Heir to Sevenwaters (29 page)

I sat up. A wave of dizziness went through me, making my stomach churn. I swallowed, breathed, sat a moment waiting for the nausea to subside. I could not afford any more weakness.

“You’re awake,” Cathal said. “Good. My efforts to feed our friend here haven’t gone well, and he’s loud. I’m concerned his cries will bring company we don’t want. Judging by the reception we received on the way across, I’d say we can’t expect an easy trip. Can you take him?”

He was sitting cross-legged not far away with Becan in his arms. The infant’s arms and legs had come free of his shawls. His cries held a tone of outrage.

“Pass him over here.” I held out my arms and realized belatedly that underneath the cloak I wasn’t wearing much at all. “Where are my clothes?”

“Drying out,” Cathal said. “See, over there.” My gown, cloak, shift and stockings were hanging over a makeshift frame of branches and bracken on the far side of the fire, steaming gently in company with various garments of Cathal’s. “No need to blush,” he added. “You’re still covered, just. It’s cold here. The things you were wearing were sodden, and the spares in your bag weren’t much better. I didn’t really have a choice.”

I couldn’t think of a thing to say, so I gathered the cloak around me as best I could and took the infant on my lap to feed him. A little later, with Becan relaxed and sucking steadily, Cathal and I regarded each other in the firelight, and if his gaze was wary, I imagine mine was more so. We were in the forest, that strange forest we had glimpsed across the river. The trees were big enough to dwarf the most massive oak at Sevenwaters, and the spaces under them were full of an intense and disturbing darkness like that of a vast subterranean chamber. There was an eerie stillness about the place, a sense of anticipation that was not allayed by the little crackle of our fire. From the area of level ground where we were camped the terrain fell in a gentle slope to the east. I thought I could hear the murmuring voice of the river some distance away.

“How did you get me up here?” I asked, and even though there was nobody to be seen but the three of us I kept my voice down.

“You were easy enough to carry,” Cathal said. “The difficult part was leaving you and the child here while I went back for the bags. I half expected that some mysterious entity would snatch you away the instant my back was turned, just to remind me that this place is . . . different.”

I didn’t really want to owe him still more of a debt, but it seemed I did. He had not only carried me to safety, he had undressed me, cleaned me up, then left me to sleep while he made a fire, dried out my clothing and tried to look after Becan as well. In view of our situation, the fact that Cathal had seen me at close quarters in my small-clothes seemed far less shocking than it would have done a day ago.

“How’s your face?” he asked. “Does it hurt?”

“Not much. I feel sick, but it will pass. How bad are the cuts?”

“Not so bad. I’ll tend to them again tomorrow.” He was matter-of-fact about this.

“Cathal, how long was I unconscious? Is it really dusk already?”

“Believe me, if that were so I would have been trying to rouse you long before this. As it was, Becan took a great deal of my attention. He has a powerful voice. How very fortunate that he doesn’t need milk. Imagine bringing a goat across on that raft. So, what now?”

“We go on, I suppose. But maybe not right away. How soon will our things be dry enough to wear?”

“Your clothing won’t be ready before morning. I’m sure you don’t want to walk on dressed like that, so we’d best stay here overnight and keep the fire going. I did hesitate over lighting it. The smoke will draw attention if there’s anyone about. Which way are we headed next?”

I looked at him. He appeared remarkably sanguine, considering everything. Another part of the training, I supposed. And he hadn’t uttered a single word of reproach. It was almost annoying. It made me feel deeply inadequate, and I didn’t like that. “I thought you were the one who knew the way,” I said.

“I promised to find a portal. I’ve done that.”

True enough. Wherever we were, we were no longer in the forest of Sevenwaters. “I hate to say this,” I said, “but I think we just keep on walking, and sooner or later we’ll find what we’re looking for. That is, someone who can tell us where my baby brother is. Then we go there and I ask these people to give him back.”

“And you hand over Becan in exchange.” There was something slightly odd in his tone, as if there were an unspoken question beneath this statement.

“What’s wrong with that?” I asked.

“Nothing at all, Clodagh. It makes perfect sense, if the rules of our world are applied to the problem.”

“I don’t have any other rules to apply,” I said quietly. “Cathal, how did you know we had to cross the river? How did you know there
was
a river? There’s no such place on any map of Sevenwaters, and I know we didn’t go beyond Father’s borders.”

He shrugged. “A hunch,” he said.

“Like the one that told you Glencarnagh was going to be attacked.”

“Mm-hm. Does it matter? You wanted to be here and you’re here. Cold and wet, underdressed, with a few scars you’d probably rather not have, but in the land of the Tuatha De Danann. At least, one supposes that is where we are.” For a moment I saw a look of deep disquiet on his face. He masked it quickly, his features assuming a bland expression.

“Why is that so easy for you to believe now, when you scorned the very existence of such folk back at the keep?” I asked him.

Another shrug.

“Stop
doing
that!” I snapped, making Becan wail in fright. “Shh, shh,” I whispered, lifting the baby up against my shoulder while trying to keep the cloak modestly around me.

“Stop doing what?”

“Refusing to answer me properly. Acting as if nothing in the past matters. Pretending it wasn’t completely mad for you to come here with me. Not explaining why you’re doing anything at all. What about you and Aidan? Didn’t you see his expression when we set off from the shore? He looked as if we were breaking his heart. How can you be so . . . so detached about it all?”

He had unpacked his little cook pot and set it on the flames. It already held water, and now he produced a small harvest of mushrooms, which he proceeded to break into the pot. The silence drew out between us as the brew came to the boil and a savory smell arose, making me realize how hungry I was. Cathal added a handful of greenery to the mixture and stirred it. Eventually he looked up, meeting my eye across the fire. “The shirt I was wearing is almost dry,” he said. “Here.” The garment was hanging from a bush; he took it down and tossed it in my general direction. “Bear in mind,” he added, “that I’ve already seen you with a lot less on than that, and don’t let it trouble you too much. I’m bone weary after that river crossing and I haven’t the least inclination to take advantage of you.”

I looked at him a moment, then said, “Thank you.”

“It’s not altruism,” Cathal said. “If we’re attacked again, it’s going to help if you have both hands free to defend yourself. The requirement to keep your modesty shielded with a cloak would make that difficult. I want you to keep one of my knives, Clodagh. We can’t know what’s coming, but after that episode with the bats, or whatever they were, I think we can assume we’re not entirely welcome here. What are you going to do if these people won’t give your brother back?”

Since I had no answer to this, I gave him a little of his own treatment, responding with a shrug. Becan had fallen asleep against my shoulder. His shawls were damp, and so were his swaddling cloths. “Curse it,” I said. “I’m going to have to wash these.”

“Eat first,” Cathal said.

“Where did you pick the mushrooms?” I asked. “We shouldn’t eat anything from here, that’s one of the rules.”

“Or?”

“Or we have to stay in the Otherworld forever.” Gods, it smelled good.

“I had them in my pack before we crossed over,” Cathal said. “Savor every mouthful; if you’re right about the food here, we’ll be on limited rations until we get back across. How long do you think this will take? And what about
him
?” He nodded toward the sleeping child. I had placed Becan on the ground while I took off the cloak and donned the shirt over my damp small-clothes. Under the circumstances, the best I could do for modesty was to turn my back and hope Cathal wasn’t looking.

“He seems to thrive on the honey water,” I said. “I can fill my water-skin from the streams on this side. I can’t see any reason why Becan shouldn’t partake of Otherworld food. I don’t know how long the journey will take. Not too long, I hope. My mother is fading fast; she needs Finbar back.”

“It suits you,” Cathal observed as I finished fastening the cords on his shirt and turned to face him. The garment was of good quality wool, warm and light. It came down to my knees.

I tried to imagine how I looked. My hand went to my face, touching the welts gingerly. “I’m going to have scars, aren’t I?” I asked.

“Think of it as adding character.”

I grimaced. “To my boring face? Oh well, I suppose that’s the least of my worries right now. Cathal, I should go back to the river to wash these shawls.”

“Does it really matter if he’s wet or smells a bit? It’s not as if he’s a flesh and blood child, after all. He seems more plant than baby to me. It’s natural for plants to be wet.”

I looked down at the sleeping child, curled in his damp shawls on the forest floor. Leaf-lids covered the pebble eyes, and the bark slivers that formed his lips moved gently in and out as if he dreamed of sucking. His hands were open, trusting. “He’s a real child with real needs and feelings, despite his odd appearance,” I said. “He deserves to be cared for just as Finbar does, just as any human baby does. It wouldn’t be right to neglect him. Clean clothing is only part of it. There are stories and singing; food and shelter and love. Every child needs those things. Becan shouldn’t be denied them just because he’s . . . different.” Perhaps, when I got home and looked in my mirror, I would be different too. Perhaps I would be so scarred that my chances of attracting a good husband, someone like Aidan, would have all vanished away. I thought of my sister Maeve, far off in Harrowfield, with the cruel marks of her burns disfiguring her face.

“Very well,” said Cathal. “When we’ve eaten, I’ll show you a place I spotted where there’s a small stream and a pool. We can wrap him in the cloak; I’ll give you my tunic to wear in the meantime.” He was removing it even as he spoke. “Now let’s try these mushrooms.”

Approaching the pool later, we disturbed a badger drinking. I held my breath, watching it turn its head to peer in our direction then retreat into the shelter of the ferns that fringed the waterway. An ordinary badger, with no sign of eldritch qualities at all. Somewhere high in the canopy above us birds were exchanging mournful cries, confirming that there was indeed life on this side of the river. In the undergrowth something scurried away, fearful of our cautious footsteps.

I settled the sleeping baby between the massive roots of a tree. Cathal stationed himself on a flat rock and I knelt by the pool’s edge to wash out the two shawls and the swaddling. The water was preternaturally chill; it was like plunging my hands into liquid ice. As I pounded the cloth on the stones, I tried to concentrate on a plan for tomorrow. How far could we reasonably expect to walk? Perhaps we should look for high ground so we could assess the lie of the land. If we saw any signs of life, would it be better to hide or to reveal ourselves? Somehow, stepping out and asking to be taken to Finbar’s abductors did not seem altogether a wise course of action. Those creatures at the river had been intent on attacking us.

“Are you done?” Cathal asked quietly. “We should return to the fire.”

“I suppose these are clean; the light isn’t good enough to see properly.” Perhaps it really was dusk now. The presence of badgers and owls suggested that. But maybe in this place it was always dusk. The prospect was disturbing. It was so much easier to feel confident by sunlight.

“You look tired,” Cathal said when we were settled by our fire once more. “You must sleep. Hold the child close to you and use my cloak. You should be warm enough. I’ll stay on watch and keep the fire going.”

“All night?” I studied him, taking in the long face, the grave features now quite devoid of their customary look of derision. “I can’t let you do that. You must wake me after a few hours. I know I can’t defend us against an attack, but I can keep watch and alert you if I see or hear anyone coming.”

The thin lips twisted into a smile. “If you insist.”

“I do,” I told him. “I don’t want you staying heroically awake all night, then being too tired to make yourself useful in the morning. If there is a morning.” I shivered.

“There will be, Clodagh.” As Cathal spoke, a silvery light began to steal across the forest floor, touching the boles of the great trees, where rich layers of moss glowed green, and revealing in the spaces above us a host of tiny flying creatures on iridescent wings, moving so quickly their exact shapes were unclear. Not insects. Not birds. Something else. “Morrigan’s britches,” murmured Cathal. “What are they?”

“At least they’re small,” I said, remembering the attack at the river. “Cathal, promise you’ll wake me.”

“My word on it, Clodagh. You know, you are not quite the girl I took you for when we first met.”

“Oh, I’m exactly as I seemed then,” I said with some bitterness. “My chief strength is in household management. I’m the kind of girl who’ll make a nice little wife for someone one day. I have none of the skills required for an expedition like this. I can’t swim. I can’t fight. I’m not brave. I’m not persuasive when it counts. I wish I had the capacity to surprise you, Cathal, but I am no more than I appear to be.” Becan’s pebble eyes were open now and fixed on me as I rewrapped him, using lengths torn from a spare shirt Cathal had produced. The infant made little cooing sounds. His voice had softened; I wondered that I had at first thought it harsh as a crow’s.

“I regret what I said to you when we first met,” Cathal said, putting his arms around his knees. “As Aidan has no doubt told you, I’ve always lacked the ability to summon the kind of conversation deemed acceptable in the halls of the nobly born. I am unable to play that game without sabotaging my own efforts; I cannot take it seriously. Clodagh, it seems to me you expend all your energy trying to make those around you happy. Do you care nothing for your own welfare? It is hard for me to understand that.”