Free Seer of Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier Page B

in the crook of the survivor’s knees. One lamp still burned. My head was full of tumbling thoughts, and I knew I would not soon fall asleep. I listened to the sounds in the chamber: the crackling of the fire, the creak of timbers in the wind, Fang’s snuffling snores, the labored wheeze of the man’s breathing . . . He was awake. I knew it without going near him. Awake; alone; afraid.
    I went to sit by the pallet. The man’s eyes were open: windows of deepest blue. There were shadows around them, hollows in his cheeks. His skin was as pale as an underwater creature’s, something that never saw the sun. His arms lay limp on the covers, the long fingers splayed. Fang had her nose pressed against his right hand. I curled my fingers around his left. Something altered in his eyes.
    “I saw you were awake,” I said. “My name is Sibeal. I am a druid; a wise woman.” It seemed necessary to talk, even if he could not understand the words, simply to reassure him. But I could not speak of the shipwreck, the drowned, the burial, the disruption to today’s ritual. He was deathly sick, and weak as a newborn lamb. I must say nothing to distress him. A story. I would tell a story.
    “I don’t live here on the island,” I told him, “but far to the south, at Sevenwaters, where my father is chieftain. When I leave here at the end of the summer, I will not be going home to my parents and the sister and baby brother who still live there. I’ll finally be making my commitment as a druid, if my mentor thinks I’m ready. I’ll be living out in the Sevenwaters forest as a member of the druid community that is housed there.”
    Sevenwaters: its image was never far from my mind. The dappled forest paths, the seven streams in all their moods, the rocks by the lake where generations of children had sat and dreamed. The grove of young oaks. The solitary birch. Everything had a story. The keep itself, with the stone steps up to the roof where a child could sit and look out over the vast sweep of the forest. And that forest, with its capricious pathways and its hidden places, secret places housing portals to a world stranger than the strangest tale. Sevenwaters, home not only to man and woman, but to uncanny races of ancient story . . . How could mere words explain something so wondrous, so beautiful, so utterly different?
    “But I’m not sad to be leaving my family,” I went on, taking encouragement from the fact that my audience was watching me with apparent interest. “I’ve known since I was quite small that I was destined for a spiritual life. When I feel confused or distressed, when things worry me, I remind myself of the day I first learned that. I should explain that Sevenwaters, my home, is a place of many stories: tales of family, tales of mystery and magic, tales of uncanny folk. We belong to the old faith. Around us, many other families are Christian now. Increasingly that sets us apart. My father’s fortifications defend not only our household and our settlements, but also the druids and . . . certain others.
    “Of course, as a little girl I did not understand all this. I just knew Uncle Conor came to visit each festival day, wearing his white robe and his golden torc, and conducted the ritual. Sometimes, if we were lucky, one of us girls would be asked to help in some small way, perhaps carrying an item in a procession or joining in the singing of a prayer. I have five sisters in all, four older, one younger, as well as my baby brother. When we reached a certain age, each of us in turn had the opportunity to dance at Meán Earraigh, the spring celebration, where a young girl takes the part of the Maiden in the ritual.”
    I faltered, realizing this was not quite true. Maeve had not had a turn. When she was only ten years old Maeve had been burned in a terrible accident, and soon after that she had gone away to live with Aunt Liadan in Britain. My aunt’s remarkable gift as a healer made her best suited to help a girl