I slid down off the wall, suddenly cold. What had I done wrong? He seemed angry; yet I had thought…
“Go on, Fainne.” Still he had his back to me, his arms tightly folded, as if the very thought of looking, or touching, was suddenly repugnant to him. I could not believe how much it hurt; it was as if the last, sweet remnant of my childhood were turned suddenly to ashes. I reached out my hand, and for just an instant it rested against his sleeve.
“Best not,” he said in a choked sort of voice, and edged away like a nervous horse.
“Good night then.” I forced the words out, fought to recover my breathing. I must be strong for the morning, strong for the journey. I could not afford this. It was wrenching me in pieces.
“Farewell, Curly. Keep out of trouble, now, until I come back for you.” Still he would not face me. But his voice was the same as I remembered it from long ago, strong and true. I fled, before I said something I would regret forever. I ran through the long house, where Gull and Biddy now sat before the embers of the fire, talking softly together. All must make a farewell, but I thought none was more terrible, or more final, than my own. I reached my little sleeping hut and went in quietly, and I lay down on my pallet open-eyed. Two of the girls were gently snoring already. Brenna’s voice came in a whisper.
“Are you all right, Fainne?”
“Mm,” I said, and pulled the blanket up over my face. I was not all right, and it seemed as if I never would be. I had got so many things wrong. I had hurt so many good folk on the way, just as the owl-creature had said. It seems to us you don’t give a toss what casualties you have behind. But I did care, that was the problem. That was what held me back. Feelings. Friendship. Loyalty. Love. So much easier for a sorceress to be like my grandmother and not give a fig for what was lost on the way. All that matters is power, she would say. I could almost hear her saying it now, deep inside me: a small, dark voice long silent, and now awake once more. As long as you understand that, Fainne. I fell asleep with my jaw clenched tight and my eyes screwed shut, and my body curled into a little ball under the blankets. I dreamed of fire.
Darragh had been right. There was no time in the morning. I rose before dawn, and as I crept across to the scholars’ hut I could see lights down at the bay, and hear an orderly, purposeful movement of men on the steps. Sails crackled; there was already a northerly breeze. By candlelight I found a scrap of parchment, took the stopper from the ink, picked up a quill. What could one write? How could such things be said? In the end it was brief indeed. I have to go away for a while. I’m sorry. I signed my name, and sprinkled sand to dry the ink. I folded and sealed the message, and wrote Liadan’s name on the front, and I propped it up where the priest or the druid would soon find it. Then I went out to the place I had chosen, a narrow ledge not far below the clifftop, looking out over the bay. A growth of scrubby bushes would conceal me from view in the half-light, yet give me partial sight of the fleet as it prepared for departure. Perhaps I should have chosen my clothes with a view to my destination. Perhaps I should have stolen something of Cormack’s; to go clad as a warrior would be to have a chance of remaining unobtrusive for a little, when I returned to myself. But I had dressed, instead, for courage. I wore a simple gown in stripes of blue and green, the sort of gown a traveling girl wears for a special occasion, such as the horse fair. Over it I had tied the loveliest shawl in all Erin, its silken folds resplendent with bonny creatures in all the colors of the rainbow. My hair was loose; the first rays of the morning sun turned it bonfire-red. I dressed to show I was my own self, and nobody’s creature. But still I wore the amulet, for I was leaving this place of protection and heading out into the unknown. Take it off, and she would come, I knew it. She must not come, not yet. She must watch and believe me loyal right up to the last, not knowing the power my mother’s cord possessed, not understanding that at last I had begun to recognize the strength I had in me, the strength that flowed both from my father and from my mother. Was I not both sorceress and daughter of Sevenwaters, a potent mixture by any measure? As my grandmother had said, this must unfold according to the prophecy, to the last, to the very last. Then she would understand how ill she had chosen her instrument of vengeance.
Riona was fastened in my belt; I could not leave her behind. I waited as the men came down and boarded the curraghs; I waited as the women waved, calling their brave farewells. I waited as oars flashed in the dark water, until the wind filled the sails and the craft began to move eastward out of the sheltered bay into open sea. Then I closed my eyes and summoned the charm. With every part of me, mind, body, spirit, I thought, dove. The words of the spell vibrated through me. I felt the power in my fingertips, in the soles of my feet, in the hair on my head, up and down my back like a great current, carrying me forward. I opened my eyes, and spread my wings, and flew.
Chapter Fourteen
It seems simple. A bird moves its wings up and down, and turns to the south or the north or wherever it wants to go. It follows the flock until it reaches a destination, and comes down easily to land in a tree, something like an elm with plenty of convenient perches to choose from. But this was not simple at all.
Part of it happened instinctively; beating the wings, riding the current, feeling light and shadow, far and near, warm and cold and adjusting to them as I went. But something was wrong. This way was danger. It was away from food and shelter and homelands. These things pulled me; they called a strong warning. Back! Come back! Not that way! And there was no small Otherworld being to offer guidance this time. I was alone, a tiny speck of feather and bone adrift on the very breath of the air, high above the freezing grayness of this northern sea where the small boats, brave-sailed, now breasted the swells of open water. The boats. The mission. Somewhere down there was my cousin, the child of the prophecy, embarked on the great campaign of his life. Somewhere down there was a traveling man who barely knew one end of a sword from the other. Now, because of me, he was going to war. I must not forget who I was; what I was. Dove was a guise only. Dove would get me there. I must not lose myself in the creature, or all would be lost indeed. Keep moving, keep working, for the curraghs moved swift over the ocean, carried on the same north wind which chased me hard across the pale sky. The sea was such a long way down; farther than the fall from a high tower; greater than the dive from a clifftop; a plunge that would kill before the icy grip of the water could do its work, or the teeth of the sea creatures tear and rend a small victim. In its way, a fall would be merciful.
My eyes saw a different world: wider, brighter, clearer. It was confusing, for I did not see objects so much as patterns of light and dark; shadows above me which might be danger; patches below me which might be places of rest. I felt my body suspended in air; borne by the current. Part human, part creature, I saw with bird-sight and must constantly remind myself of what things were, and how I must act. Boats. Sails. Follow them, said the human part of me. Home, said the bird. Turn for home. Too far. But I flew on, for the one thing that never left me was the fear that I might be too slow, or too weak. I was afraid I would lose them, and myself be lost.
It was a long way. I had not thought how long it would be; had not calculated with chart or map. That showed a lamentable lack of self-discipline. My father would never have undertaken such a journey so ill-prepared. I must go on; I could not let my grandmother win this battle. The prophecy foretold a great victory; my cousin would lead the forces of Sevenwaters and win back the Islands. Now Johnny sailed forth and I must follow, for he would need me at the last. I felt a warmth against the feathers of my breast; the amulet was still with me even in my birdlike form, and so was she. Her eyes were open once more, her presence shadowed me. So be it; I would lead her after me until the moment when I must turn and confront her. For at the end she would be there; of that there was no doubt whatever. She would be there to watch and gloat over her great triumph. I must go on. But I was tired, and the wind was getting stronger, and the air seemed colder. Weren’t the curraghs further away
now, not below me and just ahead anymore, but over on my right, and I much further offshore and being carried steadily eastward? I was moving my wings, and trying to find a level where the currents would help me, and every time I looked the boats seemed smaller, and the land beyond them more distant. Would this cruel wind carry me all the way to the shores of Alba?
A shadow moved above me. Large, swift, an echo of that dark presence which had terrified Sibeal’s horse, and nearly caused the child’s death. Fear, danger. Wings outstretched, I tilted and dropped, then fluttered back to a level path, out of reach. The shadow moved; it hung in air, above and behind, waiting. Terror, death. I flew lower, less controlled now, panic threatening to undo my precarious control of this wind-harried flight. The gray swell of the sea moved closer; I imagined dagger-toothed monsters beneath its choppy surface. The menacing presence above me was driving me back to the west, staying just out of my sight, but close, so close I could sense the outstretched talons, the tearing beak of a hungry predator. I fluttered, terrified, as the wind gusted and the slate-dark sea stretched up toward me, still closer now. Turn for home; fly back before it is too late, said my instincts. Wait, cautioned the part of me that could still think. Control, that is the key.
But it is not easy to maintain control when death is as close as the snap of a beak away. Terror lent strength to my wings; my mindless fluttering gave way to a steady beating, up and down, up and down. I set my course south west, flying low above the sea’s surge, and the unseen presence behind me kept pace as if it were my own shadow. At every instant I expected a fatal blow, a final dive to seize and kill. I flew on, and now the curraghs were nearer, and nearer again, so I could see clearly the scraps of black and brown and cream that were their small sails, and the dip and flash of many oars, and at last, the figures of men I recognized: the Chief with his intricate body-markings; Gull’s dark features; Johnny standing in the stern of one small craft, shading his eyes against the sun as he gazed southward.
Behind and above me, something gathered its strength, perhaps preparing to strike. Quick. I must land, I must find a place there on the boats among the men, before those claws fastened themselves on me and I was reduced to a limp bundle of lifeless flesh and feathers. Quick. But where? Where was safe? Might I not make a landing, and straight away be caught and strangled, and put away for tonight’s supper?
There was no choice. The creature swooped, a dark destroyer swift and purposeful. I veered sideways, a hair’s breadth from its grasp, and landed awkwardly, not on the rim of the small curragh, not on a taut rope or convenient wooden thwart, but on a man’s shoulder, my small bird-feet clutching instinctively for purchase on the soft cloth of his well-worn cloak. The thing behind me flew past and made a precise landing at the stern of the boat, right beside my cousin where he stood motionless and silent, his gray eyes fixed on the ocean ahead. And it was Fiacha: dark-plumed, bright-eyed, knife-beaked Fiacha, who had pursued me thus until I reached a place of safety. I liked his way of doing things even less now that I, too, was a bird.
“Ah,” said the man on whose shoulder I had landed, and reached up his right hand toward me. Dove sensed danger. I edged away, claws catching in the fabric of the man’s cloak. And now I could see his face; even with bird-sight I knew those gaunt, pale features, those shadowed, colorless eyes. Even without the flash of white feathers beneath the ragged garments, I knew who it was.
“A long journey,” said Finbar softly. He might have been referring to me, or to himself, or to the two of us.
So he had come. Against all my expectations, he had heeded my clarion call.
Gareth was hauling on an oar, brows creased in effort. “Must have been swept across by the storm winds,” he observed. “Such a creature belongs in a sheltered wood, surely, not far out to sea.”
“My mother used to make a tasty pigeon pie, with leeks and garlic in it,” put in Godric.
“Not this time.” Finbar moved his arm cautiously; I walked back up and settled on his shoulder, ruffling my feathers. Fiacha, it seemed, had driven me forward to precisely the safest place I could be among these grim warriors. “It’s a gentle little creature; we can afford it shelter, surely.”
“Unusual,” Gareth remarked.
“What?” frowned Godric, bending to the movement of the great oar.
“He means the plumage.” Finbar’s voice was placid. “A rock dove has very plain coloring, shades of gray, subtleties within that, no more. I’ve never yet seen one with a crest of such brilliant red as this small bird bears. A sign of luck perhaps. The goddess smiles on our endeavor.”
“Hm,” said Godric, eyeing me with a certain disappointment. Doubtless the effort of driving the curragh forward through this wind-tossed sea made for hearty appetites.
Supper came a very long time later, and there was no pigeon pie. It was already dusk, and even the strongest of these warriors was gray-faced with exhaustion. For a time we traveled within sight of land, a long, green island to the east. I wondered if this were the shore of Britain, close to Harrowfield, home of Bran and Liadan who had so curiously chosen to settle there as neighbors of the family’s arch enemy.
“It is not Northumbria,” Finbar observed quietly, “but Manannán Isle. Here we make camp, and rest a little, and meet our allies. It will not be for long.”
If the men eyed him rather strangely, finding it odd that he needed to state what was already known, he seemed unperturbed by it. Indeed, he had sat calm and still throughout the voyage as if, now that he had decided to confront his fears, they had ceased to trouble him. As for me, I stayed on his shoulder, where Fiacha could not reach me. I watched as the curraghs were anchored, or drawn up on the shore, and the men stretched, and cursed their aching bodies, and then unloaded the boats and made camp swiftly and silently in the dark.
Clouds had been gathering all through the day, and the rain began to fall almost as soon as the men had begun their frugal meal, cooked over a small fire. There was a general retreat to what shelter could be found. Johnny had set a well-armed guard about the camp’s perimeter, but the rain became a deluge, and I thought none but frogs would wish to be abroad tonight. Finbar pulled his hooded cloak up over his head, and I nestled closer to his neck, quite dry in this small shelter. We moved to a place where the rocks opened to a shallow, cave-like space. Here one might sit on the earth and be tolerably dry, though the heavens opened outside.
Others had found this place of refuge before us. There were three of the young warriors seated on the ground, barely visible in the dark, their cloaks wrapped close around them against the chill: Waerfrith, and Godric, and Darragh. They moved over to make room for Finbar, and as he sat, he slipped back the hood and reached up to touch me gently, as if to ensure I was safe. If I had been myself, I would have used the craft. If I had had the craft, I would have made a little fire to dry us out and keep us warm. It was chill, with spring no more than a thought in the earth’s heart, and the storm seemed to be right above us. The part of me that was dove was scared; scared of the dark, feeling the wrongness of being out in it awake, and so close to humankind. That fear made me tremble; it made me move my feet restlessly on Finbar’s shoulder, longing for a safe place to sleep, hidden amid the thick branching twigs of a great tree, or in the crannies and crevices of a rocky hillside. Back in Kerry in the sunshine, under the standing stones, pecking for crumbs left by children as they sat and shared their small repast, that was where a dove should be, not here.
For a little the rain abated, and a faint glow of moonlight entered our narrow shelter.
“There,” said Finbar in a whisper. “There. No need to be frightened. You are safe now, and among friends.”
“Creature seems to have attached itself to you, my lord,” said Godric, grinning. “Funny, I thought a familiar would be a wolf or an eagle, something strong and impressive; not a shivering scrap of a bird like that.”
“Druids don’t have familiars, stupid,” said Waerfrith, digging his friend in the ribs. “That?
??s sorcerers. My lord here is hardly one of those.”
Darragh wasn’t talking; just watching very closely, with a little frown on his brow.
“I’m no druid,” Finbar said calmly. “My brother accompanies Sean of Sevenwaters on this venture; he is the wisest of the ancient kind, and will perform the auguries and prepare the rituals such a great undertaking requires. I am here—I am here because—”
“Because you were called to it,” Darragh said quietly. He was still staring at me, and now he stretched out his arm, very slowly so as not to frighten, until his long brown fingers were just by my breast, almost touching but not quite. “Come on, little one,” he coaxed. “Come here now, come on. I won’t hurt you. You know I’d never do that.”
There was something in his voice that soothed me and called to me at the same time. Perhaps it was the same something that had lured the white pony away from her herd; the same thing that had made him the only friend of a lonely little girl at the cove. Back then, I had feared to be seen; and yet, I could not wait to see him, on that magical day of the year when the traveling folk came back to Kerry. I had been awkward and tongue-tied with Dan and Peg and Molly and the fisherfolk; but Darragh had shared my deepest secrets. I had feared touch; but not his touch.
“Come on, Curly,” he said softly. “Come on, now.”
I took a little step with my neat bird-feet, and another, and perched cautiously on the fingers he held out to me. Then I felt the warmth of his hand beneath me, holding me safe as he stroked my head with one finger, and I heard his voice, no more than a whisper. “That’s it. That’s it, small one.”
“Curly?” queried Waerfrith. “What sort of a name is that?”
“It suits her,” said Darragh, his voice held very quiet. “See, she’s got a little tuft of red feathers on her head, all curling round.”
“Her?” Godric raised his brows.