Son of the shadows

Table of Contents Title Page Acknowledgments Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Author’s Note BOOKS BY JULIET MARILLIER Praise for Son of the Shadows Child of the Prophecy Copyright Page To Godric, voyager and man of the earth; and to Ben, a true son of Manannán mac Lir Acknowledgments Grateful thanks to my fellow bard Paul Kelly, who provided invaluable help with Irish spellings and pronunciations This project owes a great deal to the continuing confidence and support of Cate Paterson of Pan Macmillan and to the understanding and professionalism of my editor, Anna McFarlane I am indebted to them both 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 Cú 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 redgold 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 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 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 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 Redbeard, 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 multitalented hero Dagda dog-da A respected leader and chief of the Tuatha Dé Díancécht dee-an kyecht God of healing, and chief physician of the Tuatha Dé He constructed a silver hand for the smitten hero Nuada Manannán 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 Túatha Dé 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 Fómhair (21 September) winter solstice spring equinox summer solstice autumn equinox SOME OTHER NAMES AND TERMS USED Aengus Og Caer Ibormeith CÚ Chulainn Scáthach Aisling Ciarán Fionn Uí Néill Liadan Niamh Sidhe Dubh eyn-gus ohg kyre ee -vor-may Koo khu -linn skaw-thuck ash -ling kee -ur-aun fyunn ee -ill 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 nOg tear na nohg Land of Youth An otherworldly realm beyond the western sea túath A tribal community in early Christian Ireland, ruled by a king or lord BOOKS BY JULIET MARILLIER THE SEVENWATERS TRILOGY Daughter of the Forest Son of the Shadows Child of the Prophecy SAGA OF THE LIGHT ISLES Wolfskin Foxmask THE BRIDEI CHRONICLES The Dark Mirror Blade of Fortriu The Well of Shades* *Forthcoming Praise for Son of the Shadows “Beautifully written, the second in the Sevenwaters trilogy continues a sparkling saga of a family whose destiny is to help free Erin from British tyranny.” —Publishers Weekly “Ever wondered what happens next in your favorite fairy tale? Australian new voice Juliet Marillier provides a beautifully wrought answer … the exquisite poetry of the story is carefully balanced with strong characterizations and more than a nod to Irish mythology.” —Romantic Times (Gold Top Pick) “Marillier’s virtuosic pacing and vivid, filmic style make this an engaging continuation of one of last year’s best fantasies.” —Booklist “Marillier blends old legends with original storytelling to produce an epic fantasy.” —Library Journal “Like her mother Sorcha before her, Liadan is impressive in her own right, and it’s her individuality and strength of character that break through both sentiment and furor to bring this tale fully alive.” —Locus “A quietly moving and extremely well written fantasy.” —Science Fiction Chronicle Daughter of the Forest “I enjoyed it immensely … For an Irish resident, familiar with the mores and customs, Daughter of the Forest had special meaning and relevance Juliet Marillier is a fine new fantasy writer.” —Anne McCaffrey “A world rich with magic and legend, full of heroic—and a few decidedly nasty—characters Lush, poetic, and surprisingly romantic.” —Romantic Times “Ms Marillier’s ability to use so well such a known legend and make it both logical and exiting is an outstanding gift I am now, of course, eager to see ‘what happens next’ and that interest is what every writer hopes to arouse in the reader of a trilogy.” —Andre Norton “What sets Marillier’s work apart is how she wraps this traditional plot with deeply individualized characters and a beautifully realized background of Ireland in the Dark Ages … Marillier is a new writer to watch.” —VOYA “The story line is fast-paced, filled with action, and loaded with romance yet brimming with magical elements that seem real The lead characters are warm, compassionate, and share a sense of family loyalty that adds to the adventure.” —Midwest Book Review “The author’s keen understanding of Celtic paganism and early Irish Christianity adds texture to a rich and vibrant novel.” —Library Journal “A nicely wrought and well-detailed historical fantasy, and an excellent first novel.” —Locus “Marillier’s powerful writing and attention to detail bring even the minor characters of this novel alive … a must-read for anyone who enjoys the power of myth.” —Charleston SC Post & Courier “Juliet Marillier is a writer of exceptional talent [and] Sorcha is probably one of the best handled heroines of fantasy fiction.” —Shelf Life Look for Child of the Prophecy by Juliet Marillier Now available from Tor Books Every summer they came By earth and sky, by sun and stone I counted the days I’d climb up to the circle and sit there quiet with my back to the warmth of the rock I called Sentinel, and see the rabbits come out in the fading light to nibble at what sparse pickings might be found on the barren hillside The sun sank in the west, a ball of orange fire diving beyond the hills into the unseen depths of the ocean Its dying light caught the shapes of the dolmens and stretched their strange shadows out across the stony ground before me I’d been here every summer since first I saw the travelers come, and I’d learned to read the signs Each day the setting sun threw the dark pointed shapes a little further across the hilltop to the north When the biggest shadow came right to my toes, here where I sat in the very center of the circle, it was time Tomorrow I could go and watch by the track, for they’d be here There was a pattern to it There were patterns to everything, if you knew how to look My father taught me that The real skill lay in staying outside them, in not letting yourself be caught up in them It was a mistake to think you belonged Such as we were could never belong That, too, I learned from him I’d wait there by the track, behind a juniper bush, still as a child made of stone There’d be a sound of hooves, and the creak of wheels turning Then I’d see one or two of the lads on ponies, riding up ahead, keeping an eye out for any trouble By the time they came up the hill and passed by me where I hid, they’d relaxed their guard and were joking and laughing, for they were close to camp and a summer of good fishing and relative ease, a time for mending things and making things The season they spent here at the bay was the closest they ever came to settling down Then there’d be a cart or two, the old men and women sitting up on top, the smaller children perched on the load or running alongside Danny Walker would be driving one pair of horses, his wife Peg the other The rest of the folk would walk behind, their scarves and shawls and neckerchiefs bright splashes of color in the dun and gray of the landscape, for it was barren enough up here, even in the warmth of early summer I’d watch and wait unseen, never stirring And last, there was the string of ponies, and the younger lads leading them or riding alongside That was the best moment of the summer: the first glimpse I got of Darragh, sitting small and proud on his sturdy gray He’d be pale after the winter up north, and frowning as he watched his charges, always alert lest one of them should make a bolt for freedom They’d a mind to go their own way, these hill ponies, until they were properly broken This string would be trained over the warmer season, and sold when the traveling folk went north again Not by so much as a twitch of a finger or a blink of an eyelid would I let on that I was there But Darragh would know His brown eyes would look sideways, twinkling, and he’d flash a grin that nobody saw, nobody but me where I hid by the track Then the travelers would pass on and be gone down to the cove and their summer encampment, and I’d be away home, scuttling across the hill and down over the neck of the land to the Honeycomb, which was where we lived, my father and I Father didn’t much like me to go out But he did not lay down any restrictions It was more effective, he said, for me to set my own rules The craft was a hard taskmaster I would discover soon enough that it left no time for friends, no time for play, no time for swimming or fishing or jumping off the rocks as the other children did There was much to learn And when Father was too busy to teach me, I must spend my time practicing my skills The only rules were the unspoken ones Besides, I couldn’t wander far, not with my foot the way it was I understood that for our kind the craft was all that really mattered But Darragh made his way into my life uninvited and once he was there he became my summer companion and my best friend; my only friend, to tell the truth I was frightened of the other children and could hardly imagine joining them in their boisterous games They in their turn avoided me Maybe it was fear, and maybe it was something else I knew I was cleverer than they were I knew I could what I liked to them, if I chose to And yet, when I looked at my reflection in the water, and thought of the boys and girls I’d seen running along the sand shouting to one another, and fishing from the rocks, and mending nets alongside their fathers and mothers, I wished with all my heart that I was one of them, and not myself I wished I was one of the traveler girls, with a red scarf and a shawl with a long fringe to it, so I could perch up high on the cart and ride away in autumn time to the far distant lands of the north We had a place, a secret place, halfway down the hill behind big boulders and looking out to the southwest Below us the steep, rocky promontory of the Honeycomb jutted into the sea Inside it was a complex network of caves and chambers and concealed ways, a suitable home for a man such as my father Behind us the slope stretched up and up to the flattened top of the hill, where the stone circle stood, and then down again to the cart track Beyond that was the land of Kerry, and farther still were places whose names I did not know But Darragh knew, and Darragh told me as he stacked driftwood neatly for a fire, and hunted for flint and tinder while I got out a little jar of dried herbs for tea He told me of lakes and forests, of wild crags and gentle misty valleys He described how the Norsemen, whose raids on our coast were so feared, had settled here and there and married Irish women, and bred children who were neither one thing nor the other With a gleam of excitement in his brown eyes, he spoke of the great horse fair up north He got so caught up in this, his thin hands gesturing, his voice bright with enthusiasm, that he forgot he was supposed to be lighting the little fire So I did it myself, pointing at the sticks with my first finger, summoning the flame The driftwood burst instantly alight, and our small pan of water began to heat Darragh fell silent “Go on,” I said “Did the old man buy the pony or not?”But Darragh was frowning at me, his dark brows drawn together in disapproval “You shouldn’t that,” he said “What?” “Light the fire like that Using sorcerer’s tricks Not when you don’t need to What’s wrong with flint and tinder? I would have done it.” “Why bother? My way’s quicker.” I was casting a handful of the dry leaves into the pot to brew The smell of the herbs arose freshly in the cool air of the hillside “You shouldn’t it Not when there’s no need.” He was unable to explain any farther, but his flood of words had dried up abruptly, and we brewed our tea and sat there drinking it together in silence as the sea birds wheeled and screamed overhead The summers were full of such days When he wasn’t needed to work with the horses or help around the camp, Darragh would come to find me, and we explored the rocky hillsides, the clifftop paths, the hidden bays and secret caves together He taught me to fish with a single line and a steady hand I taught him to read what day it was from the way the shadows moved up on the hilltop When it rained, as it had a way of doing even in summer, we’d sit together in the shelter of a little cave, down at the bottom of the land bridge that joined the Honeycomb to the shore, a place that was almost underground but not quite, for the daylight filtered through from above and washed the tiny patch of fine sand to a delicate shade of gray-blue In this place I always felt safe In this place sky and earth and sea met and touched and parted again, and the sound of the wavelets lapping the subterranean beach was like a sigh, at once greeting and farewell Darragh never told me if he liked my secret cave or not He’d simply come down with me, and sit by me, and when the rain was over, he’d slip away with never a word There was a wild grass that grew on the hillside there, a strong, supple plant with a silky sheen to its pale green stems We called it rat-tails, though it probably had some other name Peg and her daughters were expert basketweavers, and made use of this grass for their finer and prettier efforts, the sort that might be sold to a lady for gathering flowers maybe, rather than for carrying vegetables or a heavy load of firewood Darragh, too, could weave, his long fingers fast and nimble Once summer we were up by the standing stones, late in the afternoon, sitting with our backs to the Sentinel and looking out over the bay and the far promontory, and beyond to the western sea Clouds were gathering, and the air had a touch of chill to it Today I could not read the shadows, but I knew it was drawing close to summer’s end, and another parting I was sad, and cross with myself for being sad, and I was trying not to think about another winter of hard work and cold, lonely days I stared at the stony ground and thought about the year, and how it turned around like a serpent biting its own tail, how it rolled on like a relentless wheel The good times would come again, and after them the bad times Darragh had a fistful of rat-tails, and he was twisting them deftly and whistling under his breath Darragh was never sad He’d no time for it; for him, life was an adventure, with always a new door to open Besides, he could go away if he wanted to He didn’t have lessons to learn and skills to perfect, as I did I glared at the pebbles on the ground Around and around, that was my existence, endlessly repeating, a cycle from which there was no escape Around and around Fixed and unchangeable I watched the pebbles as they shuddered and rolled; as they moved obediently on the ground before me “Fainne?” Darragh was frowning at me, and at the shifting stones on the earth in front of me “What?” My concentration was broken The stones stopped moving Now they lay in a perfect circle “Here,” he said “Hold out your hand.” I did as be bid me, puzzled, and he slipped a little ring of woven rat-tails on my finger, so cunningly made that it seemed without any joint or fastening “What’s this for?” I asked him, turning the silky, springy circle of grass around and around He was looking away over the bay again, watching the small curraghs come in from fishing “So you don’t forget me,” he said, offhand “Don’t be silly,” I said “Why would I forget you?” “You might,” said Darragh, turning back toward me He gestured toward the neat circle of tiny stones “You might get caught up in other things.” I was hurt “I wouldn’t I never would.” Darragh gave a sigh and shrugged his shoulders “You’re only little You don’t know Winter’s a long time, Fainne And—and you need keeping an eye on.” “I not!” I retorted instantly, jumping up from where I sat Who did he think he was, talking as if he was my big brother? “I can look after myself quite well, thank you And now I’m going home.” “I’ll walk with you.” “You don’t have to.” “I’ll walk with you Better still, I’ll race you Just as far as the junipers down there Come on.” I stood stolid, scowling at him “I’ll give you a head start,” coaxed Darragh “I’ll count to ten.” I made no move “Twenty, then Go on, off you go.” He smiled, a broad, irresistible smile I ran, if you could call my awkward, limping gait a run With my skirt caught up in one hand, I made reasonable speed, though the steep, pebbly surface required some caution I was only halfway to the junipers when I heard his soft, quick footsteps right behind me No race could have been less equal, and both of us knew it He could have covered the ground in a quarter of the time it took me But somehow, the way it worked out, the two of us reached the bushes at exactly the same moment “All right, sorcerer’s daughter,” said Darragh, grinning “Now we walk and catch our breath It’ll be a better day tomorrow.” How old was I then? Six, maybe, and he a year or two older? I had the little ring on my finger the day the traveling folk packed up and moved out again; the day I had to wave goodbye and start waiting It was all right for him He had places to go and things to do, and he was eager to get on his pony and be off Still, he made time to say farewell, up on the hillside above the camp, for he knew I would not come near where the folk gathered to load their carts and make ready for the journey I was numb with shyness, quite unable to bear the stares of the boys and girls or to form an answer to Peg’s shrewd, kindly questions My father was down there, a tall, cloaked figure talking to Danny Walker, giving him messages to deliver, commissions to fulfill Around them, the folk left a wide, empty circle “Well then,” said Darragh “Well then,” I echoed, trying for the same tone of nonchalance, and failing miserably “Goodbye, Curly,” he said, reaching out to tug gently at a lock of my long hair, which was the same deep russet as my father’s “I’ll see you next summer Keep out of trouble, now, until I come back.” Every time he went away he said this; always just the same As for me, I had no words at all This is a work of fiction All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously SON OF THE SHADOWS Copyright © 2001 by Juliet Marillier All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form Edited by Claire Eddy A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor-forge.com Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC eISBN 9781429913478 First eBook Edition : May 2011 Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2001017387 First Edition: May 2001 First Mass Market Edition: June 2002 Table of Contents Title Page Table of Contents Acknowledgments Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Author’s Note BOOKS BY JULIET MARILLIER Praise for Son of the Shadows Child of the Prophecy Copyright Page ... And so the Dagda solicited the help of the king of Munster They sought to the east, and they sought to the west, and along all the highways and byways of Erin; and at length they learned the maiden’s... 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... 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