Cate Tiernan - Changeling
"Not to a government school," he said. "The village parents get home-schooling certificates. As long as the children can pass the standard tests…" He shrugged. "They can read and write and do sums. It's just that all the indoctrination, the government oppression, the skewed view of history—they don't get that."
"How much did you teach Killian, and Kyle, and Iona?"
Killian had told me the names of his siblings. My other half brother, my half sister.
A troubled look clouded Ciaran's face, and he looked out the window into the thin, pale winter sunlight. "Is there somewhere else we could talk? More private? I had mentioned the power sink…"
"I have an idea," I said. I stood up and gathered my cup of tea and a scone in a napkin. "I could show you our park." I acted like his agreement was given. I couldn't go to the power sink, knowing that any magick he worked there would be dangerously enhanced. But if I were driving, if I chose the place—though really, there were only superficial reassurances. Ciaran was so strong that there wasn't much I could do to protect myself from him except work the ward-evil spells Eoife had taught me and hope for the best. But I was almost glad to be spending some time with him. When we were apart, I was both scared and intensely curious about him. When I was actually with him, my fears danced around the periphery of my consciousness, and mostly I just soaked in his presence.
"Lead on," he said, and fifteen minutes alter I parked Das Boot next to a Ford Explorer at the entrance of our state park.
We sat and drank our tea and ate our scones in silence. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence. But I had noticed that most witches were more peaceful to be around than most regular people. It was as if witches recognized the value of silence—they didn't see a lack of noise as a vacuum that needed to be filled.
"So how much did you teach Killian, Kyle and Iona?" I repeated.
"Not very much, I'm afraid," was his quiet reply. "I wasn't a good father, Morgan, not to them, not by a stretch of imagination."
"Why?"
He grimaced. "I didn't love their mother. I was tricked into marrying her because my mother, Eloise, and Grania's mother, Greer Murtagh, wanted to unite our covens. I was just eighteen, and Grania got pregnant, and they promised me leadership over the new, very powerful coven. I would inherit all their knowledge, my mothers and Grania's."
I knew he was lying about being tricked into marrying Grania, but I played along. "Why would you inherit and not Grania? I thought the lines were supposed to be matriarchal."
"They usually are. But by the time Grania was eighteen and had been initiated and all the rest, it was clear she lacked the ambition, the focus, to lead a coven. She wasn't really interested." His words were tight with derision, and I felt sorry for Grania. "But I was amazingly powerful. I could make the coven something new and stronger and better."
"So you married her. But she was pregnant. She didn't get pregnant by herself," I pointed out primly.
Ciaran's body tightened with surprise, and he looked at me as if trying to look through my eyes to something farther in. Then he threw back his head and laughed, an open, rolling laugh that filled my car and seemed to make the darkening twilight brighter.
I waited with raised eyebrows.
"Maeve said the exact same thing," he said. Saying her name, he grew more solemn. "She said the same thing, and she was right. As you are. My only excuse is that I was an eighteen-year-old-fool. Which is not much of an excuse and not one that I've ever accepted from Killian. So I have a double standard."
His frankness was disarming, and I tried to picture him as a teenager. A very powerful Woodbane teenager. I had to lead him back to my question about Imbolic.
"Then I met Maeve," he went on, and his voice took on a richer timbre, as if even remembering his love made his throat ache with sadness. "I knew almost instantly that she was the one I should be with. And she knew it about me. Her eyes, the wave of her hair, her laugh, the shape of her hands—everything about her was designed to delight me. We were drawn to each other like—magnets." He looked at his own hands, fair skinned, strong, and capable. The hands that had set my mother on fire.
I desperately wanted to hear more, more about her, about them, about what had gone so terribly wrong. But I struggled to keep my focus on Starlocket. I had to put other needs before my own.
"Imbolic is coming up," I said. "Are you going to celebrate with Amyranht? Is Amyranth the coven you inherited from Greer?"
Inside my car it became very still. We kept our gazes on each other, each of us measuring, waiting, judging.
Then Ciaran said, "Amyranth is part of the coven I inherited from Greer. Not entirely—not everyone from Liathach wanted to join. And Woodbanes from other covens have joined us. But for the most part, those are people I grew up with, who I'm related to, who I can trust with more than my life." His words were soft, his voice like warmed honey. "We share blood going back thousands of years," he went on. "We're intensely loyal to each other."
"Like the mafia?" I said.
Again he laughed.
Still, I found his description oddly compelling. The idea of being among people who were completely accepting and supportive, who only wanted to help you grow and increase your powers, who, you could trust implicitly, no matter what—it would be amazing. That picture of a Woodbane clan was to painful to think about—I could almost taste my own longing for it, and it terrified me to know that I was thinking about Amyranth. The coven that had tried to kill me. The coven that right at this moment was planning to destroy Starlocket. From the inside, I realized, it might not feel evil at all.
No one in my life had ever accepted me exactly the way I was. I didn't fit in as a Rowlands. Within my coven I stood out as a strong blood witch, and it had become clear to me that not even Robbie and Bree, my closest friends, could feel entirely comfortable around me anymore. Hunter and Sky and Eoife all seemed to want different things of me, for me to be different somehow, to make different choices.
My glance flicked back to Ciaran. How far could I push this? Was this the time to ask about the dark wave? Surely he suspected I was up to something.
"You're nervous," Ciaran said softly. "Tell me why."
It was dark now, and somehow there in the car I felt safe.
"I'm incredibly drawn to that picture of Woodbanes," I told him honestly. "But I hated Selene Belltower and everything she stood for. She tried to kill me, and I know she had murdered others. I don't want to be like that."
He waved his hand in dismissal. "Selene was an overambitious, overconfident climber—in no way did she represent what my coven is about."
"What is your coven about?" I asked clearly. "I saw what you were doing in New York. What was that? Is there some larger plan?"
Ciaran sat back against the passenger door. His eyes on me were bright in the darkness, his powerful hands still on the wool of his coat. Slowly, slowly, his lips parted in a smile, and I saw his white teeth and his eyes crinkling.
"You are very interesting, Morgan," he said quietly. "You are a wild, untamed thing with the power of a river about to overflow its banks. Are you afraid of me?"
I looked at him, this man who had helped create me, and answered truthfully, "Yes and no."
"Yes and no," he repeated, watching me. "I think more no than yes. Yet you have every reason to be terribly afraid of me. I almost took your life."
"You almost took my magick—my soul—which is much worse than taking my life," I retorted. "But you didn't because you are my father."
"Morgan, Morgan," he said. "I find you very—gratifying. My other children are afraid of me. They don't ask me hard questions, they don't stand up to me. But you…are something different. It's the difference between a child born of Grania and a child born of Maeve."
Frankly, I was feeling kind of sorry for all of us, his children.
"You alone I see as being able to appreciate my coven," he went on. "You alone I feel would understand. There is something being planned—"
I caught my breath silently, willing him to continue. He stopped and looked out then window, as if he hadn't intended to say so much. "I really should be getting back," he said absently.
I squelched my disappointment and frustration. It would be too east for him to pick up on them. Without a word I started my car and backed out of the parking space. We drove back through the night, toward town. I tried not to even think about what he'd almost said, what we'd talked about. There would be enough time for that later.
I drove Ciaran back to where he said Killian was staying. The house was nowhere near the deserted road where Killian had had me drop him off. He must have been out—the house was dark.
"Good-bye for now," he said. "But not for long, I hope. Please call me soon."
I nodded and leaned closer. In a low voice I said, "Father, I want to do what you do. I want to work how you work. I want you to show me."
He shut the door, his face flushed with emotion at the word father. I drove off without looking back and cried the whole way home. I had called him father. I hated myself.
15. Persecution
Brother Colin, by now you will have heard of my latest travail. Why God has chosen this fate for me, I do not know. All I can do is His will.
I arrived in Barra Head ten days ago. Father Benedict had changed hardly at all and welcomed me most lovingly, which brought tears to my eyes. The Abbey had changed for the better, with glass windowpanes, a pigsty, and two milk cows. The brothers (there are now eight) were planning the solemn celebration of Easter, our Lord's rising, with the handful of villagers who shared their worship.
Between matins and land, I left my cell and headed for the village in the darkness. I do not know what my thoughts were on that sole, dark walk, but with no warning I was knocked to the ground and a sleek black wolf was ripping at my cowl, tearing at my shoulder. With God's grace I held off its attack for a moment, and what I saw in these few moments before I fainted can only be part of my insanity, I fear. When the moon struck this creature's eyes, I saw Nuala, looking out at me. Poor Brother Colin, how you must pity me in my madness!
Now I am in hospital. I envy you, my brother, for having been spared this hellish existence. As soon as I am able to travel, I am being sent to the hospice in Baden.
—Brother Sinestus Tor, to Colin, March 1771.
"So this was a good day," Bree said. She propped one booted foot up on the stone bench next to me. "It's not snowing, it's almost forty degrees, and I missed both trig and chemistry because of that fake fire alarm. Not bad for a Wednesday."
"Do we know who did the fire alarm?" I asked.
"I heard it was Chris Holly," Robbie said, coming up behind us. Chris was en ex-boyfriend of Bree's and a typical Bree castoff: good-looking in a jock kind of way, with the IQ of your basic garden toad.
"Oh, jeez," Bree groaned.
Robbie grinned. "Word is that he didn't study for his English and panicked. Unfortunately, he was observed pulling the handle."
