Flame of Sevenwaters
Juliet Marillier
FLAME
OF
SEVENWATERS
Also by Juliet Marillier
THE SEVENWATERS NOVELS
Daughter of the Forest
Son of the Shadows
Child of the Prophecy
Heir to Sevenwaters
Seer of Sevenwaters
THE LIGHT ISLES
Wolfskin
Foxmask
THE BRIDEI CHRONICLES
The Dark Mirror
Blade of Fortriu
The Well of Shades
Heart’s Blood
For Young Adults
Wildwood Dancing
Cybele’s Secret
FLAME
OF
SEVENWATERS
JULIET MARILLIER
A ROC BOOK
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
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Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Pan Macmillan Australia edition.
First Roc Printing, November 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Juliet Marillier, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Marillier, Juliet.
Flame of Sevenwaters/Juliet Marillier.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-101-61172-2
I. Title.
PR9619.3.M26755F57 2012
823’.912—dc23 2012021394
Set in Palatino
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON
For my sister, Jennifer,
who opens hearth and heart to dogs in trouble
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Druid’s Journey: North
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Druid’s Journey: East
Chapter 10
Druid’s Journey: South
Chapter 11
Druid’s Journey: West
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Druid’s Journey: Center
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Druid’s Journey: Full Circle
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my daughter, Elly, for invaluable help with plot wrangling. Fiona Leonard answered my equine questions and Glyn Marillier my maritime questions, though any errors are mine. The canine parts of the book are largely based on personal experience. A special thank-you to rescue dog Harry, who worked his way through three levels of obedience training while I was writing this book.
My editors, Brianne Tunnicliffe at Pan Macmillan and Anne Sowards at Roc, were at every turn both professional and supportive, as were Libby Turner, Claire Craig, and Julia Stiles. My agent, Russell Galen, is an ongoing source of wise advice.
CHARACTER LIST
Sean chieftain of Sevenwaters in Ulster
Aisling (ash-ling) his wife
Liadan (lee-a-dan) Sean’s sister, lady of Harrowfield in Cumbria
Bran Liadan’s husband, master of Harrowfield
Deirdre (dair-dreh) second daughter of Sean and Aisling, Clodagh’s twin
Illann Deirdre’s husband, chieftain of a territory bordering Sean’s (southern Uí Néill)
Emer and Oisin (eh-ver and u-sheen) children of Deirdre and Illann
Maeve (mehv) fourth daughter of Sean and Aisling, foster daughter to Bran and Liadan
Finbar son of Sean and Aisling
Clodagh (klo-da) third daughter of Sean and Aisling, Deirdre’s twin
Cathal (ko-hal) son of Mac Dara; married to Clodagh
Firinne and Ronan (feer-in-yeh and roh-nan) twin children of Clodagh and Cathal
Conor chief druid; uncle to Sean and Liadan
Ciarán (keer-aun) senior druid; half uncle to Sean and Liadan
Luachan (loo-a-khan) a young druid; Finbar’s tutor
Rhian (ree-an) Maeve’s personal maid
Garalt stable master at Harrowfield
Emrys (em-riss) head groom at Harrowfield
Donal groom at Harrowfield
Doran Sean’s senior man-at-arms
Nuala (noo-a-la) his wife—cook at Sevenwaters
Eithne (eh-nyeh) Aisling’s personal maid
Orlagh (or-la) serving woman at Sevenwaters
Cerball (car-ull) man-at-arms
Rhodri man-at-arms
Duald stable master at Sevenwaters
Cruinn chieftain of Tirconnell (northern Ui Neill)
Tiernan (teer-nan) his elder son
Artagan (art-a-gan) his younger son
Daigh (rhymes with sky) Tiernan’s friend
Niall man-at-arms
Mac Dara prince of the Fair Folk at Sevenwaters; Cathal’s father
Caisin (ka-sheen) a lady of the Fair Folk (called “Caisin Silverhair”)
Fiamain (fia-vin) sister of Caisin
Dioman (dee-maun) brother of Caisin
Breasal (bras-al) Caisin’s councilor
Fraochan (freh-khan) Mac Dara’s councilor
Labhraidh (low-ri) a man of the Fair Folk
Sleibhin (sle-vin) a man of the Fair Folk
Mochta (mukh-ta) a very big man of the Fair Folk
Bounder Maeve’s beloved dog from childhood, now deceased
Swift a fine yearling
Blaze Luachan’s mare
Broccan and Teafa Sean’s wolfhounds
Bear and Badger two black dogs
Cú Chulainn (koo hoo-lan) a legendary hero
Maelan (meh-laun) character in Ciarán’s story
Baine (baw-nyeh) character in Ciarán’s story
Tuatha Dé Danann (too-a-ha deh donn-a
n) or (too-a-ha deh) The Fair Folk, legendary dwellers in Erin. “People of the goddess Danu”
Uí Néill (ee nay-ill) an influential clan in Irish history (O’Neill)
Note: the fada or Irish accent has been omitted from some of the names, both on this list and in the text of the book, for purposes of simplicity.
CHAPTER 1
My aunt taught me to hold my head high, even when people stared. My uncle taught me to defend myself. Between them they made sure I learned courage. But I could not be brave about going home.
I was ten when the accident happened: young to be sent away from home and family. My parents must have believed Aunt Liadan could achieve the impossible. True, if any healer could have cured me, she was probably the one to do it. But my hands were beyond fixing. Although she never said so, I think my aunt expected to keep me at Harrowfield only until I had learned to live with my injuries. But days grew into seasons, and seasons into years, and whenever the suggestion was made that perhaps I might return to Erin, I found a reason for saying no.
At Harrowfield the household knew me as I was, not as I had been before. They had learned quickly that I hated fuss. People let me do what I could for myself. Nobody rushed to snatch things away when I was clumsy. Nobody treated me as if I had lost my wits along with the use of my fingers. They did not stare when I chose to walk about with the scar on my head uncovered. All the same, I did not need to travel far from the safe haven of my uncle’s estate to know that in the eyes of the outside world I was a freak.
Back home at Sevenwaters, the world changed without me. A little brother was born. My sisters married, had children, moved away. Family joys and tragedies unfolded. I would hear about them many moons later, in the occasional letters that reached us in Britain. I could not write back. I sent words of love, penned for me by the Harrowfield scribe.
If I could have slipped back into my childhood home without a ripple, I would have done it long ago. When I’d been under her care two years, Aunt Liadan had spoken to me frankly about my situation. My hands had healed as well as they ever would—there could be no further improvement. I’d always need someone to help me. I’d never hold a knife or spoon with my fingers. I’d never use a spinning wheel or a needle. I’d never be able to comb my own hair or fasten the back of my gown. Swaddling a baby, holding a child’s hand, those simple things would be forever beyond me. My aunt set it out with kindness and honesty. She did not insult me by couching the hard truth in gentle half-lies. In her embrace, I allowed myself to weep. When I was done, I dried my tears and vowed not to weep again. I was twelve years old.
The next morning I made two lists in my mind. First, the things I might as well forget about. Marriage. Children. Plying a craft of some kind. Managing a household, whether that of a chieftain like my father or a more modest establishment. The list was long.
Next, the things that were possible in my future. I struggled with this, wishing I were a different kind of girl. It was a shame my sister Sibeal was the one with a spiritual vocation, for if ever there was a future suited to a person in my circumstances, it surely lay among the sisters of a Christian nunnery such as St. Margaret’s, situated less than a morning’s walk from Harrowfield. I considered this for some time, liking the notion of a sanctuary where folk could not turn that special look on me, the look that mingled pity, horror and fascination. I saw that look on the faces of strangers passing on the road. I saw it in the eyes of visitors to my uncle’s hall, though they concealed it quickly when they learned who I was. And I did like quiet. But try as I might, I could not find much of a contemplative streak in myself, nor a wish to spend my days in prayer to a deity I was not quite sure I believed in. Besides, nuns worked hard. The sisters at St. Margaret’s were up at dawn gardening or cooking or performing the hundred and one tasks that kept their establishment going. What use would I be with that?
I could read. We sisters had been fortunate to have parents who saw the value of such a skill for girls, and when I came to Harrowfield, Uncle Bran’s scribe continued my lessons. But I could not write—I would never perform a scribe’s duties myself. I could sing, but did not like to do so in public. I knew plenty about herbs and healing, since I spent a great deal of my time watching Aunt Liadan at work in her garden and stillroom, or observing as she patched up various injuries. But my knowledge was all theory, no practice. Where Liadan’s fingers were deft and strong, apt for chopping and grinding, for gentle laying on of poultices or decisive cutting away of diseased flesh, mine were the claws of a dead thing, stiff and immobile.
My lists had not been encouraging. It was hard to think of any life I might have in which I would not be a burden to someone. Father was chieftain of Sevenwaters, a leader with a broad domain to oversee and a number of powerful and volatile neighbors to deal with. Our family lands were located in a particularly strategic spot, right between the holdings of rival branches of the Uí Néill clan. My uncle and foster father, Bran, was always prepared to discuss such matters with me. Since I could not exercise my hands in spinning, weaving and sewing, or in baking and brewing, I made sure I exercised my mind instead.
I had seen at the age of twelve that my presence back home would be of little value to my parents. Nothing had occurred since then to change my opinion. Mother would be managing the household perfectly, as she always had. A daughter who could contribute only advice, not practical help, would hardly be an asset. I could not be offered as wife to a chieftain Father wanted as an ally. Who would want me? I would not even be able to eat at the family table when visitors were present. I would be a hindrance, an embarrassment.
I had known this ever since I learned my hands would get no better. But, where my return home was concerned, it was more convenient excuse than valid reason. The fact was, I was afraid to go back. Deep down inside Courageous Maeve, the young woman convinced by her loving aunt and uncle that she was as strong as any warrior, there cowered another Maeve, a child of long ago. Ten years old, stumbling into the smoky darkness of the fire that had broken out in an annex at Sevenwaters. Bounder was inside; I could hear him whining, frightened, wanting me. Half-blinded by the smoke, I tripped, reached out to steady myself and laid my hands on an iron door bolt, hot from the fire. Everything went dark for a while. They told me, later, that my father had saved my life, risking the flames to find me and carry me out to the open air. When I came to, the flesh of my palms was burned to angry blisters. My face was marred. And my beloved dog was dead. Back in Erin, the ghosts of that night were waiting for me.
When I made my lists, I was a child. I hardly thought of the one skill I had that might shape the future for me. It came as naturally as breathing, and it was perhaps for that reason that I considered it nothing special. Years later, when the day finally came for me to face my fears, it was this skill that drew me home to Sevenwaters.
“Maeve, may I speak with you?”
Uncle Bran had come to stand by me at the dry-stone wall surrounding the horse yard. In the yard, Emrys was training Swift to a halter. Stable master Garalt was on the opposite side, eyes watchful. Emrys ran; the yearling moved with him, a vision of power and grace, like clouds before an easterly breeze or summer waves on the shore. His pale coat shimmered in the light; his feet were a dancer’s. That we’d bred such a remarkable creature here at Harrowfield was a source of immense pride for Garalt and for every groom trusted to work with Swift. And for me. I was the one who had gentled Swift’s dam through a difficult foaling, and it was I who had been called in, time after time, to calm and settle this magnificent young creature as he grew toward maturity. For Swift had his mother’s temperament, all fire and pride, and that made him difficult to train. Sometimes it seemed to us that he would sooner die than submit to authority, however kindly that authority was imposed. Hence my presence today while Garalt and Emrys worked to convince Swift the halter was not an enemy to be fought off with all his considerable strength.
“Of course,” I said with a smile, wondering what made Bran sound so se
rious. My uncle and I were friends; we did not stand on ceremony.
He was not quick to enlighten me, but stood by me watching as Swift tested Emrys’s control, now seeming almost compliant, now fiercely resistant. There was a long way to go with him. Not that he’d ever be a riding horse; he’d be too valuable as a breeding stallion. But he must be trained to tolerate human touch, to submit to being haltered and led, to being rubbed down and checked for injuries, to having draughts administered, and all the other handling needed to keep him in robust health. Garalt and I had already discussed which mare Swift would be put to first, when he was mature enough, and what the chances were that he’d sire a foal that was his own equal.
“I’m sending him away,” Bran said. “First as far as Sevenwaters, then on to Tirconnell, at your father’s request. A gift for one of the Uí Néill chieftains. It will be partial restitution for an event that occurred on Sean’s territory last spring, something they’re calling the Disappearance. That”—he indicated the horse with a movement of his head—“is the kind of gift that would placate the most difficult of men.”
I felt as if I had been dropped from a great height. For a while I had nothing to say. Bran’s dogs had come with him and were jostling around my skirts, nosing into my hands, seeking attention I did not have in me to give right now. I cleared my throat, wondering whether what I felt was the onset of tears. “Have you told Garalt?” I managed.
“Not yet. I will when he and Emrys are done here. This decision will upset a lot of folk, Maeve. I didn’t make it in haste. I received the message from your father some time ago. While I was considering it, further information came in through my own sources. This is necessary.”
“When?” I asked. Garalt’s seamed features were all concentration as he watched the yearling. I wasn’t sure I could bear to witness the moment when he was told his pride and joy was being packed off across the sea, so far we would likely never hear whether Swift had sired any foals at all, let alone a charmer with quicksilver in its steps.
“Before the autumn gales set in.” Bran turned his gaze from Swift to me. I thought he was about to express regret or sympathy, for both were in his steady gray eyes, but what he said was, “There’s something further I want to put to you.”
