Brother Petrán sees me staring. “You know what that is, Mistress Liobhan?”
He rises in my estimation immediately. It’s the first time anyone has addressed me that way in a very long time. “Devil’s-foot. Effective but deadly. Only to be employed in situations where nothing else will give the patient rest, and then only by a skilled healer. Best in combination with several other less potent herbs, made up in a tea. To be taken warm, ideally, with honey to mask the bitterness.”
Petrán’s smile is friendly and unguarded. It strikes me as quite unmonkish. If he knows I’m the wild warrior woman who blinded a son of the house, he’s not letting it bother him too much. “Very good. Where did you learn your herb lore, may I ask?”
“My mother is a healer. Folk call her a wisewoman. I didn’t expect to be practicing what little I picked up from her, but there was a need, so I did the best I could. I was pleased I remembered enough to do a reasonable job. As for the mixture that contains devil’s-foot, I was glad to find it ready-made in this stillroom when I needed it for Master Dau. But I wouldn’t attempt to make it myself. Fortunately, he did not need it for long. There are risks.”
“Indeed. It was partly because of that kind of risk that Brother Martán and I recently established a new system for the labeling and storage of all our preparations. You may be interested to see it.”
“Thank you, I would like that.” I try not to sound as surprised as I feel.
“I hope you know that as Master Dau’s carer, you are welcome to visit the stillroom anytime you wish. If there’s any difficulty finding what you need, just speak to me or Brother Martán. We keep a record of what goes out, since we supply not only our own patients and Lord Scannal’s household but also those of our brethren who have returned to St. Padraig’s—our stillroom there is unusable at present. We also provide remedies to a scattering of local folk whom we visit, those with chronic ailments mostly.”
“No wisewoman in the district?” I ask as we go into the stillroom, which is markedly neater than it was the day I found Corb weeping there.
“Sadly, no.”
“Sadly? Don’t your folk distrust such local healers as . . . unreliable? Ungodly?”
He gives me a sideways glance as he takes a bound book from a shelf and opens it on the immaculately clean workbench. “It depends whom you ask, Mistress Liobhan. I can speak only for myself and those who assist me in my duties. When a case is perplexing, when symptoms do not allow a clear diagnosis, when established learning provides no answers, then one may need to step beyond the usual pathways to understanding. At such times, the advice of a local herbalist might prove useful. It would at least help a physician such as myself to clarify his own thoughts. It’s clear to me that Master Dau is much improved. Some of us were dismayed when we learned he would not be in our care. We were doubtful of his recovery. It seems you know what you are doing.”
I smile in my turn. “I’ve simply used what little I do know and improvised when I needed to. I can’t cure his blindness; two expert physicians were consulted and neither had any answers. All I could do was relieve the swelling and the headaches.”
“What are the components of your draft to relieve pain?”
I list them; all are herbs that grow in this garden, and none produces adverse effects in the amounts I am using. “Master Dau needs it less often now,” I say. “Fresh air and exercise have helped him greatly. Just as well, since he’s often reluctant to take the draft. Men do not like to appear weak.”
Petrán nods sagely. The fact that I’m a woman doesn’t seem to bother him. But then, he lets Miach use the stillroom, so perhaps this establishment has different rules from the usual monastery. The brethren may even be enjoying the relaxation of their discipline. I think of the druid community in Breifne, where Brocc was a welcome guest—a man, a musician, a scholar of sorts—and no woman ever set foot inside the gate.
“I’m grateful to you for speaking with me like this,” I say. “I know how busy you must be. Especially with Brother Íobhar away.”
“True, Brother Íobhar’s sudden departure did set our arrangements back somewhat—his leadership would have allowed us to put our full energies into tending to the sick and injured. But by the grace of God, we manage well enough. Let me show you this book. I’ve been keeping it for a few weeks now. We make a record of what comes in and what goes out. At the monastery we were somewhat less rigorous, but . . . let’s say there is greater cause for concern here, where our facilities are more open.” He shows me the neatly ruled lines, the lists of materials and quantities taken, who needed the supply and for which patient. “I require whoever takes from our supplies or makes up a preparation to sign their initial in this column, something I did not do previously. Young Miach cannot write, but I showed her how to indicate her name.” He points to a shaky but recognizable M in the appropriate column. “This will allow Brother Martán to keep track of things even when we are at our busiest. His M is in a different style, of course.”
I can see it; an elegant small capital in a script whose name I do not know. I run my eyes down the list. Some initials are such a scrawl they might be anything.
“And if you were to use our facility you would do the same, of course. It’s generally easy enough to find someone to write down the details for you.” There’s a hint of a question in his voice.
“I can read and write, Brother Petrán. I wouldn’t have helped myself to that rather potent mixture when Dau was first ill if I’d been unsure of the components.”
“I’m glad you are careful, Mistress Liobhan. Before we came here, I believe there had been no such records kept in the house for a considerable time. I hope that those responsible for the stillroom will maintain this system once we have returned to St. Padraig’s.” He’s looking worried now; the ready smile is nowhere in sight. I want to ask what sparked the change in recording methods. Cause for concern, he said. I don’t think he means me or Miach. He’s treated me with respect, explained things as he might to a colleague. And if he didn’t trust Miach, he’d surely stop her working in the stillroom and have one of his brethren provide what the household needed instead. Who else would be making up cures, apart from the monks who tend the sick here? I wish I’d had a better look at the book.
“I understand your caution, Brother Petrán. You keep some items here that could be perilous for someone who did not understand their uses. Not only devil’s-foot, but several others I can see, thanks to your excellent labels. Deadly in the wrong hands. You wouldn’t want someone just wandering in and helping themselves while you and your brethren were otherwise occupied.” In fact I’m amazed that he would trust me enough to let me use the place, record book or no record book. I hope Brother Íobhar doesn’t overrule him when he returns from wherever he’s gone. It sounds as if he’s a figure of some authority. Perhaps being nobly born allows a man high status even in a religious order, wrong as that seems. Seanan wouldn’t approve of my being here. I’m quite sure of that.
Could they be setting me up for disaster? Giving me enough rope to hang myself? My Swan Island training makes it all too easy to imagine how they could do that, using my obvious knowledge of wisewomen’s business and my freedom to visit garden and stillroom to concoct a theory about a poisoning plot. I blinded Dau, didn’t I? So I’m wayward and violent, or at the very least heedless of other folk’s safety. That’s how it could be argued in a legal hearing. I was going to ask if I could make up the dried mixture for Dau’s draft now and save Miach the trouble, but I don’t.
“You look concerned, Mistress Liobhan.” Petrán sounds so kindly, I wonder why I doubted him. I must be going a little crazy.
I’m trying to form a response, something about Master Seanan that doesn’t sound too critical, but I’m spared from speaking because I hear Dau’s voice and Brother Pól’s as they make their way back outside. And in the distance I hear something unexpected, a sound that brings a b
ig smile to my face and makes my feet want to tap in time. Music. More precisely, someone playing a complicated dance tune on the small-pipes. Someone else is beating out a complex rhythm on the bodhrán. The drummer is not quite as good as Archu, but good enough. The piper is expert. Seems there might be entertainment in the hall after supper once Lord Ross’s party gets here. Someone has hired a band. I wonder if there will be dancing. Probably yes, considering the reason these visitors are coming. An image shines bright in my thoughts: Dau’s hand in mine, both of us smiling as he turns me under his arm. Both of us surprised to find that we dance well together. Curse it, now I have tears in my eyes. And a stupid thought in my head. Why shouldn’t a blind man dance?
27
BROCC
We come safely home. The trees in our forest are clothed in many shades of green; squirrels are busy finding food for their young ones, and fledgling birds venture out on their first wobbling flights. Berries ripen on bushes; flowers open their faces to the sun. I judge it to be not yet full summer, but it cannot be far off. What seemed to us a journey of less than one turning of the moon has taken more than twice that time in Eirne’s realm. I am a bard, I know my tales, and I know the oddities of time in the Otherworld. Still, this jolts me.
Eirne’s folk greet True with smiles and embraces. The smaller ones shriek with excitement, jump up and down, dance about. Rowan claps True on the shoulder and kisses him on either cheek, then gives me a brotherly embrace.
Eirne looks better. The rose has returned to her cheeks and the light to her lovely eyes. It does me good to see her, even as I so much dread telling her my news. As she takes True’s hands in hers, tears fall down her cheeks. “Dear friend,” she says. “We have missed you so. And now you are well again. Later you shall give me the whole story, if you can. A wondrous journey.”
We are weary, True and I. He goes off to rest. I hesitate; I can make no assumptions.
“Come with me, Brocc,” Eirne says. “A bath, some food, a rest . . . That is better done in my retreat, where we can be quiet. Moon-Fleet, will you make the preparations?” She takes my hand and leads me away from the others. We walk slowly; I am weighed down by what I must tell her. I should be full of gladness. We are home, True is cured, and it seems Rowan has single-handedly kept all of Eirne’s folk safe during our lengthy absence. The summer is upon us, the forest is full of joyful life, and my wife seems kindly disposed toward me. But . . . but . . .
Somehow, by the time we reach her little house, the bath stands ready, the water warm, and everything I might need close at hand. No sign of Moon-Fleet. She has done what was needed, then departed to leave the two of us alone. I should tell Eirne now. I should get this over. But I cannot bear to see the warmth drain from her eyes. I cannot bear to lose the tenderness of her touch, the sweetness of her voice.
I do not tell her as I soak in the warm water and she scrubs my back and massages the hurt from my shoulders and kisses my wet body here and there. I do not tell her as we share mead and sweetmeats and gaze with longing at each other, or as we lie down together on her bed. I do not whisper the truth in her ear as our bodies renew their friendship, or as we come together in long-held-back passion, or as she cries out in delight. Nor afterward, as we lie quiet in each other’s arms and a song forms itself in my mind: a song that cannot be sung until a full year has passed. So much can happen in a year.
“You are frowning, my bard. What troubles you?”
I cannot tell her. I cannot bring myself to say it. But I must. Tonight, the small ones will want music. But . . . the story is True’s, for the main part. He should be the one to tell of the place we visited, the place of his ancestors, and of how he entered the falling water and was healed. If he wants to tell. My part in this journey was small. I paid a price, yes; I will tell of that when the time comes. I cannot bear to shatter this contentment. Eirne lies in my arms, warm and relaxed, her head on my shoulder, her body against mine. It has been so long. Not only the time of our absence, but before. “Nothing, dearest,” I say. “I am a little tired, that is true. Out of practice at such activity.” I reach to stroke her hair. To find her so well, so full of life, so much her old self, feels like a miracle and I rejoice in it.
“Sleep then, dear one,” Eirne says, and we do.
28
DAU
Corb and I walk around the temporary infirmary with Brother Pól, who talks as we go, explaining what I cannot see. The chamber where I tossed and turned and endured such pain that I wished for death now houses a survivor of the fire and a quiet attendant. Pól will not say the man is dying, not when the patient can hear him, but I understand this from his tone and his carefully chosen words. Other chambers hold various invalids, some suffering no more than old age and frailty, some recovering from burns, some with different conditions. It’s clear that when my brother Ruarc is here, he’s in charge of it all. That seems bizarre. Ruarc as head of an infirmary; Ruarc responsible for the sick, the injured, the frail. When we were young, it was always Seanan who led and Ruarc who followed. Seanan who gave orders and Ruarc who obeyed, even if those orders were to commit acts of vile cruelty. And yet folk here speak of Brother Íobhar with what sounds like genuine respect. Can a man change so much in a matter of a few years? Can it be that my brother truly found God and saw the error of his ways? I cannot believe it.
In one of the rooms there is a man I remember. He calls my name as we come to the door. I would know that voice anywhere, though there is now a wheezing, shaky quality to it that reminds me, uncomfortably, of the way my father sounded on the day I came here.
“Master Dau!”
We halt. “Is it Master Fiachna?” I ask, knowing I’m right. He is—was?—my father’s scribe, back when I lived here. What I learned of letters and numbers, I learned mostly from him, outside the hours of formal tuition. When Seanan was present I could learn nothing; my terror made it impossible to think. I am glad Fiachna is here. I had forgotten him and his kindness. But perhaps not glad, for this must mean he is sick or hurt.
“It’s Fiachna all right, Master Dau. Come in and talk to me. I’m laid low with my leg in a splint and nothing to keep me amused but these brethren with their tales of miracles—no offense, Brother Pól, you tell them well enough. Come in, sit down.”
Corb steers me to a bench; sits me down. I suggest to Brother Pól that he might leave us for a little, since he must be so busy, and that Corb can walk me back out. He thanks me and departs.
“I heard you lost your sight, lad,” Fiachna says. “I’m sorry.”
It delights me that he’s dispensed with Master Dau; that person has never sounded real to me. “My half uncial was never neat enough for you, Master Fiachna, and sadly now it never will be. What happened to your leg?”
The scribe sighs. “Best not spelled out, my friend.” He’s dropped his tone as if afraid to be overheard. “I fell foul of certain folk in the household. Not long after, I had an unfortunate accident on some stairs. Fell awkwardly, broke a bone. I’ve been well tended to by the brethren, I’ll say that. Brother Petrán did the bonesetting himself and splinted the leg. They give me a draft for the pain. Tastes vile but deadens the worst of it. I’ll be walking again soon enough. Lucky, you might say.”
I’m trying to piece together what he said. Does he mean someone pushed him down the stairs? I don’t know who might be within earshot, and I’m not sure what to ask anyway. “My father must be missing your assistance. I remember how much he valued your skill.”
There’s a silence. Then the scribe says, “Master Seanan’s in charge now. I’ve seen very little of Lord Scannal for some time. As for my skill, such as it is, I believe I may be exercising it elsewhere once this leg is sufficiently mended to let me travel. But enough of that. Tell me, is the malady that affects your eyes permanent? Brother Petrán’s very skilled. Might he be able to help?”
I explain the situation, thank him for his concern, and don
’t mention magical cures. I don’t want to talk about myself and my eyes and my awkward situation. Or about Seanan and his impending betrothal. But there is something I can ask about. “I was much surprised to find my brother Ruarc as a member of a monastic community. What I remember of him does not match with that at all. I would have liked to talk to him”—a lie—“and I’m sorry he was called away so suddenly. Do you know where he went and for how long?” I hope that sounds natural enough.
“He surprised me, too, but I believe his faith to be genuine. As for the sudden departure, there was an argument. With his brother. Raised voices in this part of the house carry clearly to those of us trapped in our beds and unable to shut our ears. I would not pass on details of the conversation, since it was intended to be private. But . . . it touched on your own care, and that of Lord Scannal, who has been poorly for some while. Shortly after that, Brother Íobhar was sent away on priory business. For how long, I do not know.”
I try to take all this in. I can’t ask probing questions. I can’t get Fiachna embroiled in my family’s unsavory affairs any further. Is Seanan’s answer to anyone who challenges him to send them away from Oakhill? To dismiss them from his service? But the monks don’t answer to him, unless my brother has even the prior at his beck and call. Could he threaten to withdraw funds from St. Padraig’s if the prior does not do his bidding? Unlikely, surely. Perhaps, deep down, Íobhar is still that boy who always obeyed his older brother, no matter how vile and cruel the instruction. Most certainly, I cannot look to him for support, even supposing he’s back by the time Lord Ross’s party arrives.
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