Kushiel 03 - [Moirin 01] - Naamah's Kiss Page 4

  She was right.

  I explained it and demonstrated over and over, but it made no difference. Cillian couldn’t get the knack of it because he hadn’t the gift. He couldn’t raise so much as a glimmer in the air around him. His figure remained stubbornly, solidly visible. After two hours, he stomped around in frustration, kicking at willow roots. I sensed a shiver of distress in my favorite fishing tree as his boots scraped away chunks of bark and laid bare the pale root-flesh beneath.

  “Please don’t,” I murmured. “You’re hurting it.”

  He scowled and knocked on the trunk. “Trees don’t feel.”

  “They do.”

  He glanced at the sky. “I should be going anyway.”

  “All right, then.” I went to fetch the empty satchel for him. If it was magic he sought to acquire, after today’s failure, I didn’t think he’d be coming back. The thought made me sad. “Thank you,” I said. I tried to think of something else to say that wouldn’t be rude. After all, he had brought honeycakes. “It was interesting to meet you.”

  He slung the satchel over his shoulder. “Is there aught you’d like me to bring next time?” he asked, casting a critical eye over the neatly folded pile of mending on the hearth. “Clothing that’s not in rags and tatters?”

  I was surprised. “You’re coming back?”

  Cillian looked hurt. “You’d rather I didn’t?”

  “No, no!” I smiled. “It would be nice if you did. Thank you.” I thought about his offer. I’d no need of fine clothing, but there were other things I liked. “Sausages, mayhap?”

  He smiled back at me. “Sausages, it is.”

  After that, Cillian became a regular visitor. Sometimes eight or ten days would pass between his visits, sometimes only a few. I couldn’t teach him magic, but I taught him many things about the woods. Although he hadn’t the deeper senses I did, he was still able to pay attention and learn a great deal.

  And he, in turn, taught me.

  It began the first time I returned to our camp from foraging in the hickory copse to find him already awaiting me. He was sitting cross-legged on the hearth, gazing intently at an object he held in his lap—so intently he didn’t hear me approach. I decided to play a trick on him and set down my basket softly, summoning the twilight. Unseen, I crept near and plucked the object from his hands.

  Cillian gave a startled yelp.

  I giggled.

  “Moirin!” He grinned. “Show yourself, woodsprite.”

  I did. “And what is this object that held you so fascinated?” I inquired, waving it in the air.

  “’Tis a tale of the Master of the Straits.” He grabbed at it, but I danced out of reach. “I thought you might enjoy it, oh ungrateful one.”

  “A tale?” I examined the thing. “How is this a tale?”

  “It’s a book, Moirin.” Cillian paused. “Not a book of magic, just a tale. Do you, ah, know how to read?”

  “Read?” The thing was shaped like a leather-bound box, but it fanned open to reveal myriad square leaves with markings on them.

  “You don’t, do you?”

  I held the book to my ear and heard nothing. I smelled it, then touched the tip of my tongue to the finely grained leaves. “I know the words book and read, but I do not know exactly what they mean,” I admitted. “How is this a tale?”

  He took it from me. “I’ll show you.” Holding it open, Cillian gazed into it and recited the opening words of a tale. I sat to listen, but he stopped. “Here.” He pointed to the markings on the first leaf. “These are the words I spoke. Written here. Each of these is a word.”

  “No!” I marveled.

  “Aye.”

  “That’s a fine magic!”

  “It’s not—” He paused to consider. “Mayhap it is at that. I never thought on it.”

  I scooted closer to him. “How do you do it?”

  “See these shapes?” Cillian pointed again. “Each one contained unto itself? Those are letters. They represent sounds. You put them together to make words.”

  “Show me.”

  He did, drawing on the flat stone of our hearth with the tip of a fire-blackened twig. I marveled over the process, taking to it like a duckling to water. I was so absorbed, I didn’t sense my mother returning with her bow over her shoulder and a brace of pigeons dangling from one hand.

  “What are you playing at, Moirin mine?” she asked.

  “Oh!” I startled. “Cillian is teaching me to read.”

  There was a shadow behind her smile. “Is he, now?”

  Cillian got to his feet and bowed. “Not against your wishes, Lady Fainche. Speak, and I will cease.”

  “You’re enjoying yourself?” she asked me.

  I nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes.”

  “So be it.” My mother laid a hand on my head. “You have my blessing. But do not trust this new knowledge overmuch. Great truths should be contained in the head and the heart, not consigned to the page. There was a time not long ago when the ollamhs railed against the practice.”

  “The world changes, Lady Fainche,” Cillian said diplomatically. She settled her gaze on him. “So it does. ’Twas your own kinsman founded the Academy at Innisclan, was it not?”

  “Aye. Eamonn mac Grainne. Your kinsman too, I believe.” He hesitated. “Moirin will prove a swift learner, if I’m any judge. She’d be welcome to study there one day.”

  My mother looked alarmed.

  “’Twould not be for many years,” Cillian added hastily. “None younger than fourteen are admitted.”

  “Fourteen,” she sighed.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I assured her. “I just want to learn to read, that’s all. And Cillian’s a fine teacher.”

  He colored with pleasure. “Am I?”

  “You are.”

  My mother regarded us with an unreadable expression. “Go on with it, then. My blessing is already given.”

  I’d spoken true; Cillian was a good teacher. By the time the woods were ablaze with autumn’s bright foliage, I was able to read simple texts on my own, sounding out the words aloud. Once winter came, Cillian wouldn’t be able to visit as often, but he had promised to bring me several books on which I might practice, whiling away the long cold months. I had promised in turn to read them to my mother, and I do not think even she was entirely displeased by the prospect.

  But when Cillian came next, he came empty-handed and downcast.

  “No books?” I was disappointed.

  He took a seat at the hearth, looking at my mother out of the corner of his eye. She was sewing a pair of rabbit-skin leggings. Cillian was wary of her, fearing she didn’t altogether approve of his presence in our lives. Also, he was still more than half-convinced that she could turn herself into a bear. To be fair, neither of us had disabused him of the notion.

  “There’s trouble,” she guessed.

  “Aye.” He nodded reluctantly and flushed to the roots of his auburn hair. “My father fears you’ve ensorceled me.”

  My mother burst out laughing.

  His flush turned an angry hue. “Is it so unthinkable? Bear-witches have done such things before!”

  “Not to thirteen-year-old boys,” I commented.

  Further embarrassed, Cillian looked daggers at me. “It’s because I’ve kept your secret, you know!”

  “Peace,” my mother said soothingly. “Lord Tiernan flatters me. So you’ve said naught to him of Moirin?”

  “I gave my word!” he said indignantly.

  “And kept it like a man.” She gave a brisk nod. “Has your father forbidden you to visit me further?”

  “Aye,” Cillian muttered. “I defied him today.”

  “Hmm.”

  That sound didn’t bode well. “What if I released you from your promise?” I asked Cillian. “Would your father allow you to keep visiting if he knew it was me you came to see?” I turned to my mother. “You said you’d no fear that Lord Tiernan would meddle in our affairs.”

  She made a nonc
ommittal sound, but Cillian brightened. “You’d do that?” he asked.

  “May I?” I asked my mother. I got the raised eyebrow in reply. Again, the choice was mine. “Aye,” I said firmly. “I would.”

  Cillian leapt to his feet. “I’ll tell him and see.” He paused, giving my mother another sidelong glance. “You, um, haven’t, have you? Ensorceled me?”

  “I?” Now she looked amused. “No, not I.”

  FIVE

  Cillian returned with good news and bad.

  “’Twould make a difference to my father knowing I come to visit Moirin.” He handed me a slim leather-bound book. “He sends this as a symbol of his earnest pledge. ’Tis the tale of the trials of Eamonn mac Grainne’s courtship of his Skaldic bride,” he added. “Fine winter reading. But—”

  “Lord Tiernan doubts,” my mother said dryly.

  “Aye.” Cillian nodded. “Lady Fainche, you’ve not been seen for nigh unto twelve years, neither here nor at Innisclan. And no one had heard any word of a child until now.”

  “By my choice.”

  “Which he respects. But if he is to allow me to continue my visits, he wishes to see Moirin with his own eyes.”

  My mother was very still. “Where?”

  “He would welcome you to Innisclan.” He pointed at the book I held. “After all, you are kin. Will you not come? You’ve done him the honor before.”

  She shivered a little. “Once, for a great occasion. But I do not relish being within stone walls.”

  “We live in a cave,” I commented.

  Her eyes flashed. “Walls carved by nature’s hand are not the same as those built by men’s hands. Are you so eager to learn the difference?”

  “No,” I murmured, subdued.

  “And yet I am not eager to have Tiernan’s people come here, trampling around with their great booted feet and disturbing the woods,” she mused to herself. Cillian shuffled his feet self-consciously. For a boy of thirteen, they were rather large. She ignored him and studied me with discomforting intensity. “Does it mean so much to you, Moirin mine?”

  Although the weight of her gaze made me feel like shuffling myself, I pondered her question and answered with one of my own. “You said we had naught to fear from the Dalriada. Do I shame you in some way that you do not wish Lord Tiernan to see me?”

  “Stone and sea, no! Of course not.”

  “Then why do we not meet him halfway?” I was proud of my solution.

  She was, too. She gave a reluctant nod. “Well reasoned. Cillian mac Tiernan, tell your father that Moirin and I will meet him at a place of his choose, halfway between Innisclan and here.”

  “Aye, my lady!” He was off like a hare.

  My mother sighed. “That lad was doomed the minute he laid eyes on you.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was intrigued or offended. “Why ever so?”

  She gave me a wry look. “’Tis the way of the world, and men and women in it; aye, and lads and lasses, too. Pray you’ve a good many years before you learn it.”

  Not yet, the bright lady whispered. Not for many years.

  The memory made me shudder.

  “I shall,” I promised.

  Three days later, we rode out to meet the Lord of the Dalriada.

  I’d never ridden a horse before. ’Twas Cillian who brought her, a dapple-grey mare, leading her behind his stalwart pony and tethering them both before entering the brambles along the verge of our woods. I’d seen horses, of course, on our journey to Clunderry, but never at close range. The mare was grazing when we emerged from the thicket. She raised her head and gazed at us with lustrous eyes, munching on grass.

  “How lovely!” I cried.

  Cillian rummaged in his pockets. “I brought you a bit of dried—”

  I had slipped into the twilight without thinking. “Hello,” I said softly. She bowed her head and let me cup her muzzle, giving a grunting whicker in reply. Her coat shimmered in my vision. I blew into her nostrils. “Hello.”

  “Moirin?”

  “Oh!” I let slip the twilight. “I’m sorry.”

  He handed me a wizened apple. “I thought you might be frightened of her. Here, hold your palm open.”

  I fed her the apple. Her lips tickled. “Why would I be frightened?”

  “It was a foolish notion,” he admitted. “Lady Fainche, do you know how to ride?”

  My mother was stroking the mare’s shoulder. The mare turned her head to lip my mother’s hair. “I expect I’ll manage. Your uncle Declan taught me long ago.”

  Cillian stared. “He did?”

  “Mmm. A kindness shown to a distant cousin. You do know we all share a common ancestor in the great Lady Grainne of the Dalriada?” She mounted easily and settled her skirts around her. “Over to yon boulder, my heart,” she said to me, guiding the mare with her knees. “You can mount up behind me.”

  In the exhilaration of the ride, I nearly forgot the purpose of our journey. We veered west, then rode south along a high stony ridge overlooking the sea. I clung to my mother’s waist to keep myself from sliding around on the mare’s wide back, my skirts hiked up to my knees, bare legs dangling. The wind was off the sea, cool and salt-smelling.

  At first we just walked, but once Cillian saw that my mother could indeed ride and I didn’t appear likely to fall off, he nudged his pony to a trot from time to time. My mother kept pace with him easily, though she let the knotted reins lie slack around the mare’s neck.

  “You’ve a knack for this,” Cillian said curiously to her. “Have you ever kept horses of your own?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Whatever for?” she asked in turn. “What use is a horse in the woods?”

  He shrugged. “You could go places.”

  “So I can on my own two feet without a great maw to feed.” My mother leaned over to pat the mare’s shoulder. “’Tis not our way to keep animals captive. I reckon they like it no more than I would.”

  Privately, I thought it would be quite wonderful to have a horse of my own—or mayhap a pony, since my legs were beginning to ache from straddling the mare’s girth. And I wouldn’t keep it captive, either. It would live free in the meadows and come when I called it, obeying me out of love. We could roam the world and explore it together, free as birds.

  I’d never considered such a notion before. It was a new thought.

  It gave me a strange feeling—like the fluttering feeling, only higher. A feeling that made me happy and sad all at once. It made me uncomfortable. I pushed the feeling and the thought away together.

  And then I saw them and forgot about it.

  There were six of them waiting for us on the cliffs above the sea—three men and three women, all astride fine horses. The man in front I took to be Lord Tiernan. From what I could see over my mother’s shoulder, she was right, Cillian had a look of him, although his father was older and bearded. Sunlight glinted on a gold torc around his neck. All of them wore fine, brightly colored clothing. I glanced down at my shapeless, much-mended brown dress. It was very practical and faded to just the right hue for moving unseen in the woods, but for the first time, I wondered if I ought to have accepted Cillian’s offer of clothing and not asked for sausages instead.

  Although they had been very good sausages.

  “Father!” Cillian said breathlessly. “I’ve brought them.”

  The man inclined his head. “Fainche.”

  “My lord Tiernan.” My mother dismounted deftly, sliding one leg over the mare’s neck. She helped me down. “This is Moirin, my daughter.”

  I stood gazing up at them. They sat gazing down at me. Cillian rattled off their names. Far below us, the grey sea crashed on rocks. At last, Lord Tiernan’s gaze shifted to my mother. “That child was never sired by one of Alban blood.”

  “Nor did I claim she was,” my mother agreed.

  “Who?”

  She shrugged. “Since when do the Dalriada concern themselves with the lineage of the Maghuin Dhonn
?”

  His mouth quirked. “Others might. Or do the wild kin of Alais’ line forget whose blood runs in their veins?”

  “We do not.”

  “Poor mite!” one of the women whispered audibly. “Living like a savage.”

  “What do you expect?” another murmured.

  I glanced at my mother’s face and saw her eyes take on an ominous glitter. I was angry on her behalf and gave the woman who’d spoken first a glare of my own. She flinched and made a warding gesture.

  “Peace.” Lord Tiernan held up his hand, silencing them. “Why not bring the child to be raised at Innisclan, Fainche?” he asked in a reasonable tone. “At least during the winter months. Surely it would be an easier living, and if she’s an appetite for learning, it would be indulged.”

  She shook her head. “When Moirin is older, she may choose her own path. For now, she stays with me, and our place is in the wild.”

  He sighed. “Dagda Mor, you’re a stubborn woman.” His gaze shifted back to me. “What do you will, child?”

  I curled my bare toes on the stony ridge. “For Cillian to visit.” Lord Tiernan’s expression softened. “So little? All right, then. If the lad wills it, I see no harm in it.” He hesitated. “Fainche…”

  My mother raised her brows coolly. “Aye, my lord?”

  Whatever he was going to ask, it withered in the face of her implacable stance. “Stubborn woman,” Lord Tiernan repeated. His grey gaze lingered on me. “I reckon the truth will come out in time.” He gave his son a brisk nod. “Cillian, so be it. I’ll expect you home by supper.”

  Cillian grinned. “Aye, Father!”

  So it was decided.

  In the years that followed, Cillian came without fail whenever he could. Not so often in the winter when the snow and cold made travel difficult, but he taught me enough before the first snowfall that I was able to read on my own, and as he had promised, he brought books borrowed from the Academy’s considerable library. They were tales of Alban history, Alban heroes. During the long winter nights, I read them aloud to my mother by the light of the little fire that warmed our cave when we couldn’t use the wind-scoured hearth, both of us huddled under furs and blankets.