Read Online Child of the Prophecy by Juliet Marillier - Free Book Online

puzzle, I could persuade him to come walking with me up to the stone circle, or out along the clifftop. During these brief respites I would coax him to speak of matters outside the craft, and I might glimpse a smile on his lips, a warmth in his eyes. I treasured such times as rare jewels, for I loved my father, and wished above all to dispel the sadness that seemed to shadow him even on the sunniest day. I strove to please him in every way I could, and especially by study and hard work, which he seemed to value above all. I wanted to make him happy and perhaps, once or twice, I did. It was an orderly, well-structured existence, if somewhat outside the patterns of ordinary folk.
     
    My grandmother had quite a different method of teaching. She began by telling me Ciaran had neglected my education sorely; the least he could have taught me was to eat politely, not shovel things with my fingers like a tinker's child. When I sought to defend my father, she silenced me with a nasty little spell that made my tongue swell up and grow fuzzy as a ripe catkin. No wonder she had said she could not live in the same place as her son. One of our most basic rules was that the craft must never be used by teacher against student, or student against teacher. My father would have recoiled from the idea of using magic to inflict punishment. Grandmother employed it with no qualms whatever. I hated the way she spoke of him, of her own son.
     
    "Well," she observed as she watched me eating my fish, her eyes following each scrap as it traveled from platter to lips, "he's taught you shape-shifting and manipulation and sleight of hand. How much good will those skills be to you when you sit at table with the fine folk of Sevenwaters? Can you dance? Can you sing? Can you smile at a man and make his blood stir and his heart race? I thought not. Don't gape, child. Your education's been quite inadequate. I blame those druids, they got hold of your father and filled his head with nonsense. It's just as well he called me when he did. Before I'm done with you, you'll be expert at the art of twisting a man around your little finger— clumsy, plain thing that you are. I'm an artist."
    "I have learned much from my father," I said angrily. "He is a great sorcerer, and deeply respected. I'm not sure we need your— artistry. I have both lore and skills, and will improve both as well as I can, for my father has given me a love of learning. Why spend time and energy on table manners?"
    She laughed her young woman's laugh, so incongruous as it pealed from that wizened, gap-toothed mouth.
    "Oh dear, oh dear. It stamps its little foot, and the sparks fly. The first thing you need to learn is not to give yourself away like that, child. But there's more, so much more. I know your father has given you a grounding in the skills. The bare bones, so to speak. But you can achieve great things at Sevenwaters if you make the most of your opportunities. I'll help you, child. Believe me, I know these people."
    From that point on she took charge. I was used to lessons and practice. I was used to working long hours, and being perpetually tired, and keeping on regardless. But these lessons were so tedious. How to eat as neatly as a wren, in tiny little morsels. How to giggle and whisper secrets. How to hold myself upright as I walked, and sway my hips from side to side. This one was not easy, with my foot the way it was. In the end she grew exasperated.
    "You'll never walk straight in your own guise," she told me bluntly. "You'll never dance without making a fool of yourself. No matter. You can use the Glamour when you will. Make yourself as graceful as you want. Have the loveliest feet in the world, if there's need of them. The only problem is, it gets tiring. Keeping it up all the time, I mean. It wears you down. Why do you think I'm a wrinkled old hag? Our kind live long. Too long, I sometimes think. But I'm the way I am from being charming for Lord Colum all that time, keeping