Son of the Shadows
He did not reply, and the silence drew out so long I began to be worried.
“Bran?” I asked softly.
“I wonder,” he said hesitantly, “I did wonder if perhaps you—if maybe you regretted that. Had second thoughts, I mean. Now that you have seen—now that you know these things about me, things I have never told anyone … I am not the man you once thought me to be. I did think maybe …” He ran out of words.
“Why?” He had astonished me. “Why would you believe such a thing, that I would not want you, that I might love you any less because of that? I have told you; you are the only man in the world I want by my side. Nothing will ever change that. I cannot make it any clearer.”
“Then—” He stopped himself again.
“Then what, dear heart?”
“Why would you …” he spoke so quietly I strained to hear. “Why would you wish to sleep apart, why shun my bed, after that night, that longest of nights when I woke and found you there beside me, a gift of such precious worth it wiped away a lifetime of shadows? I ache to feel that moment again and this time, to hold you close, and touch you, and—I have no words for this, Liadan.”
Perhaps it was just as well it was dark. I was laughing and crying at the same time and could hardly think what to say to him.
“If I were not holding the child,” I said shakily, “I would show you this instant how my body burns for yours. It seems to me you have a short memory. I recall an afternoon by the lake of Sevenwaters when it was only our son’s intervention that brought the two of us to our senses. As for these last days, I thought only to spare your health. You have been through a severe trial. You are still bruised in body and mind. I did not wish to—to demand more than you might—”
I sensed a ferocious scowl in the darkness. “You thought me incapable? Was that it?”
“I—well, I … I am a healer, after all, and it is only common sense—”
He stopped my words with a kiss, a firm, no-nonsense sort of kiss. It was briefer than I wished; Johnny was between us and in danger of being squashed.
“Liadan?”
“Mmm?”
“Will you share my bed tonight?”
I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. “More than likely,” I told him.
The goddess blessed us, I think. Someone looked kindly on us that night, for Johnny fell asleep and never woke until morning; and the others took themselves off and arranged a watch, and we heard not a whisper from the three of them. As for me and my man, we lay closely entwined under the shelter of the rocks, and we showed no more restraint than we had that afternoon by the lake, for it had been a long time. We clung and gasped and wept in our need for each other, until at last we slept, exhausted, sharing a blanket under the great bowl of stars. At dawn we woke from the sweet warmth of shared sleep, and neither of us stirred save to touch softly, and brush lips against flesh and whisper little words, until we heard Rat busy with the fire, and Gull making some comment about where we might have got to.
“There will be other mornings,” I said quietly.
“Until now, I don’t think I ever really believed that.” Bran was getting up, reluctantly, covering his finely decorated body with the plain traveling clothes he favored. I watched unabashed, marveling at how lucky I was.
“We must believe it,” I said, and at that moment Johnny awoke and began to call insistently for his breakfast. “We must believe in a future, for him, for these men, and for ourselves. Surely love is strong enough to build that upon.” I think it was for the Fair Folk I spoke, more than for us. But if they heard me, they gave no sign of it. I had made my decision. I had changed the course of things. If that meant I would never hear from them again, so be it.
So we rode away northward, without any fuss, a quiet, orderly band of travelers dressed in clothing that would draw no attention, a man whose face was a study in light and shade, whose features bore the bold, fierce pattern of the raven, and were at the same time fair and young. Which side you saw depended simply on how you chose to look at him. A woman with dark hair plaited down her back and strange, green eyes. A black man with odd-looking hands, and a gull’s feather in his braided hair. A youth bearing a child, and a large, silent fellow on a large, silent horse. Ever northward we rode, to the rugged coast that looks out toward Alba, home of warrior women. Behind us the land of Ulster awoke to the morning, an autumn sun hazy bright over soft green valley, and sparkling lake, and the dark loveliness of the great forest of Sevenwaters. Behind us a fire burned out, and a plume of gray smoke marked the site of its destructive force, a force Otherworldly in its precision and its fury. Perhaps the Sorceress believed us dead, perished in its furnace. But we turned our backs to it and rode steadily away, and as we rode I heard it in my head once more, though the place of the barrow was far behind us now, the deep, humming sound of the west wind as it moved over the top of the ancient mound and passed across the narrow aperture left there for the mysterious piercing entrance of the midwinter sun. It was like the sonorous, ancient note of a great instrument; a salute of recognition and of farewell. Well done, Daughter, breathed the voices of my ancestors. Oh, bravely done.
Author’s Note
CELTIC DEITIES
This book contains many references to gods, goddesses, and heroes from Irish mythology. The reader may appreciate a brief introduction to them and a little help with the pronunciation of the Irish Gaelige, remembering that there may be several versions of the spelling and pronunciation of a certain name, all quite valid.
Tuatha Dé Danann too-a-ha day dann-an
(The Fair Folk)
The people of the goddess Dana or Danu, they were the last race of Otherworld beings to inhabit Ireland. They defeated two ancient races, the Fir Bolg and the Fomhóire, at the two battles of Moytirra, but were themselves relegated to hidden parts of the landscape, such as caves and barrows, with the coming of the first Gaels.
Fomhóire fo-vo-reh
(The Old Ones)
An ancient race that emerged from the sea to inhabit Ireland. Inaccurately described in later written accounts as misshapen and ugly. They were eventually defeated by the Tuatha Dé Danann and sent into exile.
Brighid bree-yid
A youthful spring goddess associated with fertility and nurture. In later Christian writings she became inextricably identified with Saint Brigid, foundress of a convent in Kildare.
Dana (Danu) dan-a, dan-u
Mother goddess of the Tuatha Dé Danann and associated with the earth.
Morrigan morri-gan
A goddess of war and death. One of her favorite forms was that of a crow or raven.
Lugh loo
Celtic sun god. Lugh bore the blood of both Tuatha Dé and Fomhóire. A multitalented hero.
Dagda dog-da
A respected leader and chief of the Tuatha Dé.
Díancécht dee-an kyecht
God of healing, and chief physician of the Tuatha Dé. He constructed a silver hand for the smitten hero Nuada.
Manannán mac Lir man-un-aun mac lear
A sea god, mariner, and warrior, who also possessed powers of healing.
CELTIC FESTIVALS
Celtic deities are often associated with the major festivals that mark the turning points of the druidic year. These days not only have a ritual significance but are closely linked to the cycle of planting, growing, harvesting, and storing crops, and are paralleled in the life cycles of man and beast.
Samhain (1 November) Sowan
Marks the beginning of the Celtic New Year. The dark months begin; seed waits for new life to germinate. It is a time to take stock and reflect; a time to honor the dead, when margins may be crossed more easily, allowing communication between human world and spirit world.
Imbolc (1 February) Imulk, Imbulk
Festival of the lactating ewes, sacred to the goddess Brighid. A day of new beginnings, when the first plowing was often undertaken.
Beltaine (1 May) Byaltena
On this day the brigh
t half of the year begins. A deeply significant day, related to both fertility and death. The day on which the Túatha Dé Danann first set foot in Ireland. Many customs and practices grew up around Beltaine, including maypole and spiral dances, the setting out of gifts, such as milk, eggs, and cider, for Otherworld folk, and, as at Imbolc, the dousing and relighting of household fires.
Lugnasad (1 August) Loonasa
A harvest festival sacred to the god Lugh, it developed from the funeral games he held in honor of his foster mother Tailtiu. The mother goddess Dana is also recognized at Lugnasad. Many practices are observed in order to ensure a good and safe harvest. These often include the ritual cutting of the last sheaf of grain. Games and competitions are also popular.
In addition to the four fire festivals outlined above, the solstices and equinoxes mark significant turning points in the year, and each has its own ritual celebration. These are:
Mean Geimhridh (21 December) winter solstice
Mean Earraigh (21 March) spring equinox
Mean Samhraidh (21 June) summer solstice
Mean Fómhair (21 September) autumn equinox
SOME OTHER NAMES AND TERMS USED
Aengus Og eyn-gus ohg
Caer Ibormeith kyre ee-vor-may
CÚ Chulainn Koo khu-linn
Scáthach skaw-thuck
Aisling ash-ling
Ciarán kee-ur-aun
Fionn Uí Néill fyunn ee nay-ill
Liadan lee-a-dan
Niamh nee-av
Sidhe Dubh shee dove
bogle
A goblinlike creature
Bran mac Feabhail bran mak fev-il
An eighth-century text describes this hero’s voyage to distant and fantastic lands. On his return to Ireland, Bran discovered hundreds of years had passed in the earthly realm.
brithem
In old Irish brehon law, a maker of judgments.
clurichaun kloo-ri-khaun
A small, mischievous spirit, something like a leprechaun.
deosil jesh-il
Sunwise; clockwise.
fianna feen-ya
Band of young hunter-warriors. One particular group of fianna was said to be led by the legendary hero Fionn mac Cumhaill. The term was used for roaming bands of fighters who lived in the wilds and operated under their own rules.
filidh fil-lee
Ecstatic visionary poets and seers within the druid tradition.
grimoire
Sorcerer’s book of spells.
nemeton
Sacred grove of the druids.
Ogham
Secret alphabet of the druids, with twenty-five letters, each of which also indicates a particular plant, tree, or element. Ogham signs might be carved on a tree trunk or scratched on a stone, or indicated by gestures—the druids had no other written language.
riastradh ree-a-strath
Battle frenzy.
selkie
This term can be used for a seal or for one of a race of seal folk who can shed their skins and become human for a time. If the skin is stolen or lost, the selkie cannot return to the ocean.
Tir na nOg tear na nohg
Land of Youth. An otherworldly realm beyond the western sea.
túath
A tribal community in early Christian Ireland, ruled by a king or lord.
BOOKS BY JULIET MARILLIER
THE SEVENWATERS TRILOGY
Daughter of the Forest
Son of the Shadows
Child of the Prophecy
SAGA OF THE LIGHT ISLES
Wolfskin
Foxmask
THE BRIDEI CHRONICLES
The Dark Mirror
Blade of Fortriu
The Well of Shades*
*Forthcoming
Praise for Son of the Shadows
“Beautifully written, the second in the Sevenwaters trilogy continues a sparkling saga of a family whose destiny is to help free Erin from British tyranny.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Ever wondered what happens next in your favorite fairy tale? Australian new voice Juliet Marillier provides a beautifully wrought answer … the exquisite poetry of the story is carefully balanced with strong characterizations and more than a nod to Irish mythology.”
—Romantic Times (Gold Top Pick)
“Marillier’s virtuosic pacing and vivid, filmic style make this an engaging continuation of one of last year’s best fantasies.”
—Booklist
“Marillier blends old legends with original storytelling to produce an epic fantasy.”
—Library Journal
“Like her mother Sorcha before her, Liadan is impressive in her own right, and it’s her individuality and strength of character that break through both sentiment and furor to bring this tale fully alive.”
—Locus
“A quietly moving and extremely well written fantasy.”
—Science Fiction Chronicle
Daughter of the Forest
“I enjoyed it immensely … . For an Irish resident, familiar with the mores and customs, Daughter of the Forest had special meaning and relevance. Juliet Marillier is a fine new fantasy writer.”
—Anne McCaffrey
“A world rich with magic and legend, full of heroic—and a few decidedly nasty—characters. Lush, poetic, and surprisingly romantic.”
—Romantic Times
“Ms. Marillier’s ability to use so well such a known legend and make it both logical and exiting is an outstanding gift. I am now, of course, eager to see ‘what happens next’ and that interest is what every writer hopes to arouse in the reader of a trilogy.”
—Andre Norton
“What sets Marillier’s work apart is how she wraps this traditional plot with deeply individualized characters and a beautifully realized background of Ireland in the Dark Ages … Marillier is a new writer to watch.”
—VOYA
“The story line is fast-paced, filled with action, and loaded with romance yet brimming with magical elements that seem real. The lead characters are warm, compassionate, and share a sense of family loyalty that adds to the adventure.”
—Midwest Book Review
“The author’s keen understanding of Celtic paganism and early Irish Christianity adds texture to a rich and vibrant novel.”
—Library Journal
“A nicely wrought and well-detailed historical fantasy, and an excellent first novel.”
—Locus
“Marillier’s powerful writing and attention to detail bring even the minor characters of this novel alive … a must-read for anyone who enjoys the power of myth.”
—Charleston SC Post & Courier
“Juliet Marillier is a writer of exceptional talent [and] Sorcha is probably one of the best handled heroines of fantasy fiction.”
—Shelf Life
Look for
Child of the Prophecy
by Juliet Marillier
Now available from Tor Books
Every summer they came. By earth and sky, by sun and stone I counted the days. I’d climb up to the circle and sit there quiet with my back to the warmth of the rock I called Sentinel, and see the rabbits come out in the fading light to nibble at what sparse pickings might be found on the barren hillside. The sun sank in the west, a ball of orange fire diving beyond the hills into the unseen depths of the ocean. Its dying light caught the shapes of the dolmens and stretched their strange shadows out across the stony ground before me. I’d been here every summer since first I saw the travelers come, and I’d learned to read the signs. Each day the setting sun threw the dark pointed shapes a little further across the hilltop to the north. When the biggest shadow came right to my toes, here where I sat in the very center of the circle, it was time. Tomorrow I could go and watch by the track, for they’d be here.
There was a pattern to it. There were patterns to everything, if you knew how to look. My father taught me that. The real skill lay in staying outside them, in not letting yourself b
e caught up in them. It was a mistake to think you belonged. Such as we were could never belong. That, too, I learned from him.
I’d wait there by the track, behind a juniper bush, still as a child made of stone. There’d be a sound of hooves, and the creak of wheels turning. Then I’d see one or two of the lads on ponies, riding up ahead, keeping an eye out for any trouble. By the time they came up the hill and passed by me where I hid, they’d relaxed their guard and were joking and laughing, for they were close to camp and a summer of good fishing and relative ease, a time for mending things and making things. The season they spent here at the bay was the closest they ever came to settling down.
Then there’d be a cart or two, the old men and women sitting up on top, the smaller children perched on the load or running alongside. Danny Walker would be driving one pair of horses, his wife Peg the other. The rest of the folk would walk behind, their scarves and shawls and neckerchiefs bright splashes of color in the dun and gray of the landscape, for it was barren enough up here, even in the warmth of early summer. I’d watch and wait unseen, never stirring. And last, there was the string of ponies, and the younger lads leading them or riding alongside. That was the best moment of the summer: the first glimpse I got of Darragh, sitting small and proud on his sturdy gray. He’d be pale after the winter up north, and frowning as he watched his charges, always alert lest one of them should make a bolt for freedom. They’d a mind to go their own way, these hill ponies, until they were properly broken. This string would be trained over the warmer season, and sold when the traveling folk went north again.