All the time my grandmother spoke she was watching Father; her eyes never left his face. His lips were tight, his jaw set; his eyes burned with rage. But he did not lose control. I sensed each waited for a moment when the other’s guard might slip; the instant of opportunity. The air seemed to crackle with magic; spell and counter-spell, in the mind but not yet on the lips, warred in the air above the fiery circle. Fiacha’s dark form was outlined in little sparks. My own body tingled with the craft; I felt its force in my hands, in my feet, burning in my head.
“It’s over, Mother,” Ciarán said quietly. “There are forces ranged against you here that you can scarcely dream of. You have failed. The young warrior lives to lead his men forward; I see peace in his eyes, truce in the strength of his hand. Your venture is pointless. And if Fainne could not do the deed you set for her, tell me, tell us all, why did you not do it yourself?”
Oonagh stared back at him. Her face was not that of a beautiful, regal lady now but had changed again; I saw the skull beneath the tight-stretched skin, I saw the look in her eyes and knew it for fear.
“That means nothing!” she snapped. “The boy was useless! Child of the prophecy, huh! He’s not fit for it, he can never fulfill the task foretold for him. What matter if he lives or dies? You’ve lost, all of you! This can only turn to dust and ashes, whatever you do. Dust and ashes, desolation and despair!”
“Answer me,” Father said in the quietest of voices, and I saw Fiacha beginning to edge down from his shoulder and along his outstretched arm, as if preparing for flight. “Answer my question. No? Then let me answer it for you, Mother. You sent my daughter to kill the child of the prophecy because you could not do it yourself. You could not do it because your strength is waning, day by day, season by season. Even as my daughter grew, even as she worked and studied and became strong in the craft, so your own powers diminished. You never recovered from the defeat you suffered at the hands of human folk. You will never be what you were. You cannot destroy the secrets of the Islands. Admit the truth. In what was to be your great moment of triumph, you have already lost.”
The lady Oonagh blinked. For the merest instant her eyes were unfocused, and in that moment Fiacha rose, dark wings spread wide, to fly swift as a spear straight at her face. She was quick; her eyes grew sharp again and with a little snapping sound she set a guard in place. One hand went up, and now a ball of green light was pursuing the raven as he circled her head, dipping and swerving to escape its eldritch fire. The bird could not fly away; she held him to her. The charm would burn him to a crisp the instant it touched him. My fingers moved subtly, and now Fiacha was a tiny raven no bigger than a bee, a little speck of darkness that spun out of the fixing charm as easily as a fishling escapes the herring net, and darted away to the shelter of a small feathery bush which might or not have been there an instant before. My father did not so much as glance in my direction. Oonagh glared at her son.
“What is this?” she snarled. “A game of tricks? Dog eats cat, cat eats rat, rat eats beetle and so on? We are above such conjurer’s gimmicks, surely. And you are wrong. I have a power beyond yours, beyond theirs.” Her glance of scorn swept around the great circle of dumbfounded, staring warriors, taking in the ashen-faced Conor, the grim-jawed Sean, the crouching, gasping Finbar, and passing over the tall, stately figures of the Otherworld beings who stood behind, silent, grave observers. “You’ve never understood how to defeat your enemy, Ciarán; you’ve never grasped it, and you never will.”
Then she changed. At the Glamour she was a master, even more skillful than my father; I had seen that demonstrated many a time as she stood before the mirror back in the Honeycomb and showed me simpering girl and wondrous queen, slithering serpent and sleek hunting cat. But she had never shown me this. Quick as a heartbeat the change was on her, and there stood a girl of eighteen, her pale cheeks flushed with delicate rose, her wide, guileless eyes blue as the summer sky, her hair flowing down across her bare shoulders red-gold as fine clover honey. She wore a gown the color of wood violets and on her feet soft kidskin shoes, dancing shoes. I heard my uncle Sean’s exclamation of shock, I heard the lovely girl who was not my mother say, “Ciarán?” in a soft, sweet voice that trembled with hesitant joy. I saw the look on my father’s face; his guard had dropped away, and for that moment he was quite without defense. The girl held something loosely in her hand, half hidden in the silken folds of her gown; something shining, something deadly. I opened my mouth to warn him, to speak a spell, anything, but I, too, hesitated; the girl looked at me, her eyes full of love; it was my mother…
Finbar moved. Quick as sunlight he moved, up from his knees, into the circle, running, flying, wing unfurled to stop the lethal bolt as the girl raised her arm and hurled it toward my father’s breast. Crumpling, falling, writhing enmeshed in the deadly, burning charm meant for his brother, Finbar sprawled at Oonagh’s feet, a great black scorch across the white wing feathers, a bloody, gaping wound in his chest where cloak and tunic and living flesh had been torn away by the force of the death-bolt. The thing lay harmless by his side now, smoking, its force all spent. Ciarán stood mute, his eyes not on the man who lay dying at his feet, but on the figure standing opposite, now an old woman, her mouth a gash of crimson in her wrinkled face, her hair a wild crown of disheveled white.
“You killed my brother,” Ciarán said in a voice like a small child’s. “You killed him.”
Conor had let out one great cry of anguish as he saw Finbar fall. Now he was chanting, his soft words falling like tears into the bitter silence. I saw Sean’s face twisted with grief; I felt a wrenching pain in my own heart, I who had believed I could hold no more sadness. As the sound of my grandmother’s cackling laughter rose in the air, my father knelt by Finbar’s side and took his hand, heedless of danger.
“The earth receive and shelter you,” Ciarán said softly. “The waters bear you forth gently to your new life. The west wind carry you swift and sure. The fire you hold already in your head, brother, strong and subtle, for you were ever a child of the spirit. You have given your life for me this day; I will not squander that gift. You have my word; a brother’s word.”
Then Finbar smiled, and died, and for a moment the air darkened as if a shadow passed over us all. And when I blinked again, it seemed to me the man who lay there lifeless on the hard ground was a man untouched by evil, a man who bore no disfigurement at all, for his two arms were outstretched at his sides and his clear eyes gazed up into the sky as if searching for an answer that lay, far, far beyond the realm in which his family stood by him, their hearts stricken with loss.
Then my father rose to his feet again and turned to the sorceress, and her face changed as she saw the look in his eyes. I must not let him do this; it was wrong that son should be the instrument of mother’s punishment. This was my own task; this was my time.
“No, Father,” I said quietly, rising and stepping forward. “This must be done well. Your part is ended.”
The lady Oonagh’s head whipped around toward me again; her lips parted. She seemed to scent victory. “Fainne,” she cooed, “my dear, how valiant. Best stay out of this, I think. This is well beyond your limited powers. And I see how weakened you are. The transformation took a lot out of you. Don’t make a fool of yourself, dear. Leave this to your father.” Then her eyes widened, and she swallowed, and her hands clawed themselves into tight fists as she felt the grip of my spell, a charm which held her where she stood, able to see, able to speak, quite unable to break free. In her wild gaze I saw the recognition that she had completely underestimated me.
“Clever,” she said tightly. “I’ve taught you well. So be it, do your worst. It’s all useless anyway. I’ve won this battle, regardless of your cunning little devices. Perhaps Sevenwaters has not lost the battle; but the Islands are surely lost, and the long goal of the Fair Folk thwarted. Oh, yes, they stand there watching; look over your shoulder and you will see them, the Lady of the Forest and her Fire-Lord, the fine ones of strea
m and ocean, of lofty heights and echoing caves. Sevenwaters cannot win. The child lives, but he cannot fulfill the prophecy. He just doesn’t have it in him.”
My father gave an odd little smile. He looked at me, and I looked at him.
“What do you mean?” asked Conor. His face was wet with tears; he looked gray and old. “Johnny has led his men valiantly, almost at cost of his life. He has triumphed here on the field, and so the Islands are won for Sevenwaters. What more can there be?”
The lady Oonagh laughed, a youthful, carefree laugh like the pealing of tiny bells. “The battle was only the first part, my dear little druid. It’s what comes after that counts. The child of the prophecy is to keep watch; a very lonely watch, no less than the long guardianship of the very secrets of the lore; the heart of the mysteries the Fair Folk hug to themselves so jealously. He must climb up there, to the top of that pinnacle out yonder in the sea, and live alone, live his whole life in solitude, keeping those things safe. Without the Watcher in the Needle, the old things will dwindle and die, and the Fair Folk with them. Maybe it’s not all in the prophecy, but it’s the truth. Ask Ciarán. He worked it out. Ask these grand lords and ladies of the Túatha Dé, they’ll tell you.”
“The Watcher in the Needle?” Sean’s voice was harsh with shock; bitter with disappointment. “He must live there, in the cell under the rowans, alone? Johnny is the heir to Sevenwaters; he is a war-leader, future guardian of the túath, he is vital to our people’s security and well-being. Are you telling us that after all this, the slaughter, the loss, still the true battle is not won? That unless Johnny makes this sacrifice, the prophecy cannot be fulfilled and the balance restored?”
There was a silence. Then Conor put his hands over his face, and bowed his head.
“All is lost,” he said. “For the boy cannot do this; all of us know it. Johnny is a warrior; his heart beats to the rhythm of the sword, and not to the slow unfolding of the lore. His mother cut off this path for him, long years ago, when she chose to take him away from the forest. He is no scholar, no mystic; in such a place he would last no longer than the turning of the year, from Samhain to Samhain, before he grew crazed with it. Johnny cannot do this; and if this is the truth of it, then all has been for nothing.”
“Wise words, brother,” said Ciarán gravely. “The boy must return to Sevenwaters and in time take up his rightful place in the scheme of things. He will be guardian of forest and folk, and will in his turn perform the task nobly, as his uncle does now.”
“Ah!” the lady Oonagh said sharply, still struggling to free herself from the spell in which I had trapped her. “So you agree with me. You see, I was right all along. The Fair Folk are finished.”
“I cannot believe it, and yet I must,” said Conor in a voice heavy with defeat.
“Not so,” said my father. “A prophecy is never simple. It has as many twists and turns as the lore itself. Like a puzzle, it may have more than one solution.”
There was a small disturbance in the air beside me; a ruffling of feathers. And on my other side, a creaking sound, a slight rolling of pebbles. Suddenly, I was flanked by the Fomhóire. A general rustling, a snuffling and twittering told me there were more behind me.
“Ahem,” said the owl-creature. Around the circle, the men stood completely silent, staring; such entertainment had not been seen for many a long year, and so strange was it that they had almost forgotten their fear. “You overlooked us, I think. Again. But no matter. Come on, Fainne. Time to tell the truth. Time to tell them what a good idea it is to keep a little in reserve, so to speak, just in case things don’t work out the way you plan them. The Fair Folk don’t understand that, but we’ve been here a long time, oh, so very long. We know the value of a backup.”
“Uncle,” I said, choking back the tears which still seemed to be rolling down my cheeks, blinking so I could focus on Conor’s weary face as I moved to stand before him. “All is not lost. Johnny cannot go to the Needle and fulfill the prophecy; but I can.”
“You?” It was Sean who spoke, frowning at me ferociously. Clearly, he was still far from sure which side I was on.
“It is true,” said my father, coming up beside me. His voice was deep and resonant. “There was a pattern, set by the Fair Folk. Liadan changed that. She ensured her child could not play the part intended for him. But the prophecy does not speak of a man, or of warriors and battles. Fainne, you had better explain this to your uncle.”
I stared at him. “You knew,” I breathed, torn between astonishment and anger. “You knew, all the time, and you didn’t tell me?”
Ciarán shook his head; a tiny smile curved his severe mouth. “Suspected, that was all; one does not know these things. If I had been certain, maybe I would have told you, daughter. But maybe not. If you had known, your journey would have been different; its ending perhaps failure. This way, your errors have strengthened you, your difficulties have prepared you for the long vigil ahead.”
“What!” the lady Oonagh spluttered, still held firm in the grip of the spell. “What are you saying, wretch? It cannot be so! The girl bears no mark—she cannot be the one!”
I turned again, so the sorceress could see me quite clearly. “You called my education half-baked,” I told her. “One thing my father did teach me was how to solve puzzles; to look for signs. I would have known this sooner, had I thought to study the words of the prophecy more closely. It speaks of a child of Erin and of Britain, who is at the same time neither. My mother, whom you so despised, was a daughter of Sevenwaters, a child of the forest. But her father was Hugh of Harrowfield, a Briton, who by his own choice wed a woman of Erin, and lived his life exiled from his native land. My father is a sorcerer, and he too is a child of Sevenwaters; son, indeed, of Lord Colum, once a strong leader of the folk of the forest until you entrapped him; until your lust for vengeance made him lose his way. The human folk of Sevenwaters fought against you then, and triumphed; and they do again today. I am indeed a child of Erin and of Britain; and yet I am neither, for I am more than that. I carry in my blood the seeds of four races, the heritage of the Fomhóire ancestors, and the strain of the Fair Folk themselves, through you, my grandmother. Are you not yourself descended from the very people you so despise, through a line of outcasts?”
My grandmother’s whole body was shaking with fury and disbelief.
“This means nothing!” she spat. “Clever words, tricky arguments, druid’s rubbish! You can never fulfill the prophecy! The Fair Folk cannot win! What about the sign of the raven? You pathetic, crippled apology for a girl, how can you claim that? You are no hero; you’re as weak and useless as your mother was!”
My fingers touched Riona’s butter-yellow hair, her bloodstained skirts. At my feet Finbar was stretched out on the earth, dark hair tangled around his head, features pale and calm. Farther across the circle, Eamonn’s body still lay where he had fallen. If not for him, I would have died, and the lady Oonagh would have won this battle. Words no longer seemed to hurt me. All I could feel was an emptiness. My heart was numb. But I knew I would go on, I must go on, or these losses would indeed have been for nothing.
“You’re wrong, Grandmother,” I said quietly. “Prophecies are a little like the Sight, I think. They show things distorted, or changed subtly, so you need to be good at solving puzzles to understand.” I drew aside the neckline of my gown, and my fingers touched the tiny scar that still marked the white skin of my shoulder. “Fiacha pecked me once, when I was a child. A raven has a sharp beak; I still bear the scar of it. Even so arbitrary can the working out of a great mystery prove to be. I do indeed bear the mark of the raven. I am a child of Erin and of Britain. In every respect I am the child of the prophecy, as much as Johnny is. Besides—”
“Besides,” said Conor with dawning realization, “you were raised as a druid, whether your father intended it or no. Raised in discipline, in the endurance of hardship and the knowledge of the lore. Raised in a love of solitude and trained in the craft of magic.”
br /> “What are you saying?” Sean stared at me, now apparently torn between horrified understanding and a budding hope.
But I was suddenly weary, oh, so weary, and could hardly think how to respond; and before my eyes, my grandmother began to strain anew against the charm, wrenching at its unseen bonds with bony hands, her pointed teeth bared in a terrible rage.
“No!” she hissed. “This cannot be!”
“I think it can,” said my father quietly, moving behind me to lay a hand on my shoulder; to lend me his own strength. “I think you will find, Mother, that you made quite an error of judgment in sharing your knowledge with me and then dismissing me as not worthy of your attention. As a druid I too learned to solve puzzles and to respect what is. As a sorcerer I learned to play games, and I always play to win. You settled on my daughter to work your will; and in doing so you have crafted the weapon of your own destruction. In the forge of your cruelty, with your tests of will and endurance, you have yourself created the child of the prophecy, and the instrument of your downfall. I prepared her as well as I could; you sharpened her to perfection.”
“Come.”
There was a sudden hush, for this was a different voice, and the men fell back in amazement. From each quarter of the circle a wondrous being stepped forth, all taller than any man or woman of mortal lineage, and so dazzling bright it was as if the sun had burst forth anew here on this desolate hillside. They were the folk of the Túatha Dé they had watched and waited until this combat, this debate were over. Now they came forward, faces grave and pale, voices like the shimmer of clear water over pebbles, or the distant thunder of an autumn storm.