Flame of Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier Page B

tally?”
    I pressed my lips together so I would not say something discourteous. What could he know, with his fine healthy body and his handsome face, his life as druid and tutor and scribe and guard? A man blessed with natural advantages and opportunities could not possibly understand what it was to be me.
    “I don’t need to,” I said. “I see the tally in people’s eyes when they look at me. And don’t say you’re sorry. That was a simple statement of fact, not a bid for sympathy.” I changed the subject before he had a chance to respond. “Luachan, do you know my uncle Ciarán at all well?”
    He walked in silence for a little before he answered. “Everyone knows him. A man of hidden depths, I believe. Do you remember him from before?”
    “Not clearly. I was young. I suppose we will be reintroduced. Father was saying Ciarán might become chief druid now Conor is gone.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “Only perhaps? Are there several eligible people? How is such a choice made?”
    “I’m told time is allowed for prayer and reflection, and then there is a discussion. If the brethren are not in agreement, a vote may take place.” After a moment he added, “Ciarán is generally thought to be the most likely choice.”
    I sensed a but in this statement; Luachan did not offer more, however, and it did not feel right to ask. Perhaps Ciarán’s heritage made some people hesitate. He was the son of a Sevenwaters chieftain, certainly. He was also the son of a dark and twisted woman of the Fair Folk, my great-grandfather’s second wife. I did not know a great deal about Ciarán’s life before he joined the brotherhood. In my judgment, what lay in his past was less important than what kind of man he was now. But perhaps druids weighed up these things differently.
    We made our way through the birch grove, walking beside the stream, and emerged to a broader clearing divided into three walled fields. In one section a few cows grazed, each attended by a trio of geese. In the second, a flock of plump hens was searching busily for insects in the grass, overseen by a watchful cockerel. The third contained a solitary goat. There were water troughs and sturdy-looking shelters. On the other side of the fields a larger hut stood under the oaks, with a walled area for a garden and a lean-to that might provide refuge for creatures in stormy weather. No smoke arose from the hut’s chimney, and the shutters were closed. It had a forlorn look, somewhat like that of the goat.
    “Who lives there?” I asked.
    “Nobody at present,” said Luachan. “It’s used mainly for visitors, since it’s situated somewhat apart from our own dwellings. Most recently it housed that cousin of your father’s, the woman from Galicia, and her husband. They stayed here awhile at Ciarán’s invitation. He—Conri—was uncomfortable among folk, at least at first. The hut suited them, modest as it is. We might sit on the steps to eat our food.”
    The awkward moment came, when we were settled there and Luachan had spread out the provisions on their cloth. He offered me the mead flask first. It was somewhat too heavy for me to manage easily, but my arms were strong, and I held it between mywrists, tipped it up and drank without spilling the contents over myself or dropping the flask on the ground. I looked the druid in the eye as I passed it back, and he said nothing at all.
    “Did you know Maeve can eat with her toes?” said my brother. “She’s good at it; I’ve seen her.”
    There was a brief silence. “Impressive,” said Luachan.
    If he expected a demonstration, he was going to be disappointed. “I’m not very hungry,” I said. “Please, go ahead and eat.”
    Finbar met my eye; his expression told me he saw right through my lie. He busied himself breaking up a honey cake, then taking a knife and slicing off pieces of apple as if he’d fed a crippled sister hundreds of times before. When he reached toward me with a bite-sized piece of cake in