Miach frowns. She has a stalk of lavender in her hand; the sweet smell is all around us, setting an image of my mother’s stillroom in my mind. “Not many people do,” she says. “From the infirmary, only those three: Martán, Pól, and Petrán. If something is needed at St. Padraig’s, one of them takes it over there. They’re in and out quite often.”
“Only the three—not Brother Íobhar?”
“Brother Íobhar isn’t a healer or herbalist. When he’s there, he’s just . . . in charge. Oversees everything.”
“And from the house?”
“Only me, officially. And you.” Miach hesitates.
“Nobody else? What if Lord Scannal needed a draft? Or Master Seanan?”
“They’d send someone to ask the monks. Same as they used to do before the fire, but here in the house. Only . . .” She breaks the stalk, puts the lavender bloom down on the sheets.
“You said you use it officially. Is there anyone who uses the stillroom unofficially, Miach?” At the far end of the sunny chamber the other women are having their own conversation, but I lower my voice further anyway.
“It might be better if I didn’t say.” Miach speaks even more quietly. She glances around the room, one way, the other way, then turns her attention back to the linen.
“When I was there this morning, someone had left a knife out. With traces of rather a potent substance on it. Something the monks wouldn’t be careless about. I haven’t used that item, and I know you haven’t. So I wondered if there might be someone taking without signing.”
She doesn’t ask me what the item was and I don’t tell her. The less she knows about this the better.
“If Lord Scannal needed something prepared, or if Master Seanan did, who would they send to ask the monks?” That’s an easier question for her to answer.
“One of their body servants. There’s Ardgan, who attends to Master Seanan, or Lord Scannal’s man, Gobán. They’d come back to fetch the preparation when it was ready and they’d sign for it in the book. The monks don’t go into the main part of the house.” She hesitates.
A for Ardgan. Seanan’s man. Don’t leap to conclusions, Liobhan. I might risk one more question. While Miach and I fold another sheet between us, I ask as casually as I can, “Have you ever used devil’s-foot, Miach?”
Her eyes widen. “Is that what was taken?” she whispers.
“It looked that way.”
“I have used it in a sleeping draft. But that was a long time ago, and I only used a pinch. It was for a woman who had a canker in the gut, something even a physician couldn’t cure. She was in terrible pain. Brother Petrán came over from St. Padraig’s and showed me how to make the draft. It was that same mixture they keep in the stillroom now.”
“Mm. The one I used for Dau not long after we arrived here. Oh, well, I expect there is some explanation. But it did trouble me.” How can I warn her without scaring her? This may be nothing. “You and I should take care that everything we use is recorded in the book. Every single thing. You should be all right if Brother Pól is writing the details in for you. Perhaps I should ask him to do mine as well. If there really is someone taking things they shouldn’t, we might find ourselves called to account, Miach. We know we’re doing the right thing, but persuading some person in authority of that might become tricky, since we’re both women, and servants. Me in particular, because they blame me for what happened to Dau.”
“Mm. Thank you for warning me, Liobhan.”
“Don’t trouble yourself unduly. It’s probably nothing. I’d better go now; I should get back to Dau.”
As I’m turning to go Miach speaks again, this time in a whisper. “Lord Scannal takes a sleeping draft. I had to make it up for him once, when Gobán was away. That was a while ago, before the monks were living here. Gobán used to brew it himself. There was no devil’s-foot in it. But . . . Lord Scannal needs a stronger mix now, because of the nightmares. Gobán asked me what he could add safely, and I said he should ask the monks. I never suggested devil’s-foot, Liobhan. I wouldn’t.”
“Nightmares? Lord Scannal has bad dreams, like Dau?”
“That’s what Gobán said. I wouldn’t know, myself. Lord Scannal does have that look about him. As if he’s always tired.”
“Mm, I noticed.” We glance at each other, and in it there’s an understanding neither of us will put into words. We’re servants. Lord Scannal is a chieftain. We may be concerned, but trying to do something about this can only get us both in trouble. Who would take us seriously?
“Thank you, Miach.”
“Thanks for your help with the folding, Liobhan.”
No need to tell each other to keep our mouths shut about this conversation. As I head back toward our quarters, I think that if I were to tell anyone—apart from Dau—it would be Brother Petrán. As for Dau, it’s best if I don’t mention it to him yet. Let him deal with Cormac and Sárnait and the whole wretched betrothal issue, and let Corb get the little dog safely away, and then I’ll talk to him. One thing at a time. Step by step. There could be all sorts of reasons for this. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. But there’s one possibility I can’t set aside. What if someone’s trying to poison the chieftain of Oakhill?
32
BROCC
True tells his story: how we followed the Long Path and met a guide who was a stranger to him but not to me. How that stranger led us to the place of True’s ancestors. How True was healed under the waterfall. How he and his passengers are now back to full health. Eirne’s folk greet this remarkable tale with wide eyes, gasps of amazement, murmurs of wonder.
“There is another part to our story,” True says, looking at me. “We paid a price to step onto the Long Path, and a higher price to step off.”
Eirne is seated on her willow chair. In honor of our return, tonight there is feasting and her folk are clad in their best. She wears a gown of buttercup yellow, and her hair is piled high, with flowers threaded through the glossy brown locks. She looks so merry and sweet. I cannot bear to say the words. But I must.
“What price, True?” Eirne asks. “Who demanded payment?”
I clear my throat. After this tale, Eirne’s folk will expect music. I must speak. “I will tell this part, if you are in agreement, True.”
True gives a nod and sits down; to the extent that I can read his stony features, I think he is relieved.
“There was a lake, with a ferry, as in the old tales,” I say. “The ferryman required a fee to take us over. He was a . . . a small fellow, clad in green. Perhaps a clurichaun.” My voice is shaking. I can’t help it. I see the shadow cross Eirne’s face; she has realized that something bad is coming.
“Go on, Brocc,” she says. Her tone is cooler now.
“To step onto the Long Path, the price was three verses of a song. Not so difficult for a bard. The ferryman was pleased; he said he would expect three more on our return.”
Nobody says a word.
“And he kept to that, as far as it went. When we reached that shore again, I paid for True’s passage across with another three verses. The vessel was not large enough to carry us both at once.”
Eirne has her arms hugged around herself. In every eye I see the same look. The bard has made some awful error. He has been tricked. He has betrayed our trust. I clear my throat again. “I had to bargain with the ferryman for my own passage home. At first he asked for impossible things: a finger, my firstborn child, my singing voice. And . . . in the end, I bargained him down. No finger. No child. But . . . for the next year I will be unable to sing.” A great gasp goes up; tears roll down the faces of several small folk. One breaks into loud sobs and has to be consoled by Moon-Fleet. Eirne is very still. I dare not look her in the eye. “My voice would have been gone forever had I not haggled over the price. I’m sorry. I did the best I could.”
There is a terrible silence but for the now-smothe
red sobs of the small one. Then Eirne says in the quietest of voices, “It is not only that you have robbed us of the delight, the joy, the consolation you bring, Brocc, though that saddens every one of us. It is the sacrifice of our only weapon against the Crow Folk. Without your voice, how can we defend ourselves? How can we protect our little ones?” She falls silent for a moment, and I know what is coming next. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” Before I welcomed you home gladly, she means. Before I lay in your arms and gave you sweet kisses, before our bodies were joined in passion and delight. Before, before . . .
“Would you have had me give the fellow a finger, so I could not play the harp? Would you have had me refuse and stay forever on the Long Path? I am only a man, my lady. I do the best I can. Sometimes it is not enough, I know. But I can do no more.”
Eirne rises to her feet. “The celebration is over. I no longer have the heart for it. I bid you all good night.” And in the space of a breath, she is gone.
I expected something of the kind, but still it feels like a blow. For a few moments I close my eyes, wishing I were anywhere but here. Feeling more alone than ever before. Then a tiny voice speaks.
“You could play us a tune.”
And another says, “You could play a jig. We could dance.”
A third voice speaks. It is Nightshade’s. Nightshade, the queen’s sage, closer to Eirne than anyone. “Will you play a song, bard? We could sing.”
“I will fetch your harp,” Rowan offers. He heads off without waiting for a response.
For a little, I am dumbfounded. Is this a revolt? Didn’t they see how furious Eirne was? She is the queen. She gives the orders. She makes the ultimate choices. In her eyes, I have erred. And I have challenged her. But her folk? Surely not. “The queen would be displeased,” I say.
“The queen is sad,” says Moon-Fleet. “Your singing gives her heart. We must try to sing with the same heart, with the same healing strength.”
“With the same fun,” pipes up a little one.
“That, too,” says Nightshade in her hooting, musical voice. “In dark times, in times of doubt, it is hard to make room for fun. But fun unites us. It makes us one clan, one tribe, one family.”
And so, when Rowan brings the harp, I set it on my knee and play. I play jigs and reels and capers for dancing. I play old tunes and new, and Eirne’s folk clap and stamp and whistle along. I play songs, and although I cannot sing them—I have tested this, and all that comes out is a tiny, wavering thread of sound—I am surrounded by voices high as a soaring lark and low as an ocean cavern, voices sweet as the nightingale’s and rough as the warty toad’s, voices that sound from the highest branches of the trees and voices that peep out from between the roots. They sing of a sailor on a lonely voyage, who encounters wondrous creatures along the way. They sing of the woman who lifts her skirts to reveal she is not quite what she seems to be. They even sing “The Farewell,” as I pluck the harp strings and feel the ache of loss in my throat, and in my heart, and deep in my spirit. This will be a long, long year. We end with something merry, the song about the animals joining the faery queen for a party in the forest. I sang this on the day I first met Eirne; it was her voice, matching me line for line, couplet for couplet, that drew me into the Otherworld. How different it is tonight. But her folk know every word, and they sing with such smiles on their faces that I cannot feel entirely sad. As we near the end, I glance across the gathering place and see that Eirne has not, after all, retired to her retreat and shut the door behind her. She is here, on the edge of the crowd, under the council oak, with her shawl tight around her shoulders. She’s been crying; her eyes are reddened, her cheeks pale in the lamplight. But she’s here, watching me. The song draws to a close:
Dance, my little ones, cried the fae,
Tomorrow is Midsummer Day!
I set the harp down. Eirne stays where she is, silent, and none of the others goes to speak to her. I wonder if they cannot see her. One by one Eirne’s folk come up to thank me, to pat my knee, to touch my cheek, to wish me a good night’s sleep. The smallest ones, excited by the music, are still twirling and bouncing as they bid me farewell until tomorrow. I thank them in my turn; for forgiving me, for welcoming me home, for singing in my place so we can all enjoy our music and the good fellowship it brings. Though I do not say all this. There is no need. They understand.
“Good night, Brocc,” says True. “I owe you a great debt. I hope I can one day repay it.”
“You are my friend, True. My brother. There is no need to repay.”
“Sweet dreams, my friend,” says Rowan. “You have been on quite a journey. Tomorrow we’ll talk about other matters: the patrols, the Crow Folk, the . . .” He does not quite look at Eirne. He, at least, knows she is there. “You’ll be wanting to make plans. Work out strategies.”
“We must do that, yes.” All my mind can take in right now is my wife, standing all alone in the shadows. Waiting to bid me leave this place forever, since I am no longer of use to her and her clan? Waiting to curse and weep and rail at foolish humankind, even though she is as much human as I am? Why is she here? “In the morning. Good night, my friend.”
When they are all gone, Eirne moves. I stand like a scarecrow, still and silent, until she is right in front of me. Tears glint in her lovely eyes; I smell the sweet scent of her and do not know what to say.
Then Eirne puts her arms around me, and lays her head against my breast, and says, “I’m sorry. Dear one, I’m so sorry. Come. You need sleep.” And when she takes my hand and draws me after her, it is not toward the little hut where I work by day and sometimes sleep by night, but to her own retreat. So easily, it seems I am forgiven.
33
DAU
That was quite a test: to sit at table with my family and the guests, then stay through an evening of music and dancing, unable to see a thing. If I’d had Liobhan next to me, at least she would have made sure I knew what was going on—indeed, I can just imagine what kind of commentary she would have provided, and it would likely have got both of us in trouble. Corb couldn’t help much; he was standing right behind me, but as a body servant he could only make sure I knew what I was eating, where my goblet was, and when it was time to stand up and move.
I had Master Naithí’s wife on one side and a woman from Lord Ross’s party on the other. Neither had much conversation; I welcomed their silence. The prior, Father Eláir, had been invited and sat near me. He passed the salt on request and spoke to me courteously about the progress of the injured men I’d seen in the infirmary. Further along the table I heard the voices of Seanan and a man I took to be Lord Ross. I did not hear my father speak at all.
Master Beanón the lawman greeted me and asked after my health, and I told him I was still as blind as ever, but otherwise well. Master Naithí did not speak of my condition; instead he commented that he’d never enjoyed the pipes much but that this fellow played them remarkably sweetly. I said I agreed on both counts. I did not say I wished Liobhan could be out there playing her whistle. That is the sweetest sound a man could imagine, save perhaps for her brother’s singing.
Folk got up and danced. I remained at the table. I was not alone there, thank the gods—I would have cut a pathetic figure indeed before my father’s guests. My father did not rise to dance, and neither did Lord Ross or Beanón, though Corb, whispering in my ear, told me Naithí and his wife were joining in, and so were Seanan and Sárnait. Several men in turn had approached Liobhan, where she sat among the serving folk and men-at-arms, but she was not dancing. My reaction to this information troubled me. I was pleased, not because my comrade was doing exactly what she’d promised to do, but because . . . because if she danced, I wanted her to dance with me. If she’d got up and started enjoying herself with any of those fellows, I’d have been hurt. I’d have been jealous.
* * *
* * *
We found a young serving boy
to keep the dog company in our quarters during that supper. Not much of a guard, but at the very least a deterrent. We gave him two coppers for his trouble and he was well pleased. Later, the dog slept on my bed, curled up warm in the crook of my knees. I told Liobhan the little one had no name. But there is a name in my mind, of course. How can I think of this precious, fragile new friend as anything else? Her name is Hope.
* * *
* * *
It is morning. I go to the stables with Cormac, walking without my stick. Liobhan’s wise advice is in my mind: Don’t push him, negotiate with him. Explain calmly. But I can’t help remembering what she told me later, when the dancing was over and we were back in our quarters. Seanan dancing with Sárnait, he the picture of a well-mannered young nobleman smiling down at his sweetheart, she with eyes full of admiration as she gazed up at him. They joined in almost every dance. What Liobhan observed has made me edgy, nervous, even though Cormac is my friend, one of the few from whom I always had both respect and kindness. If Liobhan wants an example of a good chieftain of the future, it’s not me, it’s Cormac of Fairwood.
The mare is indeed a fine animal, and since both Cormac and I have always loved horses, that’s what we talk about. He doesn’t ask why the dog is not with me. After some time we go out to the fields and walk. In the open it will be easy for him to see if anyone comes too close.
And I tell him. I make myself stay calm. I take time. I have made a list in my mind, from one to twenty, of the things that happened, the things my brothers did to me. I speak of the times I told the truth and was not believed. I speak of the times I was blamed for something they did, and how my father always believed Seanan before me. I mention that although Ruarc was a secondary player in those cruel games, when we were called to account he always supported Seanan.
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