Heir to Sevenwaters by Juliet Marillier Page A

went down to the hall.
    Lamps still burned there, and the fire glowed on the big hearth, though the house was hushed; it must be close to midnight. Before the flames sat Father and Muirrin, he in his big chair with the dogs drowsing at his feet, she on a stool close by. In the flickering light the similarity between them was striking—like Sibeal, Muirrin had inherited Father’s dark hair and pale skin, along with his air of grave self-containment. They were looking even more solemn than usual, and I could guess what had kept them up so late. I went over to sit on the rug beside my sister.
    “Can’t sleep?” Muirrin asked.
    “It feels strange without Deirdre.”
    “It’s a time of many changes.” There was a note in Father’s voice that I had never heard before. “Clodagh, Muirrin and I have been talking about your mother.”
    I wanted to ask and I didn’t want to. I made myself speak. “She seems so tired all the time. Muirrin, what do you think will happen?”
    My sister hesitated.
    “Be honest, please,” I said, clutching my hands together under the concealment of the cloak. “I know there’s grave risk involved.” I glanced at Father.
    “Muirrin,” he said, “tell Clodagh what you just told me. She needs to know.” His brave attempt at a smile made me want to cry.
    “If you’re sure,” Muirrin said, and I heard how she was making her voice calm, using the same manner she would if she had to tell a peerless warrior that he would never be able to fight again, or a young wife that her new husband had died from his wounds. Healers carried a terrible burden. “Clodagh, you already know how dangerous it is for a woman of Mother’s age to bear a child. She’s done remarkably well to carry the infant to this stage. But . . . I’ve told Father I believe there’s a high chance we may lose both her and the baby. The rigors of labor and birth take a toll even on a young, strong woman. Then there’s the risk of childbed fever. And if Mother survives but loses the child, Father and I both fear very much for her state of mind. She is so full of faith that all will be well.”
    After a silence, I said, “Thank you for being honest. I knew already, really. But I suppose I hoped you might know something we didn’t, something that would make this less frightening. Eilis has no idea what may be about to happen. I don’t know what to tell her.” Despite my best efforts, my voice shook.
    “It is possible,” Father said quietly, “that your mother is right. Perhaps the gods do intend this child to be born safely. Your mother cares nothing for herself. That is hard for me to accept.”
    I got up and put my arm around him, but the gesture of comfort was as much for myself as for my father. It terrified me to hear him sounding less than confident; less than the capable, calm person the world saw day by day, a leader fully in control of himself and his domain. Tonight he sounded like a wounded boy.
    “Maybe all will be well,” I said, not believing it for an instant. “Perhaps we should trust Mother’s instincts.”
    “I’ve told Father I’ll stay until the child is born, Clodagh,” Muirrin said. “It’s a pity Aunt Liadan can’t be here, since her skills in midwifery far exceed mine, but I will be able to oversee the labor and birth, and perhaps stay on a little after that, depending on what happens. I do need to be back at Inis Eala as soon as I can. It’s too much for Evan to handle all the work there on his own.”
    “I’m grateful, Daughter,” Father said. “We must all be strong. Your mother needs hopeful faces around her, not gloomy ones. I’ve spoken to Sibeal about this and she seems to understand, but Eilis . . . it would be too much of a burden for her.”
    The look on his face troubled me deeply. I wondered if he had looked like this long ago, when the newborn twin boys had breathed their last. If so, I had been too young, too wrapped up in my own grief to understand it.
    “We must