Juliet Marillier - Sevenwaters 2 - Son of the Shadows

Authors 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 De 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 Fomhoire 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.

Fomhoire 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 De 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 De 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 De and Fomhoire. A multitalented hero.

Dagda dog-da

A respected leader and chief of the Tuatha De.

Diancecht dee-an kyecht

God of healing, and chief physician of the Tuatha De. He constructed a silver hand for the smitten hero

Nuada.

Manannan 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 bright half of the year begins. A deeply significant day, related to both fertility and death.

The day on which the Tuatha De 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) Mean Earraigh (21 March) Mean Samhraidh (21 June) Mean Fomhair

(21 September)

winter solstice spring equinox summer solstice autumn equinox

SOME OTHER NAMES AND TERMS USED

Aengus Og

Caer Ibormeith

Cu Chulainn

Scathach

Aisling

Ciaran

Fionn Ui Neill eyn-gus ohg kyre ee-vor-may Koo khu-linn skaw-thuck ash-ling kee-ur-aun fyunn ee

nay-ill

Liadan Niamh Sidhe Dubh lee-a-dan nee-av 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 n'Og tear na nohg

Land of Youth. An otherworldly realm beyond the western sea.

tuath

A tribal community in early Christian Ireland, ruled by a king or lord.

Chapter One

My mother knew every tale that was ever told by the firesides of Erin, and more besides. Folks stood

hushed around the hearth to hear her tell them after a long day's work, and marveled at the bright

tapestries she wove with her words. She related the many adventures of Cu Chulainn the hero, and she

told of Fionn mac Cumhaill, who was a great warrior and cunning with it. In some households, such tales

were reserved for men alone. But not in ours, for my mother made a magic with her words that drew all

under its spell. She told tales that had the household in stitches with laughter, and tales that made strong

men grow quiet. But there was one tale she would never tell, and that was her own. My mother was the

girl who had saved her brothers from a sorceress's curse, and nearly lost her own life doing it. She was

the girl whose six brothers had spent three long years as creatures of the wild, and had been brought

back only by her own silence and suffering. There was no need for telling and retelling of this story, for it

had found a place in folks' minds. Besides, in every village there would be one or two who had seen the

brother who returned, briefly, with the shining wing of a swan in place of his left arm. Even without this

evidence, all knew the tale for truth; and they watched my mother pass, a slight figure with her basket of

salves and potions, and nodded with deep respect in their eyes.

If I asked my father to tell a tale, he would laugh and shrug and say he had no skill with words, and

besides he knew but one tale, or maybe two, and he had told them both already. Then he would glance

at my mother, and she at him, in that way they had that was like talking without words, and then my

father would distract me with something else. He taught me to carve with a little knife, and he taught me

how to plant trees, and he taught me to fight. My uncle thought that more than a little odd. All right for my

brother, Sean, but when would Niamh and I need skills with our fists and our feet, with a staff or a small

dagger- Why waste time on this when there were so many other things for us to learn?

"No daughter of mine will go beyond these woods unprotected," my father had said to my Uncle Liam.

"Men cannot be trusted. I would not make warriors of my girls, but I will at least give them the means to

defend themselves. I am surprised that you need ask why. Is your memory so short?"

I did not ask him what he meant. We had all discovered, early on, that it was unwise to get between him

and Liam at such times.

I learned fast. I followed my mother around the villages, and was taught how to stitch a wound and

fashion a splint and doctor the croup or nettle rash. I watched my father, and discovered how to make an

owl and a deer and a hedgehog out of a piece of fine oak. I practiced the arts of combat with Sean,

when he could be cajoled into it, and perfected a variety of tricks that worked even when your opponent

was bigger and stronger. It often seemed as if everyone at Sevenwaters was bigger than me. My father

made me a staff that was just the right size, and he gave me his little dagger for my own. Sean was quite

put out for a day or so. But he never harbored grudges. Besides, he was a boy, and had his own

weapons. As for my sister, Niamh, you never could tell what she was thinking.

"Remember, little one," my father told me gravely, "this dagger can kill. I hope you need never employ it

for such a purpose; but if you must, use it cleanly and boldly. Here at Sevenwaters you have seen little of

evil, and I hope you will never have to strike a man in your own defense. But one day you may have need

of this, and you must keep it sharp and bright, and practice your skills against such a day."

It seemed to me a shadow came over his face, and his eyes went distant as they did sometimes. I nodded

silently and slipped the small, deadly weapon away in its sheath.

These things I learned from my father, whom folk called Iubdan, though his real name was different. If

you knew the old tales, you recognized this name as a joke, which he accepted with good humor. For the

Iubdan of the tales was a tiny wee man, who got into strife when he fell into a bowl of porridge, though

he got his own back later. My father was very tall and strongly built, and had hair the color of autumn

leaves in afternoon sun.

He was a Briton, but people forgot that. When he got his new name he became part of Sevenwaters, and

those who didn't use his name called him the Big Man.

I'd have liked a bit more height myself, but I was little, skinny, dark haired, the sort of girl a man wouldn't

look twice at. Not that I cared. I had plenty to occupy me without thinking that far ahead. It was Niamh

they followed with their eyes, for she was tall and broad shouldered, made in our father's image, and she

had a long fall of bright hair and a body that curved generously in all the right places. Without even

knowing it, she walked in a way that drew men's eyes.

"That one's trouble," our kitchen woman Janis would mutter over her pots and pans. As for Niamh

herself, she was ever critical.

"Isn't it bad enough being half Briton," she said crossly, "without having to look the part as well? See

this?" She tugged at her thick plait, and the red-gold strands unraveled in a shining curtain. "Who would

take me for a daughter of Sevenwaters? I could be a Saxon with this head of hair! Why couldn't I be tiny

and graceful like Mother?"

I studied her for a moment or two as she began to wield the hairbrush with fierce strokes. For one so

displeased with her appearance, she did spend rather a lot of time trying out new hairstyles and changing

her gown and ribbons.

"Are you ashamed to be the daughter of a Briton?" I asked her.

She glared at me. "That's so like you, Liadan. Always come straight out with it, don't you? It's all very

well for you; you're a small copy of Mother yourself, her little right hand. No wonder Father adores you.

For you it's simple."

I let her words wash over me. She could be like this at times, as if there were too many feelings inside her

and they had to burst out somewhere. The words themselves meant nothing. I waited.

Niamh used her hairbrush like an instrument of punishment. "Sean, too," she said, glaring at herself in the

mirror of polished bronze. "Did you hear what Father called him? He said, he's the son Liam never had.

What do you think of that? Sean fits in; he knows exactly where he's going. Heir to Sevenwaters,

beloved son with not one but two fathers—he even looks the part. He'll do all the right things—wed

Aisling, which will make everyone happy be a leader of men, maybe even the one who wins the Islands

back for us. His children will follow in his footsteps, and so on, and so on. Brighid save me, it's so

tedious! It's so predictable."

"You can't have it both ways," I said. "Either you want to fit in, or you don't. Besides, we are the

daughters of Sevenwaters, like it or not. I'm sure Eamonn will wed you gladly when it's time, golden hair

or no. I've heard no objections from him."

"Eamonn? Huh!" She moved to the center of the room, where a shaft of light struck gold against the oak

boards of the floor, and in this spot she began slowly to turn, so that her white gown and her brilliant

shining hair moved around her like a cloud. "Don't you long for something different to happen, something

so exciting and new it carries you along with it like a great tide, something that lets your life blaze and

burn so the whole world can see it? Something that touches you with joy or with terror, that lifts you out

of your safe, little path and onto a great, wild road whose ending nobody knows? Don't you ever long for

that, Liadan?" She turned and turned, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if this were the only

way she could contain what she felt.

I sat on the edge of the bed, watching her quietly. After a while I said, "You should take care. Such

words might tempt the Fair Folk to take a hand in your life. It happens. You know Mother's story. She

was given such a chance, and she took it; and it was only through her courage, and Father's, that she did

not die. To survive their games you must be very strong. For her and for Father the ending was good.

But that tale had losers as well. What about her six brothers? Of them, but two remain, or maybe three.

What happened damaged them all. And there were others who perished. You would be better to take

your life one day at a time. For me, there is enough excitement in helping to deliver a new lamb, or seeing

small oaks grow strong in spring rains. In shooting an arrow straight to the mark, or curing a child of the

croup. Why ask for more when what we have is so good?"

Niamh unwrapped her arms and ran a hand through her hair, undoing the work of the brush in an instant.

She sighed. "You sound so like Father you make me sick sometimes," she said, but the tone was

affectionate enough. I knew my sister well. I did not let her upset me often.

"I've never understood how he could do it," she went on. "Give up everything, just like that: his lands, his

power, his position, his family. Just give it away. He'll never be master of Sevenwaters, that's Liam's

place. His son will inherit, no doubt; but Iubdan, all he'll be is'the Big Man', quietly growing his trees and

tending his flocks, and letting the world pass him by. How could a real man choose to let life go like that?

He never even went back to Harrowfield."

I smiled to myself. Was she blind that she did not see the way it was between them, Sorcha and Iubdan?

How could she live here day by day, and see them look at one another, and not understand why he had

done what he had done? Besides, without his good husbandry, Sevenwaters would be nothing more than

a well-guarded fortress. Under his guidance our lands had prospered. Everyone knew we bred the best

cattle and grew the finest barley in all of Ulster. It was my father's work that enabled my Uncle Liam to

build his alliances and conduct his campaigns. I didn't think there was much point explaining this to my

sister. If she didn't know it by now, she never would.

"He loves her," I said. "It's as simple as that. And yet, it's more. She doesn't talk about it, but the Fair

Folk had a hand in it all along. And they will again."

Finally Niamh was paying attention to me. Her beautiful blue eyes narrowed as she faced me. "Now you

sound like her," she said accusingly. "About to tell me a story, a learning tale."

"I'm not," I said. "You aren't in the mood for it. I was just going to say, we are different, you and me and

Sean. Because of what the Fair Folk did, our parents met and wed. Because of what happened, the

three of us came into being. Perhaps the next part of the tale is ours."

Niamh shivered as she sat down beside me, smoothing her skirts over her knees.

"Because we are neither of Britain nor of Erin, but at the same time both," she said slowly. "You think

one of us is the child of the prophecy? The one who will restore the Islands to our people?"

"I've heard it said." It was said a lot, in fact, now that Sean was almost a man, and shaping into as good a

fighter and a leader as his Uncle Liam. Besides, the people were ready for some action. The feud over

the Islands had simmered since well before my mother's day, for it was long years since the Britons had

seized this most secret of places from our people. Folk's bitterness was all the more intense now, since

we had come so close to regaining what was rightfully ours. For when Sean and I were children, not six

years old, our Uncle Liam and two of his brothers, aided by Seamus Red-beard, had thrown their forces

into a bold campaign that went right to the heart of the disputed territory. They had come close, achingly

close. They had touched the soil of Little Island and made their secret camp there. They had watched the

great birds soar and wheel above the Needle, that stark pinnacle lashed by icy winds and ocean spray.

They had launched one fierce sea attack on the British encampment on Greater Island, and at the last

they had been driven back. In this battle perished two of my mother's brothers. Cormack was felled by a

sword stroke clean to the heart and died in Liam's arms. And Diarmid, seeking to avenge his brother's

loss, fought as if possessed and at length was captured by the Britons. Liam's men found his body later,

floating in the shallows as they launched their small craft and fled, outnumbered, exhausted, and heartsick.

He had died from drowning, but only after the enemy had had their sport with him. They would not let my

mother see his body when they brought him home.

These Britons were my father's people. But Iubdan had had no part in this war. He had sworn, once, that

he would not take arms against his own kind, and he was a man of his word. With Sean it was different.

My Uncle Liam had never married, and my mother said he never would. There had been a girl once that

he had loved. But the enchantment fell on him and his brothers. Three years is a long time when you are

only sixteen. When at last he came back to the shape of a man, his sweetheart was married and already

the mother of a son. She had obeyed her father's wishes, believing Liam dead. So he would not take a

wife. And he needed no son of his own, for he loved his nephew as fiercely as any father could and

brought him up, without knowing it, in his own image. Sean and I were the children of a single birth, he

just slightly my elder. But at sixteen he was more than a head taller, close to being a man, strong of

shoulder, his body lean and hard. Liam had ensured he was expert in the arts of war. As well, Sean

learned how to plan a campaign, how to deliver a fair judgment, how to understand the thinking of ally

and enemy alike. Liam commented sometimes on his nephew's youthful impatience. But Sean was a

leader in the making; nobody doubted that.

As for our father, he smiled and let them get on with it. He recognized the weight of the inheritance Sean

must one day carry. But he had not relinquished his son. There was time, as well, for the two of them to

walk or ride around the fields and byres and barns of the home farms, for Iubdan to teach his son to care

for his people and his land as well as to protect them. They spoke long and often, and held each other's

respect. Only I would catch Mother sometimes, looking at Niamh and looking at Sean and looking at

me, and I knew what was troubling her. Sooner or later, the Fair Folk would decide it was time: time to

meddle in our lives again, time to pick up the half-finished tapestry and weave a few more twisted

patterns into it. Which would they choose? Was one of us the child of the prophecy, who would at last

make peace between our people and the Britons of Northwoods and win back the islands of mystic

caves and sacred trees? Myself, I rather thought not. If you knew the Fair Folk at all, you knew they

were devious and subtle. Their games were complex; their choices never obvious. Besides, what about

the other part of the prophecy, which people seemed to have conveniently overlooked? Didn't it say

something about bearing the mark of the raven? Nobody knew quite what that meant, but it didn't seem

to fit any of us. Besides, there must have been more than a few misalliances between wandering Britons

and Irish women. We could hardly be the only children who bore the blood of both races. This I told

myself; and then I would see my mother's eyes on us, green, fey, watchful, and a shiver of foreboding

would run through me. I sensed it was time, time for things to change again.

That spring we had visitors. Here in the heart of the great forest, the old ways were strong despite the

communities of men and women that now spread over our land, their Christian crosses stark symbols of

a new faith. From time to time, travelers would bring across the sea tales of great ills done to folk who

dared keep the old traditions. There were cruel penalties, even death, for those who left an offering,

maybe, for the harvest gods or thought to weave a simple spell for good fortune or use a potion to bring

back a faithless sweetheart. The druids were all slain or banished over there. The power of the new faith

was great. Backed up with a generous purse and with lethal force, how could it fail?

But here at Sevenwaters, here in this corner of Erin, we were a different breed. The holy fathers, when

they came, were mostly quiet, scholarly men who debated an issue with open minds and listened as much

as they spoke. Among them, a boy could learn to read in Latin and in Irish, and to write a clear hand,

and to mix colors and make intricate patterns on parchment or fine vellum. Amongst the sisters, a girl

might learn the healing arts or how to chant like an angel. In their houses of contemplation there was a

place for the poor and dispossessed. They were, at heart, good people. But none from our household

was destined to join their number. When my grandfather went away and Liam became lord of

Sevenwaters, with all the responsibilities that entailed, many strands were drawn together to strengthen

our household's fabric. Liam rallied the families nearby, built a strong fighting force, became the leader

our people had needed so badly. My father made our farms prosperous and our fields plentiful as never

before. He planted oaks where once had been barren soil. As well, he put new heart into folk who had

drawn very close to despair. My mother was a symbol of what could be won by faith and strength, a

living reminder of that other world below the surface. Through her they breathed in daily the truth about

who they were and where they came from, the healing message of the spirit realm.

And then there was her brother Conor. As the tale tells, there were six brothers. Liam I have told of, and

the two who were next to him in age, who died in the first battle for the Islands. The youngest, Padriac,

was a voyager, returning but seldom. Conor was the fourth brother, and he was a druid. Even as the old

faith faded and grew dim elsewhere, we witnessed its light glowing ever stronger in our forest. It was as if

each feast day, each marking of the passing season with song and ritual, put back a little more of the unity

our people had almost lost. Each time, we drew one step closer to being ready—ready again to reclaim

what had been stolen from us by the Britons long generations since. The Islands were the heart of our

mystery, the cradle of our belief. Prophecy or no prophecy, the people began to believe that Liam would

win them back; or if not him, then Sean, who would be lord of Sevenwaters after him. The day drew

closer, and folk were never more aware of it than when the wise ones came out of the forest to mark the

turning of the season. So it was at Imbolc, the year Sean and I were sixteen, a year burned deep in my

memory. Conor came, and with him a band of men and women, some in white, and some in the plain

homespun robes of those still in their training, and they made the ceremony to honor Brighid's festival

deep in the woods of Sevenwaters.

They came in the afternoon, quietly as usual. Two very old men and one old woman, walking in plain

sandals up the path from the forest. Their hair was knotted into many small braids, woven about with

colored thread. There were young folk wearing the homespun, both boys and girls; and there were men

of middle years, of whom my Uncle Conor was one. Come late to the learning of the great mysteries, he

was now their leader, a pale, grave man of middle height, his long chestnut hair streaked with gray, his

eyes deep and serene. He greeted us all with quiet courtesy: my mother, Iubdan, Liam, then the three of

us, and our guests, for several households had gathered here for the festivities. Seamus Redbeard, a

vigorous old man whose snowy hair belied his name. His new wife, a sweet girl not so much older than

myself. Niamh had been shocked to see this match.

"How can she?" she'd whispered to me behind her hand. "How can she lie with him? He's old, so old.

And fat. And he's got a red nose. Look, she's smiling at him! I'd rather die!"

I glanced at her a little sourly. "You'd best take Eamonn then, and be glad of the offer, if what you want is

a beautiful young man," I whispered back. "You're unlikely to do better. Besides, he's wealthy."

"Eamonn? Huh!"

This seemed to be the response whenever I made this suggestion. I wondered, not for the first time, what

Niamh really did want. There was no way to see inside that girl's head. Not like Sean and me. Perhaps it

was our being twins, or maybe it was something else, but the two of us never had any problem talking

without words. It became necessary, even, to set a guard on your own mind at times so that the other

could not read it. It was both a useful skill and an inconvenient one.

I looked at Eamonn, where he stood now with his sister, Aisling, greeting Conor and the rest of the

robed procession. I could not really see what Niamh's problem was. Eamonn was the right age, just a

year or two older than my sister. He was comely enough; a little serious maybe, but that could be

remedied. He was well built, with glossy, brown hair and fine, dark eyes. He had good teeth. To lie with

him would be—well, I had little knowledge of such things, but I imagined it would not be repulsive. And

it would be a match well regarded by both families. Eamonn had come very young to his inheritance, a

vast domain surrounded by treacherous marshlands to the east of Seamus Redbeard's land and curving

around close by the pass to the north. Eamonn's father, who bore the same name, had been killed in

rather mysterious circumstances some years back. My Uncle Liam and my father did not always agree,

but they were united in their refusal to discuss this particular topic. Eamonn's mother had died when

Aisling was born. So Eamonn had grown up with immense wealth and power and an overabundance of

influential advisers: Seamus, who was his grandfather; Liam, who had once been betrothed to his mother;

my father, who was somehow tied up in the whole thing. It was perhaps surprising that Eamonn had

become very much his own man and despite his youth kept his own control over his estates and his not

inconsiderable private army. That explained, maybe, why he was such a solemn young man. I found that I

had been scrutinizing him closely as he finished speaking with one of the younger druids and glanced my

way. He gave me a half smile, as if in defiance of my assessment, and I looked away, feeling a blush rise

to my cheeks. Niamh was silly, I thought. She was unlikely to do any better; and at seventeen, she

needed to make up her mind quickly before somebody else did it for her. It would be a very strong

partnership and made stronger still by the tie of kinship with Seamus, who owned the lands between. He

who controlled all of that could deal a heavy blow to the Britons when the time came.

The druids made their way to the end of the line, finishing their greetings. The sun was low in the sky. In

the field behind our home barn, in neat rows, the plows and forks and other implements of our new

season's work lay ready. We made our way down paths still slippery from spring rains to take up our

places in a great circle around the field, our shadows long in the late afternoon light. I saw Aisling slip

away from her brother and reappear slightly later at Sean's side, as if by chance. If she thought her move

unnoticed, she thought wrong, for her cloud of auburn hair drew the eye however she might try to tame

its exuberance with ribbons. As she reached my brother's side, the rising breeze whisked one long, bright

curl across her small face, and Sean reached out to tuck it gently behind her ear. I did not need to watch

them further to feel her hand slip into his and my brother's fingers tighten around it possessively. Well, I

thought, here's someone who knows how to make up his mind. Perhaps it didn't matter, after all, what

Niamh decided, for it seemed the alliance would be made one way or another.

The druids formed a semicircle around the rows of tools, and in the gap stood Conor, whose white robe

bore an edging of gold. He had thrown back his hood, revealing the golden torc he wore around his

neck, a sign of his leadership within this mystic brotherhood. He was young yet by their standards, but his

face was an ancient face; his serene gaze held more than one lifetime's knowledge in its depths. He had

made a long journey these eighteen years in the forest.

Now Liam stepped forward, as head of the household, and passed to his brother a silver chalice of our

best mead, made from the finest honey, and brewed with water from one particular spring whose exact

location was a very well-guarded secret. Conor nodded gravely. Then he began a slow progress

between the plows and sickles, the hay forks and heavy spades, the shears and shovels, and he sprinkled

a few drops of the potent brew on each as he passed.

"A fine calf in the belly of the breeding cow. A river of sweet milk from her teats. A warm coat on the

backs of the sheep. A bountiful harvest from spring rains."

Conor walked evenly, his white robe shifting and changing around him as if with its own life. He bore the

silver chalice in one hand, his staff of birch in the other. There was a hush over all of us. Even the birds

seemed to cease their chatter in the trees around. Behind me, a couple of horses leaned over the fence,

their solemn, liquid eyes fixed on the man with the quiet voice.

"Brighid's blessing be on our fields this season. Brighid's hand stretch out over our new growth. May she

bring forth life; may our seed flourish. Heart of the earth; life of the heart; all is one."

So he went on, and over each of the homely implements of toil he reached his hand and dropped a little

of the precious mead. The light grew golden as the sun sank below the tops of the oaks. Last of all was

the eight-ox plow, which the men had made under Iubdan's instruction long years ago. With this, the

stoniest of fields had been made soft and fertile. We had wreathed it in garlands of yellow tansy and

fragrant heather, and Conor paused before it, raising his staff.

"Let no ill fall on our labors," he said. "Let no blight touch our crops, no malady our flocks. Let the work

of this plow, and of our hands, make a good harvest and a prosperous season. We give thanks for the

earth that is our mother, for the rain that brings forth her life. We honor the wind that shakes the seed

from the great oaks; we reverence the sun that warms the new growth. In all things, we honor you,

Brighid, who kindles the fires of spring."

The circle of druids echoed his last sentence, their voices deep and resonant. Then Conor walked back

to his brother and put the cup into his hands, and Liam made a comment about maybe sharing what was

left in the flask after supper. The ceremony was almost over.

Conor turned and stepped forward, one, two, three steps. He stretched out his right hand. A tall, young

initiate with a head of curls the deepest red you ever saw came quickly forward and took his master's

staff. He stood to one side, watching Conor with a stare whose intensity sent a shiver down my spine.

Conor raised his hands.

"New life! New light! New fire!" he said, and his voice was not quiet now but powerful and clear, ringing

through the forest like some solemn bell. "New fire!"

His hands were above his head, reaching into the sky. There was a shimmering and a strange humming

sound, and suddenly above his hands was light, flame, a brightness that dazzled the eyes and shocked the

senses. The druid lowered his arms slowly. Still between his cupped hands flared a fire, a fire so real I

watched with awe, expecting to see his skin burn and blister under the intense heat. The young initiate

walked up to him, an unlit torch in his hands. As we stared transfixed, Conor reached out and touched

this torch with his fingers, and it flamed into rich, golden light. And when Conor drew his hands away,

they were just the hands of a man, and the mysterious fire was gone from them. The face of the youth

was a picture of pride and awe as he bore his precious torch up to the house, where the fires of the

hearth would be rekindled. The ceremony was complete. Tomorrow, the work of the new season would

begin. I caught fragments of conversation as we made our way back to the house, where feasting would

commence at sundown.

"... was this wise? There were others, surely, who could have been chosen for this task?"

"It was time. He cannot be kept hidden forever."

This was Liam and his brother. Then I saw my mother and my father as they walked up the path

together. Her foot slipped in the mud, and she stumbled; he caught her instantly, almost before it

happened, he was so quick. His arm went around her shoulders, and she looked up at him. I sensed a

Juliet Marillier - Sevenwaters 2 - Son of the Shadows

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: