he would not travel to the high king’s gathering. Ever a strategist, Liam was taking his
time before he exposed his nephew too openly to that influential and dangerous circle. He thought my brother still too young to play the delicate games of power. In time Sean would be lord of Sevenwaters. He must learn to be always a step ahead of his neighbors, for a neighbor could turn from ally to enemy in an instant. Liam taught these lessons well, biding his time until Sean should lose the rashness of youth and prove himself a true leader of men.

  It suited me well that the household was so busy, for harvest and gathering took folk’s attention away from me. Niamh and her husband would be here at Meán Fómhair, when night equals day, and we stand on the threshold of darkness. Through that doorway is the keeper of births and deaths. Ancient crone she may be, but with great age comes a wisdom beyond measure. At the turning time, her counsel can be sought by those with the courage to open their minds to her voice. And oh, I needed wisdom, I needed guidance, and soon. But not from the Fair Folk. I knew what they would say, and I was starting to have an inkling of what might lie behind it. I was starting to feel trapped, and I did not like it at all.

  I cut off the hem of Bran’s coat, so I could wear it out of doors without picking up too much mud. Once I had cleaned the length of fabric I cut it into neat squares, and laid them away in the small oak chest by my bed. I had some other pieces ready. Fragments of an old shirt of my father’s softened with wear. A pretty rose-colored wool from one of Niamh’s gowns. I had prepared the dye for this myself, a long time ago. She had worn it happily until another became her favorite. There were scraps of a practical homespun, part of my ruined riding dress. Cut from the back because, when I looked at it, that was the only part that was not beyond saving, so stained was the gown with blood and vomit and other unthinkable things. After I cut my small patches, the garment was burned. I shed no tears over it. I tried not to think about it. Instead I worked. The stillroom had perhaps never been so well stocked, the garden seldom so tidy, not a ragged shoot or unwelcome weed in sight. And then it was almost dark of the moon again, and my mother came in one day as I was stringing rosehips for drying, and I realized I had been humming under my breath a little fragment of an old, old lullaby.

  “Don’t stop,” said Sorcha, settling herself on the window seat, a tiny shadow with huge eyes like the smallest and most delicate of white owls. “I like to hear you singing. I know then that you are well, despite everything. An unhappy woman does not sing.”

  I glanced at her and went back to my rosehips. They hung on my thread like bright drops of lifeblood. Where was he? In what distant land did he risk his life now for some stranger’s bag of silver? Under what exotic tree, in what odd company did he lie awake at night, weapon in hand, waiting silent for the dawn?

  “Liadan.”

  I turned toward her.

  “Sit down, Liadan. I’ve brought something for you.”

  Taken aback, I did as I was told. She shook out the bundle of cloth she was holding.

  “You know this gown, of course. It’s very old. Too old, now, to be worn anymore.” Her hand stroked the faded blue fabric; her thin fingers touched the ancient embroidery, now almost invisible. “I thought you might salvage a section here, and maybe here. You’d have to hem the edges very finely. But you’re clever with a needle. There was a day when the sea and the sand touched these skirts, such a day as you see but once in a lifetime … and I wore it again on a day of fire and blood. I need keep the gown no longer to remember; both days are imprinted on my heart. Whatever it is you are making for your child, this fabric must be a part of it.”

  There was a lengthy silence, during which, eventually, I got up, brewed a pan of mint tea and poured it into two cups. I placed one on the stone sill by my mother and could no longer avoid meeting her gaze. She was smiling.

  “Were you going to tell me, Daughter, or were you waiting for me to tell you?”

  I choked on my tea.

  “I—of course I would have told you. It’s not you I fear telling, Mother.”

  She nodded. “I’ve only one question,” she said, “and not the one you might expect. I would ask, was this child conceived in joy?”

  I looked her straight in the eyes, and she read the answer on my face.

  “Mmm.” She nodded again. “I thought no less. Your walk, your little half-smile, your demeanor are not those of a woman injured or frightened. And yet he did not stay by you? How can that be?”

  I sat down opposite her on a three-legged stool, letting the cup warm my hands. “He does not know of this child. Clearly, he could not. And he asked me to stay with him. I said no.”

  There was a pause. She sipped the tea, I think more to please me than out of any real appetite for it. “I thought perhaps,” she said cautiously, “I thought perhaps this child was fathered by one of the—by one of those Others, and that this was how you disappeared without trace so that even the best efforts of Liam and Eamonn could find no sign of you. Is this the reason you hug this secret so tight within yourself, Liadan?”

  An Otherworld child. I was almost tempted to say yes; it would have been a handy explanation.

  “I did not journey beyond the margins, Mother, though I did—I did see the Fair Folk, and they spoke to me. This child’s father is a mortal man, and I will not give his name.”

  “I see,” she said slowly. “You saw them. So this, too, is part of the same pattern. Are we to know, in time, who has done this to you? Got you with child and vanished as if he had never been? Your father will expect to call this man to account; both Sean and Liam are likely to go further and speak of vengeance.”

  I said nothing. There was a breeze coming up outside; shadows of twig and dry leaf moved against the stone walls. There was the bright, slanting sun of an autumn morning, a light that teased, promising a warmth that would never follow.

  “Mother.” I could not stop my voice from shaking just a little.

  “It’s all right, Liadan. Tell me, if you can.”

  “That’s part of the problem. I can’t tell anyone, not even you. Mother—how can I speak of this to Father? I can’t—I won’t be married to a stranger as Niamh was. Nor will I bear my child in shame and silence. How can I tell him? How can I tell Sean, and Liam, and—and—”

  “And Eamonn?” she asked gently.

  I nodded miserably.

  “Would your man return for you?” Mother asked, her face still tranquil. “Surely a man deserving of your love could not fail to do so.”

  “He—he lives a life of great risk,” I managed. “There is no place in such a life for a wife and a child. And besides—no, never mind. He is—he is not a man Father would think … suitable. That’s all I can say.”

  “Your father and Liam will wish you married,” said Sorcha quietly. “You know this. They will not understand that you would rather bear your child alone.”

  “I’ve an answer to that,” I said. “The Fair Folk gave me strict instructions to stay here at Sevenwaters. Forever, I think they meant. No need to wed, they said, neither Eamonn nor another. At the time I had no idea why they would bid me do so. Now I begin to understand.”

  Mother nodded, seemingly not at all surprised. “The child,” she said softly, “it is the child who must stay in the forest. They intend you to raise the infant here. It’s apt, Liadan. With—with what happened to Niamh, we saw the stirring of an evil we thought long gone. Perhaps your child is their weapon against that.”

  “The old evil? That is what they called it. What evil? What can be so terrible it threatens the Fair Folk themselves?”

  Sorcha sighed. “We cannot be sure. Who can say what form such forces may take? You should heed the warnings you were given.”

  I frowned. “I don’t like this. I told them so. I refused to promise. I will not be used as some tool for their purposes. Nor will my son.” I had no doubt whatever this child would be a boy. His father, I thought, was surely a man who would breed sons.

  “It’s not wise to disregard their bidding,” Mother said gravelly. “We are the smallest of players in their l
ong game. Its span is greater than we can recognize, Liadan. Still, in time their intent may become clearer to us. It concerns me that you will not name this man. How could one who would abandon you without a thought be worthy of such loyalty? Or is it shame that stops your words?”

  I flushed scarlet. “No, Mother,” I said firmly. “It’s true, at first I did my best to deny this to myself. Not out of shame, but because I knew how difficult it would be, I suppose. I pretended I had not noticed the changes in my body, I ignored the passing of the season, the waxing and waning of the moon. But as his child grows inside me, I have been filled with a joy so strong, a power so intense I can think of nothing to which I can liken it. I feel as if—I feel as if I can hear the heart of the earth beating inside me.”

  Sorcha was quiet for a while.

  “Believe me, Daughter,” she said eventually, “this child is as precious to me as he is to you. Your words gladden me and frighten me. I will make you a promise, and you must trust me to keep it. I promise you I will still be here, in spring, to deliver your babe with my own hands. I will be here, Liadan.”

  I burst into tears, and she put her arms around me and hugged me as hard as she could; and I felt again how small and frail she had become. And yet, in that embrace there was a strength that flowed into me and through me; and I knew Bran had been wrong, wrong about Sorcha, wrong about Hugh of Harrowfield, who was my father. There was no evil here. Somewhere, somehow, the story had been twisted and changed, and I longed to put it right. Someday I would put it right.

  “Don’t weep, Daughter. Not for me.”

  “I’m sorry.” I dashed the tears from my face.

  “It’s hard to understand your loyalty to this man. He loves you and will not return. He gives you his child and disappears. And yet you do everything to protect him. You guard his safety with an impenetrable wall of silence that shuts out even your brother. And you believe even that may not be enough. For something still gives you sleepless nights.”

  I did not respond.